I Died for My Family's Lies—They Lost Everything

"Bang!"

My heart clenched—like it exploded.

My legs buckled. My whole body tumbled down the stairs.

Takeout containers scattered across the floor. Soup splashed onto my faded yellow vest, washed so many times it had turned pale.

I lay on the icy concrete. Rain drifted through the window and hit my face.

It hurt.

It really hurt.

With trembling hands, I reached for the spilled takeout.

This order was ruined—I'd have to pay for it.

If I paid, Dad's fingers wouldn't be saved.

My vision blurred.

I thought I heard a phone ringing—someone rushing the order? Or Dad rushing me for money?

I couldn't hear clearly anymore.

My hand went limp, but my fingertips still gripped that crumpled five-dollar bill.

The tip from the customer. I was going to buy myself a piece of bread.

Now, no chance.

Darkness swallowed me whole.

I died.

I died in this old, worn-out stairwell where no one ever passed by.

My body turned cold. Stiff.

But I didn't disappear.

I felt myself grow light, floating upward.

I looked at the corpse curled up on the ground—skin and bones, sunken eye sockets, like a sixty-year-old man.

That was me? I was only twenty-one.

A powerful obsession tugged at me.

Dad was still waiting for money to save his life.

If I didn't transfer it, the creditors would chop off his hand.

The obsession was too strong—so strong I couldn't dissipate. My soul drifted toward home, out of my control.

The wind was fierce. The rain was brutal. But I couldn't feel cold anymore.

I only wanted to go home. Take one look. See if Dad was okay.

I drifted past familiar streets, past the apartment complex where I'd lived for twenty years.

Back then, Dad said the villa had been mortgaged to pay off the debt. The three of them squeezed into a rental.

Maybe out of instinct, my soul stopped in front of that familiar villa.

There was no foreclosure notice.

The weeds in the yard had been cleared. Expensive Buddhist pines stood in their place.

The front door had been replaced with the newest fingerprint lock.

And at the entrance—a brand-new Porsche Cayenne.

I knew the license plate by heart. Christopher's favorite repeating number.

I froze.

What the hell? Weren't they bankrupt?

Weren't they thirty million dollars in debt?

Had the creditors taken over the house?

Then what about Dad, Mom, and my brother? Were they being tortured somewhere?

Fear drowned me. I charged inside like a madman.

My soul passed through the heavy security door, through the entryway.

The AC was cranked high, but I felt a bone-deep chill.

Not from the cold air.

From what I saw.

The living room blazed with light. A massive crystal chandelier sparkled overhead.

The leather sofa had been swapped for an imported set. Thick Persian rugs covered the floor.

Where was the poverty?

Where was the desperation of a family drowning in debt?

I drifted in midair, numb, and turned toward the dining room.

Laughter floated out.

"Here, honey, try the Australian lobster. Just airlifted in today. Our quality of life can't drop, you know."

That voice—Sophie.

I drifted closer.

The dining table overflowed with food.

Australian lobster. King crab. A bottle of red wine I couldn't even pronounce.

Christopher sat at the head of the table in silk pajamas, face glowing with health—not a trace of the broken man who'd nearly jumped off a building.

A fat cigar smoldered between his fingers.

Beside him, Aiden hunched over his phone, tapping away at some game. A pile of crab shells sat in front of him.