Again and again, she scrubbed her lips with soap. Her skin was already cracked and bleeding, but Abigail kept rubbing in front of the mirror, like a soulless machine.

Beneath the strong smell of soap, the metallic scent of blood was barely noticeable.

"Why didn't you fight back earlier?"

A deep male voice, not entirely unfamiliar, sounded behind her.

At some point, Dante Hendricks had appeared beside the sink.

Abigail's movements stopped. Her eyes passed over Dante's face with coldness, and her hands pressed harder against the bar of soap.

The pain in her lips grew sharper, but it was nothing compared to the ache in her heart.

"You're not like her. She would never have given up."

"Stop humiliating yourself like this."

Dante's words struck the most fragile chord in Abigail's soul.

"Humiliating myself? Do you think everyone can live like you, rich people? You eat, drink, and play with others like they're trash. We don't have that luxury." Her voice trembled, yet it was steady as she looked straight at him.

"You could have refused," he replied calmly.

"Refused?" Abigail let out a bitter laugh, stepped closer, and pointed at his chest. "Do you know a girl who once had broken glass shoved into her body for refusing a client? She took her own life afterward. Is that how you want me to end up?"

The smell of alcohol coming from him made her dizzy.

Dante fell silent at her sudden outburst, and by the time he regained his composure, the woman was already gone from the bathroom.

At the entrance.

"Aunt Lynne, you know what just happened wasn't my fault," said Abigail bitterly to a middle-aged woman who still retained a trace of beauty.

"Not your fault? I told you to take care of the bar owner properly. This isn't a charity house. If you keep acting like some proud student, you can leave," the woman replied sharply.

"It won't happen again," murmured Abigail, lowering her head.

"If it weren't for your sister, I wouldn't have taken you in the first time. Next time, you're out," the woman said, walking away with the click of her high heels.

When the echo of her footsteps faded, Abigail picked up her worn-out bag and left.

She had already changed her black miniskirt for a white T-shirt and a pair of faded jeans.

The night wind tugged at her loose clothes; under the dim light, her figure looked even thinner.

That T-shirt had been a birthday gift from a bartender three years ago. He had bought it one size larger, planning to exchange it, but she insisted on keeping it. "When I grow up, it'll still fit."

But as the years passed, she had only grown thinner. Her body seemed to burn away its youth just to survive.

That bartender had been the only person who ever showed her kindness since she started working at the bar at fifteen. But six months later, he was beaten to death by thugs.

For no reason. Just because "they didn't like him."

That was how cruel the world was. Without money or power, a life meant nothing.

She was only eighteen, yet the weariness in her face made her look much older.

Only the deep hatred in her eyes reminded anyone that she was still young.

Her steps were heavy, each one draining what little strength she had left.

As always, she took the path toward the school, a dark road with no streetlights. Suddenly, the whisper of wind through the leaves made her stop.

Was it just the wind... or footsteps?

Beneath the thick shadows of the trees, only faint moonlight filtered through.

She took a small knife from her bag and gripped it tightly. She kept walking, alert.

After turning a corner, the footsteps disappeared.

She couldn't have been mistaken. Someone was there.

Abigail trusted her hearing and her instincts.

A little farther away, Dante Hendricks had also lost sight of Abigail's figure.

Frowning, he stopped, deep in thought.

At that moment, he felt something cold press against his back - a blade of metal.

"Don't move."

The voice was both familiar and unfamiliar.

Dante remained still, almost entranced by that voice, unbothered by the edge of the knife at his back.

Abigail was holding the knife firmly. Her eyes burned with rage.

"Don't follow me anymore," she warned in a low, trembling voice.

She didn't ask questions. She just warned him.

She had seen too many of the dirty games rich men played.

Annoyed by his cold, silent stare, she pressed the knife harder.

"I'm telling you for the last time, if you keep following me, I won't hesitate to use it. Do you hear me?"

After a long silence, Dante finally spoke in a deep voice.

"It's not safe for you to walk alone at night. I'll see you home."

He only wanted to accompany her home?

His eyes, dark as the night sea, were filled with confusion.

"See me home?" Abigail let out a mocking, bitter laugh. "Don't be ridiculous."

But that smile faded beneath the seriousness in his expression.

"I'm warning you one last time," she said coldly. "If you follow me, I won't be responsible for what happens."

She put the knife away and stepped back, slowly retreating until she disappeared into the pale light of the street.

The moonlight wrapped around her, and her figure grew fainter, as if in that moment it wasn't Abigail at all, but Orabelle looking back into his eyes.

When Dante came to his senses and ran after her, the street was already empty.

Silence returned, deep and complete, like his heart - a still lake from which something vital had been torn away.

And then, a cold voice broke the air.

"Who was that woman?"

"Who was that woman?"

Dante Hendricks knew that cold voice all too well - the kind that could freeze a man to the bone.

He looked up indifferently and, upon seeing Randolph Carwyn, walked past him without stopping.

Randolph placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Tazanna is looking for you," he said in a dry tone.

Dante brushed his hand away with disdain.

"I've told you many times, I have nothing to do with her. Randolph, don't ever come talk to me about that again."

In his once dull eyes flashed a spark of hatred.

It was a completely different look from the one he'd had a few minutes ago.

"Tazanna has a fever. She's been delirious all day and night, calling out for you," Randolph insisted.

Meanwhile, Abigail, after climbing over the school wall as usual, finally felt she could breathe.

But her mind was still filled with the image of Randolph Carwyn.

Under the moonlight, his cold, sculpted face looked like marble. She would never forget that indifferent gaze, one that seemed to look down upon the world from an unreachable height.

It was a different kind of coldness than Dante Hendricks's.

Dante's was the coldness of a man who had given up on life; Randolph's was that of someone who ruled over the world and despised its misery.

For the first time, Abigail understood what true fear felt like.

Everything that had happened that night seemed like a dream. It was hard to believe so much had occurred in just a few hours.

The night wind grew colder. Abigail crossed her arms for warmth and walked toward the dormitory building.

"Abigail." A voice and a tap on her shoulder made her jump.

Acting on instinct, she pulled out her knife, but when she saw her friend Rishima, she let out a sigh of relief.

"Crazy cat. You scared me to death."

"Hey, I was just worried. You didn't answer your phone," Rishima said, sounding offended.

Abigail glanced sideways at her without replying. She let her friend take her arm as they walked to the dorm.

Fortunately, they lived on the second floor; otherwise, Abigail might have slept outside.

"Abigail, did something happen?" Rishima asked curiously.

On normal days, even if Abigail came back late from work, they always chatted a bit before sleeping.

But that night, her dull, distant face said everything.

"It's nothing," Abigail said, trying to sound natural. "But if you see any suspicious men around the school these days, tell me right away."

Her voice was tense.

"What? Gangsters at school? Abigail, did you offend someone?" Rishima asked, frightened.

"Don't ask so much. Just do it if you see something strange," Abigail said, trying to hide her fear.

She knew Claude wouldn't let her go so easily. She had to be prepared.

"Alright," Rishima nodded.

The two climbed up the building's drainpipe to their dorm window.

A week later.

"Abigail, wake up. You're going to be late."

Half-asleep, Abigail grumbled,

"What's the rush... I don't have class this morning... let me sleep... I worked all night..."

Rishima yanked the blanket away.

"Get up. Dante Hendricks is giving a speech at school today. Everyone's there, and you're still sleeping."

"Dante Hendricks? Who's that?" Abigail asked, eyes half-closed.

"You're unbelievable," her friend exclaimed. "Dante Hendricks, the future head of the Hendricks Group, is the only heir of the Hendricks family. Every girl's dream."

But as she looked closer at Abigail, Rishima noticed her red, swollen eyes and traces of dried tears.

Had she been crying last night?

School auditorium.

Abigail looked at the man on stage - the same face that had watched her that night at the bar - and a chill ran down her spine.

Now, dressed in a suit with a serious expression, he seemed completely different.

There was no trace of the decadent young man drowning himself in alcohol, yet his eyes were still clouded with sadness.

"So that's Dante Hendricks?" Abigail whispered, tugging at Rishima's sleeve.

"Yes, why do you ask? Hey, where are you going?"

Abigail didn't answer. She stood up and began pushing through the crowd.

"I don't want to hear any more," she said, walking away.

"You're skipping Dante? What a waste," Rishima shouted, confused.

But she stayed, fascinated by the chance to see such a famous heir in person.

"Don't push me."

"Watch my clothes."

"Ouch, my foot."

"Sorry, sorry," Abigail murmured as she moved slowly through the students.

I shouldn't have come, she thought.

Not far away, a rough-looking man with a nasty grin turned to another.

"Boss, isn't that the girl from the bar?"

Claude lifted his head.

"What? ... Ah, it's her. Get her."

He had been searching for her for days without success, and now she was right in front of him.

When Abigail heard the shouts behind her, her face went pale.

She started running, pushing people aside.

Behind her, chaos erupted.

"Students, please stay calm," the host shouted from the stage.

But amid the noise, a familiar cry made Dante raise his head.

That voice...

Through the crowd, he saw a woman throwing whatever she could find at the men chasing her.

Was it her?

Without thinking, Dante left the stage and ran after her.

He hadn't seen her in a week.

He hadn't gone back to the bar since that night.

He'd thought their paths would never cross again.

But fate seemed to have other plans.

"Mr. Dante, where are you going?" someone shouted behind him.

At the end of the hallway.

Abigail ran until she reached a blind spot.

"Stop her."

"There she is."

Two thugs approached with machetes in their hands, laughing maliciously.

"Ah." Abigail tried to jump the railing to fall to the lower floor, but she slipped and lost her balance.

At that moment, there were sounds of blows and cries of struggle not far away, then the dull thud of bodies falling.

A hand, with bone almost exposed, appeared before her.

Blood dripped from the tips of Dante Hendricks's fingers, staining Abigail's terrified face.

"Why are you here?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

"I will get you out of there," he added, holding back the pain as he tried to grab her arm.

"Watch out behind you." Abigail suddenly shouted.

Dante turned instinctively, but the machete grazed his arm, leaving a deep, bleeding wound.

"Ugh," he uttered a muffled groan. Dizzy, he fell against the wall, the red of the blood spreading across his white shirt.

The color was so intense it hurt to look at.

"Please let me go. I will give you whatever you want. Money, anything, just don't hurt me." Abigail begged, clutching the railing, tears blurring her vision.

Her feet barely touched the floor; she could not hold on or jump.

"Will you run again, damn her. Run if you can," one mocked, setting the machete aside and stretching his hand to break her fingers.

"No, please," she whimpered, gripping the railing harder.

She could not die.

Her sister was still waiting for her. She needed to keep living to send money for the treatment.

"Move aside," the other gang member roared. "I will kill her today."

He raised the machete above his head.

At that instant, Abigail let go of the railing and fell.

Five floors.

"No," Dante shouted, reaching out his hand toward her.

The void echoed him back.

He ran down the stairs, searching through the crowd, but found no trace of her.

"Where is she?" he murmured, desperate.

His gaze fell on a garbage truck stopped in the middle of the street.

It was right under the spot where she had fallen.

"Are you in there?" he asked in a low voice, approaching.

Silence.

He frowned, leaned over, and peered inside.

Suddenly, Abigail sprang up inside the truck, holding the knife and pointing it at his chest.

"You." Dante froze.

"You're still alive," was all she said.

Seeing the blood streaming from his arm, her face tightened. Without a word, she climbed down from the truck and began to walk in the opposite direction.

Dante followed her, staggering, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

They left the campus and reached an abandoned factory.

There, Abigail opened an old box and took out a bottle of disinfectant. She began calmly cleaning his wounds.

From the doorway, Dante watched her in silence.

Something pushed him to step closer.

Although he kept telling himself she was not Orabelle, that voice, that motion when she lowered her gaze, confused him more and more.

"You scared me," Dante murmured without thinking.

Abigail glanced at him briefly and continued tending the wound.

"Don't worry. Even if they had wanted to cut my fingers off, I would not have let go. Nothing is worth more than life."

Her voice was calm, but the words hurt like knives.

"Do you want to live like this so much?" Dante asked suddenly, almost to himself.

"Even if I live like a dog, I will keep living," she answered without hesitation.

She finished bandaging his arm with an old cloth.

"Is that how you always treat wounds?" he frowned. "I will take you to the hospital."

"You are the one who should go to the hospital," she replied, looking at the blood staining his own bandage. "I have no money, no time. Rich people like you can afford to fall and get up. I cannot. So if you have nothing else to do, go. I don't want you following me."

She still did not understand what game that man was playing.

Dante listened with a furrowed brow.

"That day, I ordered him to be taken care of. I didn't know it would affect you like this. I'm sorry."

"I don't need your apologies," she answered coldly. "I cannot carry the guilt of a rich man."

"Is that why you didn't return to the bar?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

He only wanted to keep hearing her voice.

"Don't worry," he continued. "Those gangsters won't bother you again."

But his body could no longer hold up. Dizzy, he fell to the side onto a pile of scrap. His face turned as pale as paper.

"Do you want me to treat the wound?" Abigail asked, approaching cautiously.

Dante did not answer.

She sighed. "Forget it, suit yourself."

But as she turned, she felt her wrist gripped tightly.

"Alright. I will help you."

Abigail cleaned and bandaged his wound gently.

Between silences, Dante asked her name.

"Abigail," she repeated, her voice barely audible.

In his mind, the name was mixed with another.

Abigail. Orabelle.

Both names spun in his head like an echo that tormented him.

"Are you okay?" Abigail asked, noticing him close his eyes.

He did not reply.

Sweat soaked his brow; he had lost too much blood.

"I will take you to the hospital. But I cannot pay the bill, I will only leave you there," she said, biting her lip.

Although she knew it would be a problem, she lifted him with effort.

Suddenly, a cold, authoritative voice rang from the door.

"What have you done to Dante Hendricks?"