The hospital room was quiet.

Limone opened her mouth as if to say something, but in the end, not a single word emerged. Words felt hollow in moments like this.

After all, she’d done enough explaining in the past—again and again—but her brother had never believed her.

Sutton’s throat moved slightly, his jaw tightening as he finally released his grip.

He looked at Limone with unmistakable disappointment. “If you keep being this stubborn, when Easton gets back, not even I’ll be able to protect you. Think it over.”

With that, Sutton turned and left.

Limone exhaled faintly, her body sinking back against the headboard as if letting out a long-held breath of relief.

A self-mocking glint flickered in her eyes. Think it over? Think about what?

Think about living her life the way she had in her past one—lowering her head, treading on eggshells, ingratiating herself to them? Only to end up cast out of the family, locked in a psychiatric ward, and dying a pitiful death?

She would never let it happen again.

“Here.”

An ice pack, wrapped in gauze, appeared before her.

Limone took it, pressing it gingerly against the reddened, swollen side of her face. She stole a glance at the man standing nearby and murmured softly, “Thank you... for earlier.”

His voice was cool and measured. “Why didn’t you explain yourself?”

Her head lowered, a bitter smile touching her lips. “Would it matter? I’ve explained so many times before, even brought proof, and they still didn’t believe me. They thought I was lying.”

The room sank into a brief silence.

Limone didn’t feel the need to explain any further. Most people didn’t believe her anyway, dismissing her as disobedient, impossible to reason with.

“It’s hard not to believe you,” the man said at last, his voice breaking the quiet.

Limone blinked, startled. Did he really mean that? Did he actually believe her?

Charles took a step closer, his hand reaching out to rest lightly against her forehead. “The fever’s going down.”

She froze. His fingers were cool against her skin, unexpectedly soothing.

The ache in her chest loosened for a moment. She felt... a little better now, her discomfort waning.

Her gaze wandered to his wrist. “The scar on your hand... was that from the car accident?”

Charles’s hand paused sharply, then he withdrew it just as quickly.

Pulling the empty IV bag from its stand, he replied after a long beat, “Yeah. The accident.”

His hand braced against the edge of the table, his back to her. His profile, caught in the slanting light, became difficult to read.

“I have one too,” Limone said, lowering her voice. “On my leg.”

She tugged her skirt up to reveal it. “Here—doesn’t it look a lot like yours?”

Charles turned back then, catching sight of her slender leg. Her pale skin made the scar on her thigh stand out even more starkly.

But her skirt—it was hoisted a bit too high, almost indecent.

He averted his eyes quickly. “You’re just a kid. Don’t pull your skirt up like that around men.”

“But you’re a doctor,” she countered, matter-of-fact.

Charles’s throat bobbed imperceptibly. Yes, he was a doctor—but he was also a man.

Has no one ever taught her these things?

He cleared his throat and pressed on, his tone steady. “That scar can be treated. Why haven’t you had it removed?”

The expression on Limone’s face shifted, flattening almost imperceptibly. A sharp ache surged in her chest.

Because her third brother, Weston, had told her that the scar was a reminder of their parents’ existence. He had promised her once, with such deliberate sincerity, that he’d take time out of his busy schedule to personally see to its removal.

And she had believed him.

But in the end, all he gave her was a cold, dismissive look of disgust. Told her he hated that scar on her leg. That he would never do anything to help her with it.

He said it was her fault. That the scar was a mark of her guilt—a stain that signified how she had caused their parents’ deaths. Said she should carry it for the rest of her life, like a curse, so she’d never forget.

That day, she was shattered. She had begun to believe it herself, swallowing the blame whole. In the years that followed, her life became a hollow apology—groveling at their feet, desperate to please her brothers.

Limone’s chest grew tight now, and it became difficult to breathe, the memory squeezing all the air from her lungs.

But she couldn’t bring herself to explain any of that to Charles. Instead, she deflected with a question of her own: “What about you? Why haven’t you had your scar treated?”

“I’m a man. Doesn’t matter,” Charles answered simply. “But for a young woman like you, it might be worth considering.”

Limone forced a smile, the effort painful. “Maybe later.”

Seeing her lower her head, Charles didn’t push the issue.

He sank into the chair beside her, switching the television on.

Limone’s eyes landed on the TV screen, and to her surprise, it was a live stream of a gaming tournament—one her sixth brother, Sixon, was competing in at that very moment.

Sixon had skipped Sophie’s banquet specifically for this match.

But in the end, he lost to the young master of the Johnson family from North City.

Limone’s throat tightened as memories of her past life surfaced. She remembered how, after Sixon’s loss, the victor had mocked him savagely.

When Sixon returned home, still seething, he set about rebuilding their family’s esports team from scratch.

The new lineup: Sutton, Norton, Quincy, Sixon, and herself.

Though they had faltered in the qualifiers, there was still the resurrection bracket.

Limone could still recall how they clawed their way back, win after desperate win, until they found themselves face-to-face with the Johnsons’ North City team again in the national finals.

Back then, Limone had poured countless hours into training—studying the habits and quirks of each player on the Johnsons’ team, honing every strategy to ensure their victory.

The game didn’t include Sophie.

With her limited talent for gaming, Sophie could only warm the bench. She wasn’t cut out to compete in real matches.

And maybe that was what Limone loved most about gaming back then—the way it let her fight alongside her brothers, uninterrupted by outsiders. For just a little while, it felt as though they were a real family.

Limone had been so consumed by the demands of the tournament that even prepping for her college entrance exams fell by the wayside. None of it mattered. They were on the verge of winning everything.

But then, right after a crucial victory that put the championship within their grasp, her brothers paused the match.

She was benched. Sophie was subbed in.

When the dust settled, their team had triumphed and claimed the national championship.

On the podium, Sophie held the trophy, her smile radiant as she stood proudly between their brothers.

Limone was left behind, her contributions overshadowed, her efforts erased. It was Sophie’s name they cheered. It was Sophie’s spotlight, built on all the sweat and sacrifices Limone had poured into the journey.

Watching the game on TV now, Limone felt that old, familiar ache rip through her chest—gaping and raw, impossible to patch.

“Why are you crying? It’s not like this is some soap opera. What’s gotten you so emotional?”

The voice jolted her back to reality. She wiped a hand over her damp face, embarrassed at having let her emotions slip. She’d been caught up in the weight of memories she couldn’t shake.

A hand appeared in her line of sight, holding a tissue. The fingers were long and elegant, their movements unhurried.

She took the tissue, sheepishly glancing toward him. “Do you play this game?”

“Kid,” Charles said, leaning against the chair with a lazy air, his gaze on the match rather than her, “your priority right now should be studying for exams, not gaming.”

Limone followed his gaze back to the screen and said, with careful certainty, “Team Skylane is going to lose.”

Team Skylane—Sixon’s team.

Charles’s lips quirked. His tone was measured, almost amused. “You’ve got a good eye.”

When the match concluded, the results were as she’d predicted: Team Skylane’s defeat was absolute.

The live stream cut to Sixon’s expression, and Limone noticed how stormy his face had become. He slammed his keyboard in fury, his temper as volatile as ever.

Oddly enough, Limone found herself feeling a sliver of satisfaction at his misfortune.

With this loss, Sixon would undoubtedly reorganize the team when he got back. But this time, Limone silently decided, she wouldn’t sacrifice herself for the Lane family again.

She wasn’t going to let them exploit her skills anymore. She would play for her own sake, become a professional gamer, and carve her own path. With that, she could support herself through college and finally break free of the Lane family’s suffocating grip.

No more threats to cut off her allowance if she didn’t obey. No more being forced to abandon better schools just to trail behind Sophie into some second-rate institution.

Economic independence was her ticket out. Only then could she loosen the chains they’d bound around her life.

Right now, pro gaming seemed like a dead-end career to most. But next year, with the explosion of streams and esports channels, even gamers could make serious money online. For someone like her, armed with the knowledge of her past life, it was the fastest, least painful route to freedom.

She made up her mind.

After the stream ended, Charles stood up and strolled over. He removed the IV needle from her hand with practiced ease, pressing a cotton swab against the spot.

“The medicine is on the table. Take it and you can go.”

“Thanks.”

Limone grabbed the medicine and left the infirmary.

The moment her footsteps faded, another man wandered in, his demeanor casual, his grin faintly mocking. “Well, that’s a first. Charles, playing hero? Saved a damsel in distress, didn’t you? Though, you might want to rethink it. That little miss doesn’t have the best reputation around here. The forums are pretty brutal. Just saying, don’t let her pull one over on you.”

Charles leaned back in his chair, no longer quite as aloof, a hint of something more languid creeping into his posture. His reply was unhurried. “And why are you still here?”

“Curiosity, of course. Why’d you choose to be the school nurse at this dump of a high school, anyway? You even skipped out on little Michael Johnson’s match—all so he ended up distracted, almost letting that Lane kid take him out. Spill, and I’ll leave right now.”

Charles didn’t look at him immediately. Instead, he rolled up his sleeve, pulling back the fabric to expose a jagged scar that marred his forearm.

The other man—Felix Graham—fell silent, his expression darkening. “Even now? After all these years, you still can’t let it go? That car accident wasn’t your fault. Unless... wait—don’t tell me that girl is...”

“Shut up.”

Charles closed his eyes, leaning back into silence. He had no intention of explaining himself further.