My brother Larry Moore and I were born on the same day.

Eight years ago, our birthday became his day of death.

On the day we turned eighteen, thugs held a knife to my throat, forcing me to call my mother, Miranda Moore.

"Mom, it's my birthday today. Can you at least say 'happy birthday' to me?"

My voice trembled, but she didn't notice anything amiss. As usual, her response was filled with rage and curses.

"You killed your own brother and still have the nerve to ask me to wish you a happy birthday? I hate you more than anything else in my life. I regret ever giving birth to you!"

That night, I truly died. The thugs tortured me mercilessly and then dumped my body in the trunk of a car, delivering it to the police as a grim token of their challenge.

Mom was summoned back overnight.

She spent three grueling days and nights piecing together the remains.

Only to discover that the body she had painstakingly assembled was that of her most despised son.

——

"The body was discovered by the cook this morning," Detective Captain Dylan West began as soon as Miranda walked in. "We contacted the delivery driver immediately, but he was drunk last night. He came over as soon as he sobered up, but the roads were under construction, so for now, we can only search for clues from the body."

Miranda nodded gravely, grabbed the paperwork, and made her way to the workspace.

"The killer deliberately delivered the body to the police station. It's like a direct challenge to us! Rest assured, I..."

Miranda froze the moment she saw the body. Even with years of experience and a hardened constitution, she was deeply shaken.

"Wh... what is this…"

Her shock was understandable. The condition of the body was horrific—torn apart by sharp blades, piece by piece.

"The cook found it this morning and was so terrified he called the police," Dylan said, his face ashen. A few of his assistants, hearing this, immediately retched in the corner.

"And breakfast today?" an intern started to ask but was cut off by Dylan's sharp rap on the head. "It's from outside," Dylan snapped.

"At least the killer brought the bones too," Dylan continued, "so you can piece them together and determine the basic information. This case is particularly brutal, and the higher-ups are very concerned. We don't have much time to solve it."

He turned to Miranda, his expression filled with regret. "Looks like you won't have time to celebrate the brothers' birthday today. I'm sorry for the inconvenience."

When she heard my name, Miranda's previously stern demeanor shifted to disgust. "Murderers don't deserve birthdays! And don't you dare compare my Barry to him. He doesn't deserve it!"

I hovered nearby, my heart aching fiercely.

Eight years ago, I lost my brother in a brutal murder and, in turn, lost my mother. She had moved out of our home and adopted a new son.

During the final seconds of that phone call, I heard a "happy birthday" coming through the receiver. It wasn't for me but for her adopted son.

In her eyes, I was the murderer who killed her son and didn't deserve a shred of warmth. Yet, she could celebrate her adopted son's birthday on the anniversary of my brother's death.

If she knows this body was mine, will she blame me for ruining her adopted son's birthday?

I dreaded to think, hoping only that as she pieced together the body, she might find some closure for Larry's death and forgive me.

Dylan, aware of my family situation, was about to offer some comfort when Miranda interrupted him sharply. "Enough with the gloomy talk. Let's get to work."

Miranda quickly entered work mode.

She expertly used tools to wash, piece together, and examine my bones.

She was the best forensic pathologist in the city, once solving countless criminal cases alongside my father, David Moore, a legendary duo in the field. But that was all hearsay to me; I never met my father.

Miranda once said that Larry and I were the most precious legacies my father left her. Now, one was lost, and the other was being painstakingly reconstructed.

After ten grueling hours, Miranda managed to piece together most of my skeleton, but she was missing the left hand and the head.

Miranda's eyes were filled with sorrow as she sighed. "The deceased is male, estimated to be around eighteen to twenty years old. The malnutrition has left him with a small frame and numerous fractures.

"This method is highly specialized, indicating that the perpetrator must be a medical expert, at least someone familiar with human anatomy. We should investigate along those lines.

"Currently, the body is missing the head and left hand. These could hold some symbolic meaning or clues left by the killer.

"Confirm the victim's identity as soon as possible," Miranda's voice was icy but struck like a sledgehammer to everyone present. "I suspect it's someone the victim knew. The clear awareness during the torture indicates that you should be able to detect any stimulants used to agitate the nerves from the bones. The scratches on the bones are self-inflicted; he couldn't bear the pain.

"The killer took pleasure in the torture, treating the whole ordeal like a meticulously crafted piece of art."

The brutal nature of the revenge was almost inhuman.

Dylan, his face flushed with anger, suddenly yanked at his hair. "That monster! Gather the police and investigate as the coroner instructed!"

A pang of bitterness surged within me. Miranda was as formidable as the rumors suggested; every word she spoke was spot-on.

He had first used ether to knock me out, leaving me immobilized but still semi-conscious, before starting the torture.

By the time he made the call, I was already a skeleton, with only a sliver of awareness remaining.

In my final moments, he dragged me into a vat of sulfuric acid, causing my skin and bones to emit a ghastly white smoke.

It hurt so much; it was so disgusting.

Miranda's fingers traced down my bones, and suddenly, she paused over my femur, her expression shifting to something strange.

I held my breath. Could she be about to discover something?

My thigh had been severely fractured eight years ago, leaving a noticeable scar on the bone.

"There's a flower carved here!" Miranda exclaimed. "It's the same killer from before!"

I was stunned.

The killer from eight years ago, who had brutally murdered children.

David and Larry were both victims of that case. David was killed while chasing the killer, who cleverly escaped capture.

Eight years later, the killer struck my family again, binding Larry and me. Larry was slaughtered, and I barely survived until the police arrived.

The killer attempted to abduct me but jumped to his death while I was fighting back.

"Impossible. How could he still be alive?" Miranda muttered, her face etched with terror.

"No way, that psycho. Barry's in danger now. I need to go check on him."

I wanted to grab Miranda's sleeve, hoping she would look further down and see the scar on the leg bone.

I wanted her to know that the deceased was her son.

"They're at the same school. Tony..."

Dylan's words were cut off sharply by Miranda. "Don't mention him! If that killer got rid of him, that would be great. He should have died eight years ago!"

Miranda's contorted face loomed larger in my vision, her bitterness palpable.

My heart ached, and I instinctively let go of her sleeve.

Is that how much you hate me?

Without responding, Miranda walked away, brushing past my shoulder.

Just like eight years ago, when I was severely injured and reached out for her help, only to see her rush to Larry instead.

Miranda, freshly changed and in a hurry, was about to leave when a phone call came in.

"Miranda, I came by to celebrate Tony's birthday today, but nobody's answering the door. Is Tony with you?" It was my uncle, Vincent Moore.

Since David's passing, Vincent was the only one who still cared.

Everyone else seemed to avoid acknowledging my birthday, but Vincent was always there to wish me well.

Miranda's face darkened as she heard my name repeated.

"Are you all trying to drive me crazy? Why would I let a murderer into my home?

"If it weren't for him, my Larry wouldn't have died. And now you want to go see him?" Miranda's anger was palpable.

She made it clear she wanted nothing to do with me and wouldn't even give me living expenses. If it weren't for David's old war buddy and Vincent secretly helping me out, I'd probably be dead by now, just as Miranda seemed to wish.

Vincent, accustomed to Miranda's temper, softened his tone. "Miranda, calm down. Today's Tony's eighteenth birthday; he's officially an adult now. As his uncle, how could I not come to see him?

"I've called Tony and knocked on the door, but he's never acted like this before. Is something wrong?" Vincent's concern was evident.

Miranda snorted. "If something's wrong, that's his problem. Who knows where he's off messing around? Only you think he's always been so well-behaved."

"No, the real issue is we can't reach him…"

My mother, clearly impatient, cut Vincent off. "Enough about him. Today's also Barry's birthday—why haven't you shown any concern for him?"

On the day Barry was adopted, Miranda gave him a name similar to her deceased son Larry's.

Vincent, unwilling to give up, tried to find out more about me but was cut off by Miranda's harsh response.

"His situation is none of my concern. I've only ever had one son!"

With that, Miranda hung up coldly, needing to drive back home to look after Barry. Just then, Dylan's call came through urgently.

"We found the skull!"

Miranda's internal struggle was evident. Her grip tightened on the gear shift before she picked up her phone and dialed Vincent.

In an unprecedented shift, Miranda's tone softened. "Vincent, there's a major case at the department that's eerily similar to one from ten years ago. Could you please pick up Barry from school? I'll deal with this as quickly as I can and come back."

Her attitude toward Vincent was a stark contrast to her previous one. Hearing about a case from ten years ago made Vincent's voice tremble with fear. "Alright, I'll go get Barry right away. Don't worry—though I still can't reach Tony. Should we…"

Miranda's face showed a flicker of discomfort as she barely contained her frustration. "Just make sure Barry is safe. I'll handle the rest."

Miranda got out of the car and turned back toward the police station.

"Sorry to make you come back," Dylan said apologetically, handing Miranda a mask. "The skull was sent by courier. It had your name as the recipient. We were waiting for you to open it, but an intern accidentally dropped the jar."

As Miranda entered the room, her expression tightened with concern. The stench of decay was overpowering; even with a mask, it was unbearable.

She followed the trail of liquid on the floor, her eyes locking onto the desk.

I desperately tried to block her view.

The trauma to my skull had left it shattered, a grotesque sight.

But Miranda still saw it.

She rushed forward, her eyes locked on the skull in the jar. "Who sent this?!"

I shivered, tears streaming down my face alongside Miranda's.

I wanted nothing more than to go back and kill the bastard who did this.

Eight years ago, when Larry's skull was found, it had been the same horrific scene.

The killer had blindfolded me and made me hold his hand while I could only hear Larry's screams—harrowing and piercing.

I'd wake up screaming from nightmares that seemed to last forever.

When it was my turn, the police had broken down the door, and I'd been holding the weapon, covered in blood.

The killer had pressed a knife against my neck, ranting that I had killed my own Larry just to stay alive.

Larry was outgoing and cheerful, while I was quiet and reserved. Nobody trusted me.

He had fallen from a great height, leaving no witnesses to refute the claims.

Miranda had believed the words of a deranged murderer.

I had begged her for forgiveness, saying I was forced to act.

But Miranda had only squeezed my neck tighter, her eyes blazing with rage, wishing for my death.

Now, with the case resurfacing, the horror of Larry's fate replayed in Miranda's mind, filling her with boundless fury.

I'm sorry, Miranda. I'm the one who died and caused you pain.

Dylan, his face reflecting sorrow, tried to comfort Miranda. "We're investigating the sender, and we should have news soon."

Just then, a call came in from another officer. "Dylan, we've found the sender's address… It matches Tony's address."

The voice of the officer blared through the loudspeaker, clear as day for everyone to hear.

Miranda stalled for a moment, her eyes igniting with fury, her features contorted with hatred. "That monster! Killing his own Larry wasn't enough—now he's out for blood?!

"He's always been a little off, you know? Everyone remembers he said he'd kill Larry just to survive—how twisted is that?"

"He's a psychopathic freak! A born criminal!

"What are we waiting for? Get him arrested now!"

Her words cut deep, piercing through me like shards of ice.

I struggled to breathe, but what did it matter? I was already dead. How could I still feel pain?

I recalled how, when I was younger, she praised my calm demeanor.

Now, I had become the oddball, the ruthless spawn of evil in her eyes.

Dylan's brow furrowed with concern. "Wait a minute. There's something off here. Murderers don't just easily reveal their whereabouts. You need to take a breath…"

"What's off about it? That animal had the guts to turn on his own brother eight years ago. He's already a registered psycho! It was your department that didn't have enough evidence to put him away! Now we have physical evidence right here! Are you really going to protect him?"

Miranda seemed eager to pin the blame on me, her sanity slipping away.

Each accusation—freak, monster, murderer—was like a needle, stabbing deep into my heart, leaving me icy cold.

Eight years had passed.

Miranda never trusted me.

"Calm down. He's your son, not the enemy. We won't protect any criminal. We need to find Tony, figure this all out first," Dylan said, his voice heavy with gravity.

Miranda's eyes, bloodshot and exhausted, hinted at despair. "He's not my son. Do you have any idea? For the past eight years, every time I see his face, I remember the gruesome deaths of Larry and David. I hate him! I should have gone with David back then; I never should have survived!"

Dylan's eyes glistened, his lips moving wordlessly, overwhelmed by her words.

As the police went over the surveillance footage, they confirmed I'd last been seen at school.

Miranda immediately grabbed her car keys and jumped in as if my guilt was a foregone conclusion.

I floated overhead, torn between sorrow and a strange thrill.

Miranda was heading to my school.

For all those years, my seat at parent-teacher meetings had been empty, leaving my classmates believing I was an orphan.

I told them my mother was the best forensic expert in town, but they scoffed, saying I was just bragging and "stealing" mother away from Barry.

I couldn't prove my worth. Not when Miranda never showed up to support me, always taking Barry to school and attending every event without fail.

When Miranda stepped out of the car, she spotted Vincent and Barry right away.

I recoiled, the memories of my last moments flooding back.

Even though Miranda's accusations wounded me deeper than I could express, I still felt the urge to yell out, "Mom! Don't go over there! He's the one who killed me! He's the real monster!"

But Miranda didn't hear me.

With a smile lighting up her face, she walked toward Barry, her expression softening in a way I had never seen before.

She wrapped him in her arms, scanning him with a look of pure joy, almost to the point of tears—as if he were a treasure she thought she'd lost forever.

I stood off to the side, feeling like a rat peeking into the lives of those who still had happiness.

Mom? If you only knew he was the one who took me away from you, would you still be so happy?

"Barry, are you okay?"

Barry flashed a grin, greeting the officers who had come with Miranda and turning back to her. "What could possibly happen at school? Oh, and why did Uncle Vincent come to pick me up in the middle of the parent-teacher conference?"

"Eight years ago…"

"It's nothing. Vincent just came to celebrate your birthday with you. Go on with him, Barry. I will finish up my work and come back to celebrate with you. Vincent, please look after Barry for me."

Miranda cut Dylan off, trying to cover up the murder case, clearly worried that Barry might get scared.

Seeing Miranda's careful demeanor, I suddenly felt a pang of envy toward this adopted son who shared no blood with us.

He seemed to effortlessly receive all of Miranda's love.

Barry's eyes lit up, but he didn't press further. He simply smiled and said goodbye to Miranda.

Miranda watched Barry's departing figure, her gaze filled with maternal warmth.

"Barry is so well-behaved and understanding. Even with my busy schedule, he's never gotten upset about me missing the parent-teacher meetings."

Dylan shot a look at Miranda, hesitant to speak, but eventually said, "Tony has spent eight years suffering in silence. After this case is over, you might want to take a closer look at Tony."

No sooner had he finished speaking than Miranda's previously gentle expression turned anxious.

"Don't talk about him anymore. I'm heading out now to bring that monster to justice."

Dylan sighed in resignation, shaking his head as he walked away.

Hearing Miranda's words, I curled up helplessly.

Mom, I'm not the killer. I'm already gone.

I guess I'm bound to disappoint you…