The silence in the room suggested even her friends found it absurd. Finally, someone spoke up, voice laced with hesitation.

"Faith... aren't you afraid Zion will find out and leave you?"

Faith scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous. We're blood. No matter how bad things get, it's just a family squabble. Zion worships the ground I walk on. Even with a knife to his throat, he wouldn't leave me."

Her tone shifted to righteous justification. "What he's going through? Just a little lesson. Nathaniel is different—he's already suffered enough because he isn't blood-related. It's only right I compensate him."

Her voice turned ice-cold. "But listen closely: what happens in this room stays here. If a word reaches Zion, don't expect me to call you 'sister' ever again."

I slumped against the corridor wall. A chill radiated from my spine, numbing my hands and feet.

So the five years I spent destroying my body were nothing but a punchline to her.

My life, my freedom, my health—all sacrificed because Nathaniel felt "grievanced." In my sister's eyes, my suffering was insignificant. A "little lesson."

I wanted to laugh, but the tears fell first—hot and uncontrollable.

A phone rang inside. Footsteps approached the door. Panic surged. I spun to flee, but my coordination failed. I slammed into the club manager coming up behind me.

The vintage wine in his hands—tens of thousands a bottle—slipped.

Crash.

The manager's expression darkened. He kicked me to the ground before I could stammer an apology. The private room door opened. Faith swept past, her eyes glossing over my crumpled form to lock onto the figure striding down the hall.

She pulled Nathaniel into a tight embrace.

"Why did you come back alone? I told you I'd pick you up. Are you tired? I've arranged a professional care team at home."

Nathaniel smiled, all sunshine and innocence. "I missed you, Sis. I wanted to surprise you!"

I knelt less than a meter away, hidden behind my mask, terrified to breathe. The diamonds on Nathaniel's watch caught the light, blinding me. A single stone could have paid for a year of the imported medicine Faith claimed we couldn't afford.

"Ms. Gilbert," the manager interrupted, voice dropping to a grovel. "Terribly sorry to disturb your reunion. This clumsy idiot has no sense. I'll have fresh bottles brought up immediately."

To prove his point, he slapped the back of my head. Hard.

Pain exploded in my skull, but compared to ribs broken by loan sharks years ago, this was nothing. Still, my stomach twisted into a knot.

Faith frowned, impatient.

"Enough."

She pointed a manicured finger at me. "Since you broke it, you clean it up. By hand. Get every shard out of this carpet. If my brother steps on a single piece, I'll make you swallow it."

The carpet was thick, swallowing the jagged fragments. Glass embedded deep in the fibers, impossible to see. I crawled on hands and knees, pressing my palms into the carpet to find shards by touch.

Slice. Cut.

Nathaniel narrowed his eyes at my trembling back. A smirk touched his lips before he turned to Faith, hooking his arm through hers, voice dropping to a whine. "Sis, I'm tired."

"Alright," Faith cooed. "Let's get you out of here. Too messy."

Her red high heel came down—not on the floor, but on the back of my hand. She pivoted, grinding the heel into my skin as she walked past, completely unaware—or uncaring—that she was stepping on her own brother.

I remained kneeling, staring at the glass now embedded deep in my palm.

The tears had stopped. A dry, broken laugh escaped my throat.

The manager recoiled, looking at me with disgust and fear. "What the hell is wrong with you? Why is your nose bleeding?"

I staggered to my feet, wiping the blood with my sleeve.

"I think," I whispered, "I might be dying."

I didn't look back at his astonished expression. I simply let the blood drip from my hand, marking my path as I staggered out of the room.

By the time I reached home, I was running on fumes. I pushed the front door open, only to be greeted by the sharp crash of shattering porcelain from the kitchen.

My heart jumped, conditioning overriding exhaustion.

Faith was on the floor, her body twisted in a pathetic struggle as she tried to hoist herself from her overturned wheelchair. Her arms trembled, seemingly too weak to support her own weight.

When she saw me in the doorway, she shrank back like a child caught stealing. Her eyes rimmed red, instant tears pooling in them.

"Zion... I just wanted to make you something to eat..." she stammered, speech slurred and thick. "I'm so useless. I'm just trash!"

Tears mixed with saliva streamed down her face, dripping onto her clothes. She looked the picture of a patient in the final stages of a degenerative disease—helpless, losing control of her faculties, collapsing under the weight of her own existence.

I stared at her. A cold numbness spread through my chest.

Before her "diagnosis," Faith had been a severe germaphobe. The kind of woman who washed her hands twenty times a day and would have a breakdown if a speck of dust landed on her blouse.

Yet for Nathaniel, she had endured this filthy, degrading charade for five whole years.

Five years.

I had been kept in the dark by her masterful performance, living my life as a complete clown. A puppet dancing on strings she held, while she secretly laughed at my desperation.

A dark thought crossed my mind. I wanted to cut open her chest just to see what was inside—warm flesh and blood, or cold iron and stone.

Seeing that I remained silent, Faith drooped her head, shoulders shaking.

"Zion, do you hate me?" she whimpered. "You should. A burden like me... I can't keep dragging you down. You should just go. Let me rot here. Let me die on my own."

She sat amidst broken shards and spilled food, stubbornly gripping the armrests of the wheelchair. The veins in her hands bulged with "effort," yet she somehow couldn't lift herself an inch.

I walked over silently.

I set the wheelchair upright, hooked my arms under hers, and lifted her into the seat. I turned to the sink, wrung out a warm towel, and wiped the tears and saliva from her face and hands.

I had performed this ritual thousands of times over the last five years. Muscle memory now, carved into my bones so deep that my body moved to care for her even while my mind screamed in agony.

Suddenly, she grabbed my wrist. Her gaze locked onto the fresh, jagged wound on my palm.

"How did you get that?" Her voice sharpened. "Who bullied you?"

I stared at the tension in her eyes. It didn't look fake. That was the worst part—she could care for me and destroy me at the same time.

The bitterness in my throat tasted like bile. "Yeah. I was bullied. By someone who looks a lot like you, Sis."

I paused, forcing myself to look straight into her pupils. "It happened at The Starlight Club."

Faith's expression stiffened instantly. The mask slipped, just for a fraction of a second.

I forced a smile. "But I know that wasn't you. My sister is sick. My sister would never lie to me, right?"

Guilt flashed across her face. She averted her gaze, her voice taking on an unnatural pitch. "Of course. Zion is my only family. I would never lie to you."

I swallowed the lump in my throat, fighting back the stinging heat behind my eyes. Before the tears could fall, I turned the wheelchair around and pushed her out of the kitchen.

After I finished cooking and cleaning up the mess, the living room was empty. Faith had retreated to her bedroom.

I walked to her door, intending to tell her dinner was ready, but stopped when I heard her hushed voice on the phone.

"Just listen to me, okay? I've prepared the biggest birthday bash for you. Tomorrow, I'm coming to celebrate it personally."

On the other end, Nathaniel's voice drifted through, dripping with feigned concern. "But Faith... isn't tomorrow Zion's birthday too? If you spend it with me, won't he be angry?"

Faith let out a soft, indulgent laugh. "You silly boy. You're my only precious little brother. Your happiness is the only thing that matters. Zion hasn't celebrated a birthday in five years—he's used to it by now. One more year won't make a difference."

Nathaniel giggled, satisfied. "I knew you loved me best!"

I stood outside the door for a long time, the silence pressing against my eardrums.

Eventually, I took off my apron, draped it over a chair, and turned toward the front door.

When Faith finally emerged from her room, I was already gone.

On the dining table sat a bowl of noodles, cooked soft and mushy so she could swallow them easily, accompanied by a single expensive imported pill.

She knew I had a night shift. She knew I wouldn't be home.

But as she looked at the lonely bowl of noodles, a vague unease pricked at her.

She suddenly remembered the gash on my palm. My abnormally pale complexion, the way my skin seemed translucent under the kitchen lights. My back as I stood at the stove—so thin, so frail, it looked like a bundle of dry firewood held together by cheap fabric.

Panic flared in her chest. For the first time in years, she realized she couldn't remember what I looked like when I was healthy. She couldn't recall the Zion who was once high-spirited, brilliant, and full of life.

A sharp, phantom pain pierced my chest.

An ominous weight settled in my stomach, dragging guilt along with it.

Faith picked up her phone and dialed with trembling fingers.

The next morning, I took my sister to the hospital for her checkup.

Her attending physician greeted us with barely contained excitement. "Mr. Gilbert, excellent news. A private research institute abroad has developed a breakthrough treatment for ALS. Clinical trials are showing remarkable results. They're only accepting two subjects, but I've secured a slot for your sister."

While Faith wept with joy, I remained still. "What are the odds of full recovery?"

"Eighty percent."

Faith grabbed my hand, tears streaming. "Zion, did you hear that? I can recover. I can be with you forever."

I forced a smile. "If only one of us can survive, Faith, I hope it's you."

She froze.

Something in my tone must have cut through her performance. For a split second, she forgot to be fragile. Her voice sharpened. "Don't talk nonsense. We'll both live long lives. Once I recover, I'll restore Gilbert Corporation. You're still the heir."

The heir.

I didn't want that title anymore. Didn't want the corporation. Didn't want this family.

I'd leave it all to Nathaniel.

"The examination will take some time," the doctor interrupted, ushering me out. "Please wait outside."

Before, I would have believed them. Would have rushed off to work odd jobs, desperate to pay for her care.

Now I knew better. These were excuses to get rid of me.

I stood in the corridor shadows. A moment later, Faith emerged—already changed out of her hospital gown. No limp. She walked briskly to the elevator and disappeared. A luxury car was waiting downstairs.

I turned and walked into a different office.

The neurosurgeon studied the scans on the lightboard and sighed. "Mr. Gilbert, the tumor's grown too large. It's inoperable. If you'd come two weeks ago, we might have had a chance."

He faced me, expression grim. "You have days. Go home. Say your goodbyes."

Silence stretched between us. I nodded.

"When I die, cremate me immediately. Send the ashes to the Gilbert Estate, addressed to Faith Gilbert."

I left the hospital with nothing but the clothes on my back.

My phone buzzed. A single message from Nathaniel.

Come to the mansion. Take a look.

I spent my last cash on a taxi to the city's most exclusive district.

Five years. I'd believed our home was lost—auctioned to pay debts.

The mansion blazed with light, more alive than I'd ever seen it. Guests mingled on the lawn. Luxury cars lined the driveway. The air reeked of expensive perfume and champagne.

I stood outside the gate. A ghost among the living.

Nathaniel held the center of the celebration in a bespoke suit, Faith on his arm. They stood before a six-tier birthday cake, his face radiant with laughter. Behind him, gifts piled toward the ceiling.

He clasped his hands, eyes closed. "I wish to be Faith's only brother in this life. Her Little Prince for eternity."

Faith smiled—a look of tender adoration I hadn't seen in years. She pulled a velvet box from her pocket.

The lid snapped open. My blood turned to ice.

A jade pendant.

When Faith and I were born, our parents commissioned an eminent monk to consecrate two pendants. Chanted over for a year. Engraved with our names. Placed around our necks.

Our parents' blessing. Proof of lineage. The only connection I had left to them.

Even starving, I'd refused to sell mine.

Now Faith lifted the jade. My name had been ground away.

In its place: Nathaniel.

Before the city's elite, she placed the stolen birthright around his neck.

"My Little Prince," she whispered. "Your wish has come true."

I don't remember turning away. I simply walked into the darkness, leaving my heart behind.