1

The lights in the operating room were so bright they felt like needles stabbing into Harper Reeves’ eyes.

She lay on the cold table, unable to move, her breathing so faint it was a miracle she was still alive. The virus had hollowed her out. Even lifting her eyelids felt like wading through mud.

Someone approached. The faint sound of soft-soled shoes stopped right beside her.

Harper tried to turn her head, tried to see who it was, but everything was a blur — shapes melting into white.

A familiar voice answered her question anyway.

“VR-1. Most people die in seven days,” the woman said, almost amused. “But you? Three months. Still breathing. You’re really something, Harper.”

Phoebe.

Her cousin.

Her doctor.

And the person who secretly prayed every day for her death.

Phoebe adjusted her surgical mask, her eyes curving with a cruelty she didn’t bother to hide. “Honestly, you’ve been a perfect test subject. So I want to see why you refuse to die.”

Harper’s stomach twisted when she smelled formalin. She didn’t need her vision to understand what was prepared on the tray beside her.

They were planning to cut her open while she was still alive.

Her mind spun. Her chest tightened with pain. Tears leaked slowly from the corners of her eyes.

Three months of being locked here. Three months of needles, viruses, drugs — and lies.

Phoebe had said it was for their grandfather’s dream, for medical breakthroughs, for the Reeves family’s glory.

Harper had believed every word.

But once she survived the trial period, the truth arrived with a knife: she was never meant to survive.

Her entire life — her ruined marriage, stolen achievements, shattered trust — all of it had been Phoebe’s doing.

A sharp, metallic taste filled her mouth. She coughed, and blood dripped down her chin.

Phoebe watched with satisfaction and inserted a thicker needle into Harper’s arm, stabilizing her blood pressure. “Don’t pass out. I still want to enjoy the dissection.”

Harper’s fingers trembled. She wanted to scream, but her throat was too dry.

Phoebe leaned close, voice sweet and poisonous. “Want to hear something fun? I’m pregnant. The father is Theo.”

Harper froze.

Her heart, already fragile, seemed to split open. She had suspected something between them… but this—this was a knife she wasn’t prepared for.

Phoebe chuckled. “Nine years married, and he never touched you. But with me? Oh, he’s perfectly fine. Amazing, actually.”

Harper’s breathing came out in short, helpless gasps. She felt like she was drowning.

Phoebe continued, enjoying every reaction. “Did you think Theo married you out of love? No. He needed to keep you under our control.”

The words stabbed straight into her deepest scar — the night she had been assaulted years ago. A night she tried to bury, but Phoebe now ripped open again.

“You—monster…” Harper forced out, rage swirling through her veins. She gathered all the strength she had left and spat blood straight onto Phoebe’s face.

For a moment, silence.

Then Phoebe snapped.

“You filthy thing— I’ll kill you!”

She grabbed the scalpel and stabbed downwards without hesitation.

Harper screamed as pain shot through her, sharp and violent. Her thin fingers clenched on the sheets. Her body arched from the impact.

“Why… why are you doing this…” she gasped.

Phoebe’s face twisted. “Because you never knew your place! Always trying to outshine me! You should’ve stayed beneath my feet. You were born to be stepped on!”

Harper’s vision dimmed. Each breath felt heavier than the last.

Phoebe, panting from rage, suddenly laughed. “Before you die, here’s some good news. Your beloved lab? Bought by ‘Young Master Gallagher.’ Ninety million. Once you’re gone, that money is mine and Theo’s.”

The world tilted.

Her lab…

Her final hope…

Her years of effort…

Taken. Sold. Gone.

The pain in her chest exploded. Her limbs shook violently.

Phoebe lifted the scalpel again and aimed at Harper’s lower abdomen.

“Stop—!” Harper tried to struggle, but the blade pierced her before she could move.

A raw scream ripped out of her. Blood soaked her gown, warm and sticky. Sweat rolled down her temples.

She stared at the scalpel in horror, hatred burning so fiercely it almost drowned the pain.

Was this really the end for her?

She didn’t want to die here.

Not like this.

Not while they laughed over her corpse.

Her fingers twitched.

Then something inside her snapped — not with despair, but with fury.

Using every last scrap of strength left in her dying body, Harper surged upward.

Her hand shot out — grabbed the scalpel — and slashed.

Blood sprayed across her face.

Phoebe’s scream strangled in her throat. She clutched her neck, eyes wide with disbelief, but the wound was fatal. She collapsed instantly, her body convulsing on the floor as blood pooled beneath her.

Harper stared, stunned, breathing hard.

Her vision was fading. The room spun. She could barely feel her own body anymore — only the warm blood drying on her skin.

She let out a shaky, broken laugh.

She had fought back.

Finally.

But it was far too late.

As darkness crept in from the edges of her sight, one thought clung to her like a whisper:

If I could live again… I wouldn’t endure. I wouldn’t bow. I would destroy anyone who dared to use me.

And, I would burn their world to the ground.

If I could start over… it would be perfect.

***