My boyfriend is a forensic artist.

He was forced to make a harrowing decision to save his first love. At the killer's demand, he created a portrait from a photo—he never realized that the young girl in the photo was me in my childhood.

Two weeks later, the police investigate a grisly bomb explosion and dismemberment case. The victim's identity was unrecognizable, and the investigation dragged on for days as the authorities desperately searched the blast site, looking for my remains.

After three days and nights, they finally recovered enough of my remains to reconstruct my face.

When my boyfriend unknowingly brought the shattered fragments back to life with his art, he was confronted with a horrifying truth—one that drove him to the edge of madness.

My body lay amidst the wreckage of the explosion, shattered into countless fragments.

As the police swarmed the scene, the ground was blanketed with debris. The area was quickly sealed off, and the forensic examiner carefully collected every piece of evidence. Each fragment was placed in a bag and taken back to the precinct.

“The autopsy report indicates the victim was a young woman, aged 20 to 22, dead no more than a day,” one officer read aloud.

“In other words, she was alive before the explosion.”

“The victim’s face took the brunt of the impact. Her bones were shattered, and her stomach pulverized. It looks like the killer planted a bomb inside her and detonated it.”

The room fell silent as the officers absorbed the horrifying details. They stared at the mangled remains, some with fury burning in their eyes.

A young officer could not bear the sight and ran outside to lose his lunch.

The rest stood firm, fists clenched, a storm brewing within them.

“This was pure torture. What kind of monster could hate someone enough to kill like this?”

“Captain, what’s our next move?”

The detective squad captain turned around. “Get Patrick in here!”

Just then, I noticed the figure standing at the door.

Patrick Green, my boyfriend, strode in. He looked worn, his hair tousled by the wind, but his aura still exuded an undeniable elegance. The wind had tousled his hair, but it did nothing to diminish his commanding presence.

With a serious expression, Patrick donned a pair of white gloves and approached my body. His deep, searching eyes scanned the mangled face before him.

After a meticulous examination, he made his assessment.

“I can’t seem to get the face right. The skull’s incomplete, and some key pieces are missing.

“I suggest you take another look around the blast site. You might find the missing parts.”

The police team took his advice and sent a squad to search the explosion site that very night for the remaining fragments of my body.

However, Patrick couldn’t tear his eyes away from my remains. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally asked, “Was the victim left-handed?”

The forensic examiner blinked in surprise. “How could you tell? The right hand was badly damaged, and the bones weren’t properly formed. She must’ve used her left hand more.”

Patrick was a master of skeletal structure. He had been a star pupil, the genius artist praised by every teacher. Even at graduation, his mentor had asked, “Why give up a great career for the police force?”

He never gave his mentor an answer. However, I knew the reason. It was all for his father—to seek justice for him.

Yet, that same man, driven by his one-sided love, allowed the killer to walk free.

The forensic examiner was right. The killer had gone out of their way to torment me before I died.

I had always kept to myself, so I was unable to understand why I had been targeted.

Until the killer revealed that drawing…

Half a month ago, the killer appeared out of nowhere and found my boyfriend.

They had snatched Nancy Lewis, the girl he had never gotten over.

“Hey, Green, the great artist, recognize this one?”

Nancy was ghost-white, clinging to hope like it was a lifeline. Tears streaming down her face, she begged for rescue.

“Patrick, please save me! I’m terrified! Can you take me home? Please?”

I had never seen Patrick lose his composure before. His eyes, usually so calm, were filled with worry—something rare for him. Patrick was always the stoic one, his emotions carefully hidden behind a mask of calm.

The only other time I had seen him so rattled was when I threw him a surprise birthday party. That day, the rooftop was battered by fierce winds, and he was overwhelmed with work at the station, completely forgetting his own birthday. I waited for him until well past midnight. When he finally returned and saw the spaghetti I had made, his eyes filled with gratitude.

However, with Nancy in danger now, he was totally losing it. Nancy meant the world to him, and I couldn’t help but feel a pang of bitterness.

His fists were clenched tight, veins standing out on the back of his hands. He confronted the villain, “What do you really want?”

The crook pulled out two photos and handed them over. “Draw me a picture, and I’ll return your precious girl to you. Deal?”

Patrick was skeptical, his brow furrowed. “Is it really that simple?”

“Yeah, it’s that simple.”

However, there was one thing Patrick didn’t know.

The little girl in the photo, the one the crook wanted him to draw, was me as a child.

They had been after me all along.

My parents were undercover narcotics officers. After I was born, their identities remained secret. It wasn’t until they took down the leader of a criminal gang that their true identities were revealed.

They also died in the battle. That’s when their cover was blown, and my own identity made me a target too.

To protect me, the police erased every trace of me and my parents. For twenty years, I lived under the radar, just another face in the crowd.

Everything changed when the killer tracked Patrick down.

Patrick was no ordinary man; he was a legend. The go-to forensic artist for the cops, he had a knack for solving the most challenging cases. His gift? He could bring faces back from oblivion.

That day, he was lost in his work, sketching away, when police sirens sounded in the distance.

When the bad guy finally released Nancy, I saw Nancy rush into Patrick’s arms, and he held her like she was his lifeline, whispering, “Thank goodness you’re okay.”

However, what Patrick didn’t realize was that the moment he handed over that sketch, my own clock was ticking down.

Kicked out of the hospital by Patrick, I was on my own, heading home. I felt it deep in my gut—something wasn’t right.

Instinctively, I called the one person I thought could help. “Patrick, I think someone’s tailing me. Can you come get me? There are no cabs, and I’m freaking out here.”

Patrick thought I was just trying to get his attention, playing games. Furious, he snapped over the phone, “Are you messing with me again? You think this will make me come running? Let me tell you, even if you’re lying dead in the street, I won’t come looking for you. Leave me alone!”

That night, the alley felt like a black hole, and the sky seemed to weep with me.

The streets were deserted, leaving me alone with the shadows and the sound of my own heartbeat.

When the phone clicked dead, my heart sank. I tried to call for help and dial 911, but the killer behind me was one step ahead, knocking me out cold.

When I woke up, I was in an eerie, abandoned factory.

They were merciless, venting their anger by smashing my face with a shovel, breaking my bones. Yet, through it all, I clung to life.

They weren’t done with me. Not until they had their fill of torture.

To cover their tracks, they cut open my stomach and stuffed a ticking bomb inside.

As the explosion tore through the silence, I looked up at the heavens and laughed.

At last, I was free.

I never expected to linger on as a ghost.

I watched Patrick—maybe a cop, maybe a detective—calmly examining my remains as if they were just pieces of trash. He didn’t even spare me a second glance before turning away, completely emotionless.

“Hit me up if anything comes up. Got plans tonight, gotta head out.”

His friend, the forensic medical examiner, was with him. As they walked away, his friend pulled out two boxes of candy, a grin lighting up his face.

“Just tied the knot with my girl, got some sweets for you and Yasmine. Yasmine’s been hounding me for candy, but I haven’t seen her around. Could you pass these on to her? It’s our way of sending good vibes.”

The moment the words left his mouth, Patrick’s expression darkened.

The smile froze on his friend’s face, and he asked awkwardly, “Man, you still haven’t patched things up with Yasmine? It’s been over half a month?”

Patrick stopped in his tracks, his breaths coming out in heavy gasps.

“Don’t talk to me about her.”

It was as if he loathed me, turning away with a scowl etched on his face. Finally, he glanced down at the wedding favors in his hand. With a flick of his wrist, fueled by frustration, he tossed them into the trash can.

I couldn’t help but feel it was such a waste. I stared at the discarded sweets in the bin. Nobody could enjoy them now...

I trailed after him to the hospital, peering through the clear glass. There was a middle-aged woman inside, hooked up to a ventilator. I covered my mouth, tears streaming down my face as I quietly wept.

Deep down, I knew the rift between Patrick and me wasn’t something that a few words could fix. His anger at me stemmed from the fact that I was the reason his mom had ended up in the hospital. She was still there, lying in the ICU.

It had only been half a month, not long after Patrick’s own incident. The police had just brought him and Nancy back home.

His mom, Tracy, had been at the bridal shop, helping me pick out a wedding gown for my upcoming nuptials with Patrick on the eighth of next month—a date his mom had chosen.

On the way home, I didn’t see the car coming from out of nowhere, barreling toward us. I froze, but Patrick’s mom threw her arms around me, shielding me. She took the brunt of the crash and was seriously injured. Clinging to life, she was rushed to the hospital.

Patrick, with Nancy in tow, arrived. Blinded by rage, he grabbed me by the collar and shoved me to the ground.

“Why did you have to drag her into this mess? If you hadn’t been so reckless with her, she would never have ended up in that car crash! Yasmine, if anything—anything at all—happens to my mom, I could never forgive you!”

Yeah, who could forgive someone who hurt their own mother?

Ignoring the pain, I forced myself to stand. I didn’t expect his forgiveness, but Tracy was hurt because of me. All I could do was plead, “Please... let me stay. I’ll leave as soon as I know Mrs. Green is okay...”

Patrick wouldn’t even hear me out. He kicked me out without a second thought.

“Quit your act! You have no right to see my mom!”

That night, I lingered outside the hospital, unable to go anywhere. It wasn’t until I saw Tracy safely in the ICU the next day that I could finally breathe a sigh of relief.

Before I left, I caught a glimpse of Nancy comforting Patrick. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Green will pull through. I’m here, Patrick. I’ll stick by you no matter what...”

I knew when to step back, so I left the hospital quietly, not wanting to intrude.

The guilt continued to haunt me. Every dream at midnight took me back to the crash. The weight of guilt and grief was crushing. I blamed myself, convinced that I had let Tracy down.

So, I kept to the shadows during her hospital stay, only daring to visit when no one would see me.

That was before I ended up in the hands of the real villain...

I only learned about the time Patrick and Nancy disappeared after the fact. Patrick, out of love for Nancy, had handed over my portrait to a criminal.

I wonder if Patrick ever realized that he had unwittingly helped to hurt his own mother, and whether he could forgive himself.