Chapter 2

I really thought it was real, the way he'd get up early every morning, mixing dough, frying up chicken cutlets, and counting up the day's earnings at his shop.

I thought it was real when he'd slip my hand into his down jacket pocket so it'd stay warm in winter.

I thought it was real, too, when I'd come home from a night shift, and there'd always be a plate of tortellini in broth waiting for me on the table.

Another comment floated by.

[Alton's acting is top-notch. Having grown up in a wealthy family, scheming is just part of his DNA. But not everything with Iris was an act. He actually had a bit of real feeling for her. He made the tortellini in broth himself.]

He just had a bit of real feeling for me.

I closed the curtains, rinsed a whole bowl of cherries, and sat on the couch, eating them one at a time.

A bit of real feeling, and the rest was scheming.

That was good enough.

That bit of real feeling was worth 3 million dollars.

I didn't lose out.

That night, I moved into the luxury apartment and slept on high-end cotton sheets. It was a dreamless night.

Life just carried on.

I kept my job and didn't splurge.

Every morning, I got up at six, rode my bike to the hospital, and had a five-dollar lunch at the cafeteria. Then I came home to cook dinner, checked my phone for a while, and was in bed by ten.

The only thing that changed was trading my old rental apartment for the luxury apartment.

Also, the scrolling comments just kept multiplying.

At first, they were only about Alton.

Later, I realized that whenever someone was near me, comments would float above their heads.

They weren't about their thoughts. They were more like a sneak peek at where their fate was headed.

For instance, Clarice Lowell, the woman in the bed next to me.

Over her head, a comment scrolled by. [This old lady's getting a follow-up next week. She has early-stage stomach cancer, but her son doesn't want to spend the money.

[He waits three months before finally taking her to the city for surgery. By then, it's already progressed to the late stage.]

I paused for a second, and as I changed her bandages, I said, "Mrs. Lowell, when you get your results next week, whatever they are, make sure you deal with it right away. Don't wait."

Clarice just smiled and agreed.

Then there was Peter Smith, the pancake vendor who set up his stall outside the hospital.

Above his head, a comment floated by. [Next month, this old guy gets chased by city enforcement, falls and breaks his leg, and never sets up his pancake stall again.]

When I bought a pancake from him, I told him, "Mr. Smith, the city is cracking down next month. You should move your stall. No one checks the alley behind the hospital."

Peter wasn't sure whether to believe me or not, but he moved his stall anyway.

I had no clue what those floating comments actually were.

I wasn't even sure if my interference made any difference.

But once I saw them, I couldn't just look the other way.

Alton had been gone for fifteen days now.

I bumped into a guy at the hospital.

He looked to be in his early thirties, wearing a washed-out black tee, with an old scar near his left eye.

He was sitting on a bench in the ER corridor, his right hand wrapped in gauze. Blood had already seeped through three layers.

I happened to walk by and checked out his injury.

"You're going to need stitches," I told him.

He looked up at me.

Then I saw the comment floating above his head.

[Derek Sands, one of the two bodyguards Alton left behind for Iris. He's a retired special forces guy. Alton told him to secretly watch over Iris for three months, then leave.

[He got injured last night because someone was snooping around Iris's place, and he got into a fight with the other party in the alley.]

My fingers paused mid-air.

Bodyguards?

Alton didn't just leave me money and a place to live. He even left me bodyguards.

I lowered my eyes, pushed my feelings down, and said in a calm voice, "Come with me to the treatment room."

He followed me in silence.

While I cleaned his wound, he didn't say a word.

When the iodine stung, he didn't even flinch.

I'd seen plenty of patients grit their teeth and tough it out, but with him, it wasn't about being brave. It was just second nature.

"How'd you get hurt?" I asked, just following protocol.

"I got cut by some sheet metal at work," he answered. The scrolling comment above his head flagged it as a lie.

I let it slide, gave him six stitches, bandaged his hand, and handed him a box of antibiotics.

"Come back in three days to get the stitches out. Keep the wound dry," I told him.

Derek took the meds, got up, walked a couple of steps, then paused.

Derek asked, "You live here alone?"

I glanced up at him.

He added, "I live downstairs on the fourteenth floor. I just moved in a few days ago. I ran into you in the elevator earlier."

The comment above Derek's head said: [Derek's not much of a liar. That apartment he's staying in was bought by Alton just so he can monitor Iris.]

Iris gave a faint smile. "Is that so? What a coincidence. Make sure you take your medicine when you get home."

He walked out.

I stood alone in the treatment room, peeled off my gloves, and tossed them in the trash.

Alton.

You left me cash, a place to stay, and someone downstairs just to keep an eye on me.

What were you so afraid of?

Were you afraid I'd go after you? Or were you scared someone else would pick up your tracks and hunt you down?

I put the extra box of antibiotics back in the cabinet, turned off the lights, and locked the door.

Relax.

I wasn't going anywhere.

Derek came in right on schedule, three days later, to get his stitches out.