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My sister and I were both trapped in the fire. I inhaled scorching smoke, which severely burned my airways. I desperately needed a tracheotomy and a ventilator to survive. But my father, the director of Bistron Central Hospital, gathered all the doctors and nurses to treat my sister. She only had a small burn, yet he insisted on a full workup for her. I begged him to help me, but he snapped impatiently, "Can't you stop pretending for once? Your sister almost got disfigured." In the end, I died all alone in a forgotten ward. However, when my father found out I was gone, the man who hated me most completely lost his mind.