Cerita Pendek & Novel Hypocrisy Revenge

My brother had bonded with an Academic Prodigy System, and its mission was simple: get into Northbridge for graduate school. If he failed, the system would erase his intelligence and leave him permanently disabled. To save him, my parents told me, "Aaron, you're smart. You still have options, but your brother doesn't." So they secretly switched my guaranteed admission file and gave my place to him. My fiancee, Vivian Harkins, a professor at the university, personally helped him forge the records. She touched my face with the same tenderness she always used. "Aaron, everything has an optimal solution. Sacrificing one year of your time to protect this family is worth it." My brother held the admission letter with his own name on it and became the star of the celebration banquet. I stood in the corner and watched the system panel in front of me as the [Hope Value] hit zero. The cold voice in my head asked, [Host, you have reached the threshold for extreme injustice. Confirm activation of the death program?] I watched Vivian, with her own hands, fasten the pair of cuff links she had once promised me onto my brother's sleeve. I smiled, swallowed the taste of blood rising in my throat, and said, "Confirm." "Use my life to trade for the rest of theirs... beyond redemption."

When I was seven years old, my parents burned my birth certificate right in front of me at the dinner table. Across from me, my younger sister, Abigail Parker, calmly cut into her steak without even looking up. Dad said that raising two children was just another investment, and every investment had to be cut loose before the losses became too big. I was the loss they chose to write off. They poured every advantage into Abigail while leaving me to grow up in a dark, damp basement. Twenty years later, my parents are old, and Abigail, whom they placed on a pedestal, has become the most ruthless creditor they've ever faced. Standing in the dust-covered family home, I unfold a yellowed document titled Family Asset Divestment Agreement and can't help but laugh. This time, I'm the one settling the accounts.

After I retire, my son, Brandon Harrell, begs me to buy him a car and a house. To afford them, I have no choice but to work as a hotel cleaner despite my poor health. One day, a wealthy guest is having a wedding at the hotel. I keep washing dishes despite the pain from my chilblains when I suddenly notice that the groom's photo on the giant screen is Brandon's. I head to the wedding hall, wanting to ask Brandon what is really going on. The moment Brandon sees me, panic fills his eyes. Right in front of everyone, he orders the security guards to throw me out. "I don't know this old woman," Brandon says. "Someone like me could never have a mom who works as a cleaner. She's obviously here for a free meal. Get her out of here immediately." He walks onto the stage, takes the bride's hand, and affectionately calls another elegant, well-dressed woman "Mom". I recognize the woman at once. She is the childhood sweetheart my husband has never been able to forget for all these years.

A category 5 hurricane has just torn through town, and Mom is out in the housing complex clearing floodwater when a 30-pound dead frond from a royal palm crashes down and shatters her spine. Four hours of emergency surgery later, the doctors tell me she'll never walk again. I storm into the mediation room with her bloodstained paperwork. The property manager, James Kendrick, is sitting there sipping a glass of scotch. When I demand the management company covers her medical bills, he refuses, then slams five photographs down in front of me. "Kid, you want to be real careful about throwing accusations around." He lets out a sigh, all patronizing and fatherly. "We had caution tape up before the storm. We set out traffic cones. Your mother walked right past all of it to dig through the trash. "That's trespassing and damaging the landscaping. Who's she going to blame but herself?" He slides a liability waiver across the table and tells me to sign. "Sign this, and I'll be generous enough to lend you 5,000 dollars out of my own pocket. Try to fight this, and our legal team will bury you." I look at his smug face, then pick up the photos from the floor. The caution tape is there, sure enough. But the flower bed next to it is full of azaleas in bloom, a variety that only flowers in April. It's the middle of July. I tear the waiver to shreds right in front of him. "Using photos from two months ago as your proof, Mr. Kendrick? I think you're forgetting something. "My family runs the shop right across from the complex entrance." Then I pull out my phone and open the cloud backup for our storefront's 24-hour HD security cameras.

My family goes bankrupt when I'm ten years old. Just like that, I become a fallen heir overnight. Instead of letting me struggle, my dad, Steven Hollister, raises me with even greater care. He insists that I'm the family's only hope. I spend the next eight years living like a porcelain doll. My skin can't have so much as a scratch. Every meal is measured down to the last calorie. I'm forbidden from taking gym class or touching anything sharp. If I come home with even the smallest cut or scrape, Dad berates me for days. My younger brother, Michael Hollister, on the other hand, is given complete freedom. He skips school and gets into fights. Dad barely gives him a second glance. "He'll never amount to anything," he says with a dismissive wave. "This family is counting on you." On my 18th birthday, Dad excitedly announces that the company is finally going to recover and that we'll be rich again. He throws me an extravagant birthday party, but the guest of honor is a young man about my age seated at the head of the table. During dinner, the stranger openly sizes me up from head to toe before nodding in satisfaction. I assume he's the investor who's about to save my family. That night, I happen to glance at Dad's phone just as the screen lights up. A notification shows a massive wire transfer. The payment note reads, "Final payment received. We'll deliver the goods as scheduled."

At lunch I'd barely finished handing around the beef jerky I'd made when our department manager, Derek Pritchard, followed the smell to my desk. He grabbed a piece, tasted it, and announced at full volume. "Dylan, this is good. Way better than anything you'd buy to go with a beer." Before I could get a modest word out, his tone shifted. "Perfect timing. The owner isn't coming to the department dinner tomorrow night, so there's no sense throwing money around." He pulled three hundred-dollar bills out of his wallet and slapped them on my desk. "We'll eat in the break room. Dylan Woodward's doing the cooking. There's your grocery budget. "Twenty people in this department. Spend it carefully, but I want drinks, I want meat, and I want a couple of real entrees." Three hundred dollars? For twenty people? A project I'd led had brought the company a serious profit, and I'd worn the owner down over weeks to get thirty thousand dollars approved for a team retreat. Derek meant to pocket nearly all of it and have me cover the difference so he could look generous. Looking at that oily, entitled face, I smiled. "Sure. Since you think that highly of me, Derek, I'll lay it all out nice and clear." Then I turned away and texted the owner. "Aunt Victoria, the budget came through. We're having a surprise department dinner tomorrow night. Care to come taste it?"

In my past life, my parents forced me to jump into a freezing lake just to retrieve a limited-edition watch dropped by the fake heir, Carter Reed. It left me with a 104-degree fever. I lay trapped in my bed, drifting in and out of consciousness. Meanwhile, my parents flew the family to Miami for a vacation, just to cheer Carter up. As I lay dying, trembling uncontrollably, I managed to call my dad, Matthew Reed, only to be met with his sharp, impatient voice. "Tyler, your brother is finally in a good mood. Can’t you be considerate for once? Just find some meds and deal with it yourself, okay?" Left with no other choice, I forced my rubbery legs out of bed and dragged myself downstairs for medicine. My feet slipped, I tumbled down the stairs, and died right there on the spot. When my eyes snapped open again, I was right back on the very first day of summer break before senior year. Carter was waving that watch in my face. He leaned in close, whispering with a smirk, "You're gonna go get it for me, right? Dad said brothers are supposed to help each other." This time, before he could react, I snatched the watch straight out of his hand and hurled it into the center of the lake with everything I had. "Screw you, Carter. Screw this family. I'm out!"

Everyone envied my parents. They said my mom and dad were young at heart, open-minded, free-spirited, and brave enough to chase their dream of making it as a band. What they did not know was that my parents' freedom came at the cost of my misery. They barely paid any attention to me while I was growing up. Whenever I was hungry, I ate at my uncle Connor's house. When I got sick, I dealt with it on my own. After struggling through more than a decade, I finally made it into college. But the full scholarship of 200,000 dollars I had just received was secretly transferred out of my account by my parents. Their reason was simple—their band desperately needed a new sound system. When I demanded an explanation, my dad casually said, "Lucas, don't get so worked up. We only did this to help you become more independent. Once our band makes it big and we start getting paid for gigs, we'll pay you back double." My mom nodded in agreement. "Exactly. Just because we had you doesn't mean we don't get to have our own lives. You can't be so selfish. Just think of it as helping us achieve our dream." At that moment, I finally realized how absurd it all was. If they loved this hands-off style of parenting so much, then from now on, I would treat them the same way.

The day I receive my acceptance letter from a top-tier university, I'm over the moon. On my first day of school, I pick up some greens and sauteed chicken from the cafeteria and place them on my tray. A single bite of the greens sends a wave of spiciness straight to my head. I scramble for water, desperately trying to cool the burn. My parents, who tagged along to help me settle in, immediately confront the cafeteria manager. "What is wrong with you people? Students come here from all over the country! Why would you make simple greens devilishly spicy?" The manager looks at us in confusion. "It's just seasoned with a couple of dried chili peppers. It's not spicy at all." Refusing to back down, I drag over a few students nearby to taste it, but everyone says it isn't spicy at all. My parents quickly soothe me, saying it's probably just a regional taste difference, and tell me to eat the pickled olives we brought from home instead. I nod through my tears and scoop a generous portion over my pasta, planning to make do with the meal. To my horror, a huge mouthful of olive pasta hits me with that exact same searing heat! The explosive spice makes my throat swell and constrict at an alarming rate. No amount of water helps, and breathing grows harder by the second. In the end, I suffocate to death. Even as I draw my last breath, I can't wrap my head around it. It's just olive pasta without a speck of chili in sight. How could it possibly be that spicy? When I open my eyes again, I'm back to the first time I sat down with my tray in the cafeteria.

In the final minute before the university application deadline, my boyfriend’s girl best friend, Makayla Jaycox, claimed she had an inside scoop from an admissions consultant. She said several elite universities had unexpected openings in their least popular majors due to insufficient applicants. So, they would likely accept students with low scores. Many students were swayed and actually planned to change their majors, hoping to get into those universities. In my past life, I stopped her instigation by threatening to report her. In the end, everyone submitted their original choices, and everyone was admitted to their chosen universities. But the very next day, news broke out that someone had indeed gotten into an elite university with a low score. A classmate who only got into a community college saw the news, went mad, and pushed me off a building. “It’s all your fault for stopping me from getting into a top school! You completely ruined my life!” I fell to my death and died in resentment. When the police came into our class to carry out an investigation, Makayla rallied the whole class to defend the killer. “My intel was correct, but she just had to go and crush everyone’s dreams of getting into a top university.” “Exactly! If it weren’t for her, I could’ve gotten into Harlad University! That trash deserved to die!” “She did it on purpose. She just couldn’t stand the thought of anyone doing better than her.” The entire class signed a petition for leniency, and the killer was also diagnosed with bipolar disorder. He was sent to a psychiatric facility instead of prison. Makayla took advantage of this by visiting him daily at the hospital and livestreaming it to build her kind and caring persona. She made a fortune out of it. When I opened my eyes again, I had returned to the day Makayla urged everyone to change their universities and majors. Watching everyone cheer and dance in excitement, she smiled and said, “Go for it! Switch it up. Who knows? Shoot for the moon, and you might just land among the stars.”

It's been three years since I got married, and life's just been getting better and better. My company is flourishing, and my wife is a successful career woman. However, I have a friend from my college days who has already sabotaged a few families among our friend group. He can't bear to see others doing better than him. One day, during a gathering with friends, he slung his arm over my shoulder and said earnestly, "Alan, look at you. After you got married, you lost all freedom. You now live like a simp. Can you still call yourself a man? I've booked a private room somewhere fun tonight, and no one's allowed to leave! Let's have a blast and party all night!" I swallowed my discomfort and went along with them, only to find out what he meant by "having a blast" was hiring some professional ladies. And he even dragged me along to try my luck at gambling.

My roommate Sue Lynd had gotten addicted to the tiramisu that went viral lately, and always brought a box back to our room every evening. She always kept telling us how smooth and sweet it tasted, but I never cared for it, until the day before the announcement of postgraduate admissions. I was reviewing past exam papers when I saw the lines scribbled on the sheet. [Your roommate Sue Lynd will ask you to get her tiramisu tonight, and then she will leave the room in a hurry.] [The next day, the cops will arrest you for premeditated bodily harm, and you will be exposed on the internet for poisoning your roommate, drawing public outrage.] [You will miss your postgraduate admission interview, after which that spot falls to Sue.] [The cyberviolence won't stop, with even your parents losing their livelihoods, while you die from mental breakdown and severe depression.] I threw the sheet aside—must be seeing things since my stress had been building up. However, as evening arrived, Sue entered the room, asking in her melodious voice, "Can you get me tiramisu, Zoe?" My brain short-circuited for a moment—the scribble was actually prophetic?! As Sue smiled sweetly and leaned close, I felt the creeps because the most important part of those scribbles still weighed heavily on my mind: [You will miss your postgraduate admission interview, after which that spot falls to Sue.] She wants to destroy my life over a spot at postgraduate admission? My fingers clenched around my pen, and I replied, "Sorry. Can't do."

My mom loves using me as her bargaining chip to buy her way into heaven. My haute couture dresses, my original sketches, my entire trust fund allowance—the second I look away, she hands them off to her church buddies or broke relatives. All in the name of "saving souls." Whenever I snap, she just acts all smug and self-righteous. "You ungrateful brat! I’m earning brownie points with God for you! It's the only way you’ll ever get into heaven!" The night before my final pitch for Global Lead Designer at L'Étoile, I warned her again and again. I told her not to touch a single thing of mine. Late that night, I caught her trying to sneak my car keys to our neighbor. I rushed over and snatched them back. She just stood there, acting totally innocent. "Your cousin and her friends are going to the new Disney resort tomorrow. She just wants to borrow the car. Is taking the early subway going to kill you?" "Do more good deeds, and God will bless you with that Lead Designer job." I shook with pure rage. "Taking two subways to HQ takes a full hour and a half! Tomorrow's pitch is my entire career! Do you even care?!" "Mom, I’m dead serious. You touch my car today, and we are done. Permanently." She muttered curses under her breath and slammed her bedroom door. The next morning, I saw my sports car still sitting in the garage. I let out a huge sigh of relief. Then I looked at my desk, and my blood ran ice-cold— My briefcase was gone. The one with my exclusive sketches, my encrypted flash drive, and my pitch credentials. Completely gone. I let out a bitter laugh. She thought she could hold my life hostage forever in the name of "holy virtue." But little did she know, this time, I’m kicking open the gates of hell for her. Since she’s so desperate to get into heaven, I’ll personally send her to prison to cleanse her soul first!

The Nebula Algorithm I spent countless sleepless nights building single-handedly saved the company’s flagship project. Yet, when the annual promotion list came out, my name was nowhere to be found. Instead, a man named Julian Monroe, who had joined the company less than a month earlier, skipped several ranks to become my direct supervisor. When I marched into my boss Sebastian Carter’s office to ask why, he lashed out at me without hesitation. “You really think a community college graduate like you can compete with a master’s graduate from an elite overseas university?” I clenched my fists, raising my voice to fight back. “The employee handbook clearly states that engineering promotions are strictly performance-based, regardless of your degree!” He pointed a finger right at my nose, his eyes filled with unyielding disdain. “Rules are rigid, but people aren’t. “A community college graduate like you should be down on your knees thanking God for the base salary this company throws your way! “Know your place. This company will keep spinning just fine without you!” I turned around and handed in my resignation letter on the spot, taking my core algorithm with me. I couldn’t wait to see just how long his company would last without me, the “community college graduate.”

For Children's Day, I help source and purchase gifts for my son's class. I not only keep the budget to a minimum, but I also manage to get expensive toys that are way over budget for them. During checkout, because my son, Harry Chandler, has grabbed a limited edition toy robot, the PTA representative, Darren Larson, shouts at me, "Jordan Chandler, are you trying to tell me that you didn't embezzle the class funds for that 500-dollar toy robot?" The class teacher, Kevin Brown, and the manager of the toy store, Florence Young, immediately pause in their footsteps. I feel dozens of pairs of eyes staring at me in the mall. Darren complains animatedly, "You were trying to pay for that 500-dollar toy with the class funds, basically using everyone's money to spoil your son, weren't you? "Both Mr. Brown and the manager are right here, but you still dare to pocket our money? I can't imagine how much of the class funds you must've used to line your own pockets behind our backs! I daresay, for someone with no morals like you, the children you raise will be thieves in the future too!" Darren glares maliciously at me, looking me up and down. Even Kevin is giving me a look of suspicion and disdain. Instead of arguing with him, I turn to the cashier and ask in a calm tone, "My family owns this mall. Do I need to pay for a toy I just grabbed off the shelf?"

We were having a gathering before graduation. My girlfriend and best friend were getting congratulated by the whole class. They had gained guaranteed spots into the campus' top course's postgraduate program. I was sitting in a corner, staring at the Hertford University offer that would ensure I went straight to my doctorate. I hesitated on making a decision for three days just for my girlfriend. Howard Herbson, my best friend, turned to me. He had a look of pity and condescension in his eyes as he said, "How about your job hunt? Don't worry. Not getting into the postgrad program isn't the end of the world. The lab's requirements are ridiculous. "It's going to be near impossible for you to progress there even if you work yourself to the bone." Beatrice Shaw, my girlfriend, handed Howard a glass of water. Then, she chimed in matter-of-factly, "Yeah. Research just isn't for everyone. You should get a nine-to-five. When Howard and I are swamped with us, you can help us out and do our errands." They exchanged a smile and kept me out of their so-called intellectual circle. These two thought they were better than everyone else just because they got a spot in this campus' postgrad program. How droll. So, I went back to that offer and accepted it. These people were so vastly beneath me that it was really about time for me to stop playing their games at their level, especially when I was obviously not welcome.

I closed my eyes, about to jump off a building, when an ill-timed phone ringtone blared. On the other end of the phone came a voice that I couldn't be more familiar with. It was my own voice. "Don't jump, Jack Sterling."

Not long after my wife and I got married, my mother-in-law unexpectedly had another child, a son. The entire family treated him like a miracle and let him get away with everything. Before long, he became an unbearable little monster. When he was ten, he pulled up a girl's skirt at school and yanked down her shorts. I confronted him about it, but my wife immediately turned on me. "He's my brother, not your son. What makes you think you have the right to discipline him?" I kept my anger to myself and moved out with our daughter, who had been growing more withdrawn by the day. Years later, the spoiled boy shoved a woman who was eight months pregnant down a flight of stairs. My wife called me in a panic and begged me to help him. All I wanted to tell her was that he was finally facing the consequences of his actions. Never did I imagine he could sink even lower...

After a night of passion, the amnesiac boyfriend I took in leaned back against the couch and watched me. My legs were still weak as I headed into the kitchen to prepare a meal for him. Halfway through cooking, he suddenly wrapped his arms around me from behind. After a moment of silence, he murmured, "Actually, I lied about having amnesia. I'm the heir to the Payne family." I burst out laughing. "Sure. And I'm the daughter of the richest man in the country." He pinched my cheek and laughed along with me. "I have a fiancee," he added. "I'm getting married tomorrow." Feeling me stiffen in his arms, he pulled out his phone and showed me a photo. "She's too possessive to tolerate another woman around me, so I ran away from home," he explained. "But the first time I saw you, I wanted you. It was purely physical. So, I faked amnesia just so I could stick around." I stared at the photo. Chandler Payne—the man I had been calling my boyfriend—was leaning into his fiancee, Sabrina Shaw. They looked like a perfect match. Tears streamed down my cheeks before I could stop them. Chandler sighed, pulling me tighter against his chest as he stroked my hair with that same doting touch. "Hey, don't cry," he said softly. "It's not like I have a choice either. My heart already belongs to her, but my body wants you. "It's just a marriage of convenience anyway. As long as we're careful not to get you pregnant, we can keep seeing each other." "So…" he paused, then asked, "It'll be dawn soon. Are you coming with me?"

My tenth lawsuit against Dad fails again after the case goes to trial. A reporter, Kieran Wilcox, approaches me and asks, "Why do you keep filing lawsuits against your father when he's collecting trash to pay your school fees?" I look up at him and ask, "Can you secretly film Dad for ten days? I'll tell you the truth if you do." However, I come under fire after Kieran uploads the video of him following Dad around and filming him. I'm bombarded with endless criticism to the point that my name appears on the top trending chart.