Chapter 4

I looked at the phone screen.

Under my post, my fans were speaking up in my defense.

[Was the rescue team's decision really justified?]

[Isn't the principle of professional rescue to save the person who's closest first? Blake's circumstances are unfortunate, but that doesn't mean the rules should be ignored.]

Some furious fans had gone to Blake's account to demand answers.

Blake was sobbing. "I know everyone likes Robert more. I'm just the runner-up, after all."

Irina turned to me. "Robert, I never thought you'd turn into this kind of person."

I opened my mouth, wanting to explain that this wasn't what I'd intended.

But Irina continued in a tone that left no room for argument. "To make up for the harm Blake has suffered, I've decided to bring him home. Your room gets plenty of sunlight, which makes it ideal for his recovery. So you'll give it to Blake for now."

It took me several seconds to process what she'd just said.

"Irina! That's my room. It's what Mom and Dad left me!"

Irina looked at me. "The house is in my name. I can let whoever I want live here."

She took Blake by the hand and turned to leave.

I looked at the phone in my hand and scrolled through my account. I'd posted so many moments of my life with Irina.

There was the time she'd stayed up late helping me with my homework, only to fall asleep with her head on the desk.

And the day I won my first skiing championship, when she'd jumped up excitedly in the stands.

My followers all knew that Irina and I had only each other. They often said they envied me for having such a wonderful sister.

I scrolled through the pictures one by one, tears falling silently down my face.

Just then, a new post appeared at the top of my feed. It was from Blake.

In the photo, Irina stood in the kitchen wearing an apron, holding a bowl of minestrone soup.

I stared at the picture, feeling as though an invisible hand had squeezed my heart. That was the dish Mom loved to cook most when she was alive.

After Mom passed away, Irina had tried again and again until she'd finally recreated the exact same flavor. Before every competition, she'd make it for me to drink. She used to say it was our family's lucky soup.

Now she was making it for someone else.

I turned off my phone. I cried until there were no tears left, leaving only a dull ache behind.

Not long afterward, I received a private message.

A fan who'd followed me for years wrote, "Robert, it's just a little something. I hope you recover soon."

A money transfer appeared beneath the message.

Another private message arrived right after it, with another fan's transfer and well wishes.

One after another, my inbox filled with kindness from strangers. They told me that no matter what happened, I would always be someone they were proud of.

Tears welled up again, and my dried-up heart began to beat once more.

So there were still people in this world who cared about me. Even if I could never stand on the slopes again, I was still Robert Wilson.

The money was enough to pay for my surgery.

I wiped away my tears and prepared to settle the bill.

At the payment counter, I handed over my bank card. The nurse ran it through the machine, then suddenly looked uncomfortable.

I glanced at him in confusion.

"Mr. Wilson, there's insufficient funds in this account..."