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The system said the crueler I was, the more he would suffer, and the more it would sharpen him into someone great. For three years, I played the role of a gold-digging girlfriend and ground his dignity into the dirt. Every time I hurt him, I would cry and ask the system, "When is the love of his life going to show up?" I didn't want to torment him anymore, but I had to play the part. I only let myself put ointment on his swollen fingers after he had fallen asleep. Then finally, I "died" in front of him in a fire. I thought that was the end of it. One year later, I walked into his art exhibition, and I saw that every single painting on the wall was of me.