Damien Thorn South Park

To save my father-in-law, I donated a kidney—but on the very day I was discharged, she didn't hesitate for a second to shove me into the guest room. "Those centipede-like scars are disgusting. Don't show yourself to me again!" In the dead of night, my wound tore open. I collapsed into a pool of blood, dialing her number 100 times, desperate for help. She hung up every single time. Meanwhile, the master bedroom echoed with Theo Reynold's low, passionate growls. In that instant, every ounce of strength drained from me. When I was admitted to the hospital, I held the military medal my mother had left me on her deathbed. That was when I remembered the woman even the mayor bowed to when she walked into a room. Without thinking, I dialed the long-forgotten number. "Commander Jennings, you once said you owed my mother a debt of gratitude. Now… I want you to marry me."

Someone had sprinkled some corrosive acid powder all over my wedding dress, the one worth over a hundred million. The moment I put it on, my flesh began to burn and dissolve. Blood and yellowish fluid pooled around me as a result. When I tried to call for an ambulance, someone’s mother held me down. She smiled cruelly and said, “You dare steal my daughter’s wedding dress? Go to hell!” However, my husband had ordered the dress from a top designer. It was one of a kind! I struggled with all my strength and shouted at her, “Do you know who I am? How dare you touch me?!” Her daughter, Yelena Stone, then grabbed a knife and stabbed me hard in my pregnant belly. She sneered and said, “You stole my man, but you have the audacity to yell at me? Fine. I’ll just spend a little more to end your worthless life.” My worthless life? I laughed. My hands were stained with blood as I called my brother, Hunter Sinclair, an elite in Jinvell’s social circles. “Hunter! Someone’s trying to kill me! And tell Jacob to get here now!”

In the final stages of a terminal illness, my family abandoned me and threw me into a horror game. [Another one here to die. I bet she won't last the first night.] [Just listen to that cough. I'm scared she'll die right inside my phone.] On the first night, the head nurse made her rounds, prepared to execute any player whose heartbeat was abnormal. My heartbeat remained steady only because my body was too weak to fluctuate—and I even helped her sew up the tear in her uniform. "Miss, your clothes are torn. You'll get cold. If I mend it for you, you won't be cold anymore." On the second night, the surgeon swung his scalpel, determined to cut away anything imperfect. I handed him a wrist guard I'd made myself, watching his trembling hands. "Doctor, your talent shouldn't be buried by pain." … On the final day, the ultimate Boss gave me a choice: leave with a healthy body, or stay and perish with these strange beings. Back in the real world, the parents who had abandoned me were suddenly in tears, begging me to come home and split the money. I smiled and said to the creatures inside the instance, "I choose to trade my life… for a home for all of you." The next second, a burst of golden light erupted from the system. [Congratulations, player. You have triggered the one and only hidden ending—Divine Redemption.]

News of a wedding in Nordica's top power family lit up the world. But at the rehearsal, I caught my fiancée, Ivette Bianchi, making out with her childhood sweetheart, Jerick Weiner. "Babe, we've been in love forever. Let me use your first-time blood as pigment for my art?" Ivette blushed, hesitated— Jerick didn't wait. He pinned her to the wall and kissed her. "My best piece needs that color," he whispered. "I want this painting to end our youth." I watched them twisted together, ice-cold. Dropped the ring. It clattered across the floor. "Go through with the ceremony," I said. "Or your family goes broke." She stiffened, shoved Jerick off, and spat, "Fine." Then she turned right back, grabbed his hand, and dragged him inside. "It's just a bachelorette party. I won't miss the rehearsal." The door slammed. I didn't react. I was done. I made the call. "Change the bride. And yeah—the Bianchis crossed the line first. I want them erased."

After my eight-year-old twin sister was kidnapped, my dad became the person who wished for my death more than anyone else in the world. He would always say, "Zachary is an ungrateful brat! A good-for-nothing!" So, when the news of my disappearance reached the school, my dad leads everyone in cheers. He even spreads word of my misdeeds everywhere. "Zachary stole a poor student's tuition fees and even made a false police report accusing the teacher of hitting him!" "That's right! He even helped traffickers kidnap children—his own sister was almost sold by him! I hope he dies soon!" Five years later, my memories are extracted and projected onto a large display screen. And yet my dad, who hates me to the core and wishes for my death, falls to his knees and begs for my forgiveness the moment he learns of my death.

Seven years into our marriage, Zane Grimes and I remained childless. He once held me close, his voice tender and earnest. "Don't overthink it. I've never cared for children. You're all I want in this life." But on the day his company went public, as the ceremonial bell echoed through the hall, the doors burst open. My sister stormed in, cradling a wailing infant. "Zane, this is your son! How can you abandon us?" Zane's face paled as he turned to me, his eyes brimming with panic and a silent plea. Unbeknownst to him, I had long known about his betrayal and the child.

To help my surgeon husband with his erectile dysfunction, I made an appointment with an expert six months in advance. But as the day approached, Isiah Coleman canceled it without explanation. Just as I was about to call him to demand answers, I spotted a post from his female friend on her social media. My usually stoic husband was beaming as he wrapped his arms around her. The caption read: [Only I can cure your illness.] What struck me, though, was the telltale bulge in his pants in the photo—a reaction I'd never seen from him with me. With a cold laugh, I liked the post and left a comment: [What a miracle worker!] The post exploded, with everyone speculating whether I'd confront the mistress. But what awaited him after the holiday was our freshly printed divorce certificate.

On the day I tried on my wedding dress, a stranger burst into the VIP fitting room and slashed me with a knife. She tore my dress to shreds, her face twisted with rage. "A gold-digger like you doesn't deserve a dress this expensive!" The blade, soaked in sulfuric acid, pierced my abdomen, and I collapsed in agony. She grabbed my hair and slapped me, snarling, "Clarence promised to marry me! You're nothing but a homewrecker!" Blood stained my gown as the truth hit me. My boyfriend of seven years had been cheating on me. "Keep staring, huh? My man runs this city. I could kill you, and no one would touch me!" she taunted, smug as hell. With bloodied hands, I pulled out my phone and dialed my brother. "Chris, come get me from the bridal shop. And tell the Thompsons the engagement is off."

Eight months into my pregnancy, my husband finally makes time from his police duties to go to a prenatal checkup with me for the first time. The moment we step into the hospital, his satellite-encrypted phone buzzes urgently. The caller ID flashes briefly, and just like that, the man who's always calm and collected panics. "Honey, it's a red alert. Another international fugitive just crossed the border. I… I'm sorry…" He's clearly anxious, yet his tone is firm, leaving no room for argument. After apologizing, he rushes off. As I watch his SUV speed out of sight, my fist clenches tightly, crumpling the prenatal checkup sheet. I flag down a cab, slide into the car, and swiftly instruct the driver, "Follow that car. Don't lose it." A Red Notice for a fugitive? What a joke. My father, who works at the National Security Agency, barely catches wind of a notice like that. Yet, somehow, a mere police chief who only assists with cases is suddenly tasked with catching a high-priority criminal. Fine, then. I can't wait to meet the superior who's given him such an urgent assignment.

Before Mom's surgery, Mason—yeah, the Mason Leonhart from one of Brighton's big-name families—suddenly "had" to go on a business trip and couldn't be at the hospital. A few hours later, Judy Yeager blasted a video on social. There was Mason, Mr. Born-With-A-Silver-Spoon, recycling bottles with her. Caption: [If we work hard together, no hardship can scare us.] I couldn't resist. [Future Leonhart heir, worth ten billion, still helping his girl recycle bottles to trade in for cash—heartwarming.] It vanished in seconds. My phone lit up. Mason's voice? Ice cold. "Shiloh Harrington, what was that? Call Judy. Tell her you were joking." I laughed. "Keep playing your little poor-boy cosplay without me." Hung up. Three days till the divorce cooling-off ended. Then Mason could be the broke man he was pretending to be.