Chapter 4

The following afternoon, a patient suffered a massive emotional breakdown in the common room, wailing for their family.

Orderlies rushed in from all directions, creating total bedlam.

In the chaos, I slipped into a maintenance closet that was rarely used.

In the corner of a dusty locker, my fingers brushed against a tiny stub of a pencil.

Some visitor must have snuck it in for a relative, and a guard had tossed it aside during a search.

I immediately concealed it inside the split lining of my shoe sole—a blind spot for the cameras.

From that night onward, the moment the ward went silent, I hid under my rough woolen blanket. By the faint sliver of moonlight filtering through the reinforced window, I wrote everything down on torn strips of rough toilet paper.

The exact dates and times Chloe and David visited; every single threat they whispered in my ear.

Every unnecessary chemical restraint and brutal treatment Nurse Evans and her staff subjected me to.

I even sketched a detailed floor plan of the ward, marking camera locations and dead zones.

Every stroke was carved with blood, sweat, and tears. Every word was a silver bullet forged for those two monsters.

The paper was thin and fragile.

I rolled the finished notes into tightly compressed, thread-thin scrolls, worked them into the padded seams of my hospital gown, and stitched the fabric shut using loose threads pulled from my bedsheet.

My calloused fingers were clumsy, pricking myself repeatedly in the dark, but the memory of Chloe's sneer numbed every ounce of pain.

A month later, Chloe came back.

This time, she was alone, her face practically glowing with smug arrogance.

"Good news, old woman," she said, leaning over my cot.

"The asset transfer cleared probate court. That three hundred thousand is officially in my account."

I played my part, staring blankly at the water-stained ceiling.

"Don't worry, though," she continued, her tone patronizing. "David and I talked it over. You are my mother, after all. We aren't monsters."

"Once our permanent residency papers are finalized, we'll transfer you to a cheap public facility out in the sticks where you can rot away your final days."

She reached into her designer bag, pulling out a document and a pen, and shoved them against my chest.

"Sign this voluntary waiver of assets."

"The money is already mine, but having your signature on this formal quitclaim will prevent any pesky legal audits later."

I looked down at the dense legal document, then suddenly tilted my head back, offering her a wide, vacant grin.

"Chloe... go home..."

Chloe's face instantly hardened.

"Are you going to sign it or not?!" she hissed, her voice sharp with venom.

I slowly shook my head, pushing the paper away, continuing to giggle like an idiot.

"Fine. Have it your way," Chloe spat, trembling with fury as she snatched the paper back, her eyes murderous.

"You want to do this the hard way? Then die in this shithole!"

She whipped around to leave, nearly colliding with Maya Parker at the doorway.

"Ms. Miller," Maya greeted her politely. "Your mother seems quite calm today."

"Calm my ass!" Chloe snapped, storming off down the hall in her clicking heels.

Maya watched her leave with a furrowed brow, then stepped softly to my bed.

"Mrs. Miller, did your daughter..."

I lunged forward and seized her wrist.

My grip was ironclad. The vacant fog vanished from my eyes, replaced by a razor-sharp, terrifying clarity.

Maya gasped, trying to yank her hand back in shock.

"Don't be afraid," I whispered in clear, perfectly measured English, speaking directly into her ear.

"I am completely sane. My daughter framed me to steal my life's savings."

"I have meticulous proof sewn into the seams of my clothes. Please... you have to contact Arthur King, my attorney back in the States. Memorize his number..."

Maya's eyes widened in sheer disbelief.

I had only seconds before a nurse walked by.

I drilled my gaze into her soul, repeating each syllable with fierce intensity:

"Find Arthur King. Please. Save my life!"