Chapter 2
System: [Target's resilience threshold has increased.]
"What does that mean?" I asked the system, confused.
The system explained, [It means what you did before was way too easy. This time, you need to hit him with both physical and mental pressure.]
This was inhumane. I kept forgetting the system wasn't human.
[Why are you zoning out? Are you trash-talking me in your head?] the system asked.
I waved it off and didn't bother to reply. The system was spot on.
I stared at the glowing system interface, my throat dry.
Outside, the rain pattered against the window. Jack's brush never stopped moving.
"Lily?" He turned around and saw something was off with my face, so he put his brush down and walked over. "What's wrong? Are you feeling sick?"
"I'm fine." I forced a smile. "I just remembered something."
"What?" he asked.
I told him about a decorating company the system had mentioned, which needed a ton of paintings for mass production.
They wanted eighty paintings in three months. The deadline was tight, and the workload was insane.
"If you finish them, you can at least buy me a designer bag." After I said that, I slapped the contract down in front of Jack.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
He picked up the contract and started flipping through the pages. The more he read, the paler his face got.
"Lily, right now I—" Jack started.
I cut him off. "What, you think the pay's too low? Jack, you know exactly what kind of mess we're in."
Jack was actually working on his own painting, the one he wanted to submit to a competition.
I kept going. "We need money for rent and utilities. Besides, are you even guaranteed to win if you enter the competition? Get real.
"And you're the one who said you'd buy me nice things. Now you can't even afford a decent dress, let alone designer stuff."
He looked up at me, his eyes bloodshot. He'd probably been up all night again.
"Lily," he whispered. "If I keep painting like this, my hands will be ruined."
"I don't care," I shot back, raising my voice. "Even if your hands get ruined, you still have to paint. Otherwise, how are we supposed to live?"
The number above his head slowly climbed from 40 to 65.
Then he picked up the pen and signed his name on the last page of the contract. His signature was so forceful it nearly ripped the paper.
"I'll get them done on time," Jack said, his voice eerily calm. "Don't worry."
He caved again.
The truth was, I really wished he'd stand up for himself and break up with me.
*****
Jack's life became a living hell.
He got up at five every morning and painted until two the next morning. Eighty paintings, each one done the way the client wanted.
He painted fast, almost like a robot. Mixing colors, applying paint, sketching outlines, all on autopilot.
After a while, his fingers started to protest. He pushed himself way past his limits every day, and his hands were covered in medicated patches.
His hands hurt so much he couldn't even hold the brush, so he'd tie the brush to his hand with a cloth.
Every night, I'd wait until he was dead asleep.
He slept incredibly deeply now, like he'd worked himself into a faint.
Then I'd fill a basin with hot water, soak his cloth-bound hands, and gently untie them.
His fingers were swollen like carrots. It hurt me so much to see him like that.
I applied the priciest ointment to his hands, bought with the system's reward money.
I couldn't help but cry as I rubbed it in.
My tears fell onto the back of his hand; sometimes he'd flinch, but he never woke up.
"System, when is the heroine finally going to show up? I don't want him to suffer anymore," I said.
The system let out a sigh. [Soon.]
"How soon is 'soon'?" I pressed.
The system replied, [Once he gets through these three months and gains some recognition, she'll appear naturally.]
I looked down at Jack's sleeping face, at his wrecked hands, and it felt like something stabbed right through my heart.
Every day, I hoped Susan would show up and save him.
All I could do now was keep putting ointment on his hands, over and over again.
Jack kept going like this for almost two months. All those late nights were pushing his body way past its limits.
Lately, I noticed he was coughing a lot, so I made him some juice.
The second I got to the studio door, I heard violent coughing from inside.
I rushed inside and found him slumped over his easel, one hand pressed to his mouth, blood leaking through his fingers. Dark red spots spattered the floor and the canvas.
He looked up at me, his face white as a sheet, with blood trailing from the corner of his mouth.
"Lily, don't be scared. I'm fine. I just..." Jack tried to smile, but it set off an even worse coughing fit.
Before he could finish, he suddenly slumped forward. I lunged forward to catch him. He felt way too light for a man over six feet tall.
"Jack?" I patted his face.
He didn't respond.
"System, hurry, call 911!" I yelled.
When the ambulance arrived, the nurse lifted him onto a stretcher.
I climbed in after them, holding his icy hand.
At the ER, the doctor examined him, drew blood, and did a CT scan.
"He's overworked and under extreme mental stress, which led to acute gastric bleeding," the doctor said with a frown. "As his family, didn't you notice anything? If this continues, next time it won't be as simple as a stomach bleed."
I opened my mouth, but no words came out.