A chain-reaction pileup on the interstate, right in the middle of the Lunar New Year rush. The car was crushed almost beyond recognition.

Gasoline fumes hung thick in the air. My thigh was pinned beneath twisted metal, blood pooling fast. My vision started to blur at the edges.

My wife, Katherine Pruitt, sat in the passenger seat without a scratch.

Her "close male friend" was in the back.

When the Rescue Squad arrived, they could only extract one person at a time.

Blood streaked down my face. I reached out with a trembling hand.

"Katie... save me first... my leg's almost severed..."

Katherine slapped my hand away and spun around, shielding the man behind her with her own body.

"Get Ferdinand out first! He has claustrophobia—this will traumatize him!"

The rescuer's voice went sharp with urgency. "Ma'am, your husband has arterial bleeding! If we don't get him out now, he'll go into shock!"

Katherine's face twisted with irritation. "So he's bleeding a little—so what? If Ferdy suffers psychological damage, that's for life!"

She shot me a withering look. "Emmet Dickerson, can you stop being so selfish for once? Just hold on! Do you really have to compete with someone who's sick?"

——

Click.

A flash of cold steel in Katherine's hand—rescue shears.

One clean cut through my seatbelt.

The buckle had warped in the crash, its twisted metal hooked around Ferdinand Fox's left leg in the backseat, pinning him in place.

The moment the strap snapped, the tension released.

The mangled steel panel that had been held back sprang free.

WHAM.

It slammed into my right thigh.

The leg that was already trapped. Already fractured.

The sound that came next—a wet, grinding crack—was bone shattering.

"AAAAAAGH—!"

My whole body seized. The scream that tore out of me echoed off the crumpled walls of the car, inhuman and raw.

Cold sweat drenched my back instantly. Black spots exploded across my vision.

That kind of pain—the kind where you can feel your bones being crushed into pieces.

Katherine didn't even glance back.

"Shut up, Emmet! What are you screaming for? You're scaring Ferdy—he's shaking!"

She tossed the shears aside and turned, her voice softening to honey as she reached for the man in the backseat.

"Ferdy, it's okay now. The strap's gone. Here—give me your hand."

Ferdinand Fox was curled in the corner of the backseat.

His face was pristine. Not a speck of dust. Not a drop of blood.

Yet there he sat, clutching his chest with both hands, gasping like a drowning man.

"Katherine... I'm scared... It's so dark in here... Am I going to die...?"

His voice cracked, eyes darting around in theatrical terror.

Katherine's expression crumbled. Her eyes rimmed red in an instant.

"Don't be scared, don't be scared. I'm here. The rescue team is getting you out right now."

Captain Grant Mercer had seen enough.

Sweat dripping down his face, he wrenched at the car door and shouted:

"Ma'am! What are you doing? Your husband's thigh just suffered a secondary crush injury—his artery may have ruptured! We need to extract him immediately!"

"The gentleman in the backseat is frightened, yes, but his vitals are stable. He can wait for the next team!"

"Katie... save me... it hurts so much..."

My voice came out thin as a whisper. Barely audible.

But I knew she heard me.

Katherine's hands stilled for just a moment.

Then she turned—and planted herself directly in front of the door, blocking it with her body. Arms spread wide. A mother hen shielding her chick.

"Save Ferdinand first! I'm the next of kin—I make the call!"

"If anything happens, it's on me! Emmet's built like a tank; he's not going to die from a little blood loss!"

"Ferdy has severe claustrophobia! If he doesn't get out now, he'll have a complete mental breakdown! Psychological trauma lasts a lifetime—don't you people understand that?!"

Captain Mercer ripped off his helmet and hurled it to the ground.

"This is insane! This is murder!"

But Katherine wasn't listening.

She grabbed Ferdinand by the arms and hauled him out of the backseat, pushing him toward the waiting stretcher.

"Go! Get him to the hospital! I want the best psychiatric specialist you have!"

Ferdinand lay on the stretcher as they carried him past me.

I saw it—the terror draining from his face, replaced by the faintest curl at the corner of his lips.

Katherine clutched Ferdinand's hand like a lifeline, running alongside the stretcher as they carried him out.

Not once did she look back.

The ambulance sirens wailed into the distance until silence swallowed everything.

All that remained was the drip... drip... drip of fuel leaking from the mangled gas tank.

The stench of gasoline grew thicker with every breath.

I was pinned in the wreckage, my right leg completely numb. The only sensation left was warmth—blood, pulsing out in steady waves.

Captain Mercer crouched nearby, his eyes heavy with guilt. "Hang in there, buddy. Second unit's on its way." He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry. The family insisted—"

I tried to smile. Managed only a wet cough that sprayed blood across my chin.

"It's fine... I don't blame you."

The fire risk was climbing by the second. Emergency crews pushed the crowd back to a safe perimeter.

And I stayed. Alone. Watching the sky bleed from orange to black.

By the time the second rescue team arrived, the pain had stopped.

Not a good sign.

My body felt weightless, like I was drifting somewhere above myself. Only my right leg remained—a dead anchor dragging me down.

"Move! Get the hydraulic cutters! He's in hypovolemic shock!"

"Watch the leg! The tissue's already necrotic!"

Voices crashed over me in waves, near and far, near and far.

They pulled me from the wreckage like a ragdoll.

Under the harsh beam of the rescue lights, I caught a glimpse of my right leg.

Below the knee, the flesh had turned a sickly purple-black, hanging limp and wrong. Bone jutted through the shredded fabric of my pants—pale splinters smeared with clotted blood and grime.

The ambulance tore through the streets.

Mia Caldwell worked frantically beside me, one hand squeezing the blood bag, the other jabbing at her phone.

"Pick up. Pick up!"

Her eyes were wet, voice cracking.

First call. No answer.

Second call. Line busy.

Third call—

It connected.

Relief flooded her face. She pressed the phone to her ear and shouted, "Are you Emmet Dickerson's next of kin? The patient has a comminuted fracture of the right leg with arterial rupture. Massive tissue necrosis. Sepsis risk is imminent. We need authorization for emergency amputation now!"

"If you don't sign, he will die!"

The ambulance went quiet.

Katherine's voice cut through the speaker—dripping with impatience and something close to contempt.

"Amputation? Really? Is this the best scam your hospital can come up with?"

"The rescue team already told me—it's just a surface wound. Looks scary because of the blood, that's all."

"If you think I'm falling for this so I'll run back to take care of him? Forget it."

Mia froze. She stared at the phone like it had grown teeth.

"Ma'am—I'm calling from City General ER! Do you think we joke about this? The patient is right in front of me. His leg is black!"

A beat of silence on the other end.

Then Ferdinand's voice floated through—soft, trembling, perfectly pitiful.

"Katie... my head's spinning... Do you think it's a concussion?"

Katherine's tone transformed instantly. Honey-sweet. Dripping with tenderness.

"Don't worry, Ferdy. The doctors will take care of you. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

Then her voice hardened again, sharp as a blade:

"Emmet, there's a limit to how pathetic you can be. Don't think bribing some nurse will make me believe your little act."

"Ferdy needs me right now. If you really need to amputate, then sign the damn form yourself."

"Be a man for once and stop with these disgusting pity plays."

Click.

The line went dead.

Mia's hands shook so hard the phone nearly slipped from her grip.

She slammed it against the emergency kit, tears streaming down her face.

"What kind of wife is this?! She's more like an enemy!"

Mia turned to look at me, tears streaming down her face.

"Sir... please... don't lose hope..."

I forced my eyes open and managed a weak smile.

"I'm not."

At the hospital, they rushed me through the emergency corridor straight to the operating room.

The surgeon held up the consent form, his brow furrowed deeply.

"Where's the family? We need a family member to sign!"

Mia wiped her eyes, her voice cracking.

"His family refused to answer. They said... they said he should sign it himself."

The surgeon froze for a moment.

He looked at my ashen face and let out a heavy sigh.

"Son, are you lucid? Do you understand what's happening?"

I nodded.

"Pen... give me the pen."

My right hand trembled as I reached out, still caked with dried blood.

In the space marked "Patient's Own Signature," I scrawled my name in shaky, uneven strokes.

Each stroke felt like carving into my own flesh.

Each line severed another thread binding me to Katherine.

When I finished, my hand dropped lifelessly to my side.

"Doctor. Do it."

"Cut it clean."

I closed my eyes. A single tear slid down my temple.

The surgical lights blazed to life above me.

The anesthesia spread through my veins—cold, so cold it burned.

As consciousness faded, I drifted into a dream.

I saw our wedding day. Katherine in her pristine white gown, cradling my face in her hands.

"Emmet, I'll protect you from now on. You'll always come first in my life. Always."

The scene shifted. Now she held scissors, her face set in stone as she severed my lifeline without a flicker of hesitation.

When I woke, silence pressed in from every direction.

No beds available in the ICU.

They'd wheeled me back to a general ward.

Dawn light filtered through the window.

Instinctively, I reached down to touch my right leg.

My hand found nothing.

Just flat emptiness. A bandaged stump where my leg used to be.

The nurse had left my phone on the bedside table.

One message. From Katherine. Sent last night.

"Ferdy got such a scare, he's doing psychological counseling and staying for concussion observation. Take a cab home yourself. Don't be dramatic."

"The apartment's a mess. Clean it up when you get back."

I checked the timestamp.

Eight hours.

Eight hours since my amputation surgery ended.

She was in this very hospital.

With that man who didn't have a scratch on him.

I didn't reply.

Powered off the phone.

Tossed it into the drawer.

On the second day after surgery, Katherine finally appeared.

She carried an elegant insulated container, wearing a designer coat that probably cost more than my hospital bill. Her hair was immaculately styled, not a strand out of place.

You'd never guess she'd been anywhere near a car accident.

I lay in the corner bed, watching her push through the door.

I felt nothing.

She walked straight past me.

To the bed beside mine.

Where Ferdinand lay.

For "observation" of his so-called concussion and "psychological trauma," he'd been admitted to my room.

"Ferdy, you must be starving! I got up early to make you black chicken soup—it's the most nourishing thing."

Katherine's voice dripped with tenderness I no longer recognized.

She opened the container.

The rich aroma flooded the room instantly.

Ferdinand reclined against his pillows, his complexion rosy, his eyes bright and alert.

The moment he saw Katherine, he arranged his features into a mask of fragility.

He pressed a hand to his chest and forced out two pathetic coughs.

"Katie, you're too good to me... but I don't have much appetite. I keep thinking about yesterday..."

His gaze drifted toward my corner.

He feigned surprise, as if only just noticing me.

"Oh! Emmet's here too?"

"Katie, why didn't you say so? Quick—give the soup to him. He lost so much blood yesterday. He needs it way more than I do."