Cracked After My Fake Death

What was I even expecting? A touch of warmth from a man who saw me as nothing more than data and a test subject?

Wasting no more breath, I grabbed the pen and signed the content form. Then I took the blue vial, twisted off the cap, and chugged it down like ordinary water.

The effects hit faster than ever before, churning my stomach as if it were in a high-speed blender. Pain exploded from my core and spread rapidly through my entire body. I curled up on the cold floor, convulsing uncontrollably while sweat soaked through my clothes.

Through the thick glass, I caught sight of Charlotte watching my agony with a faint smirk. Samuel remained in place, tablet in hand, focused on recording my vital signs—heart rate, blood pressure, and nerve reactions.

He didn't even glance down at me once. To him, I wasn't a person; I was merely animated data providing results for his experiments.

The agony intensified, and it felt as if my organs were shifting out of place. Finally, I couldn't hold it back and began vomiting violently on the floor. What came up wasn't food remnants but bright red blood, splattering like petals on his pristine, expensive shoes.

Samuel reacted at last, stepping back with a look of disgust.

"What a mess," he said impassively, as if addressing himself or me. "Clean it up. The data collection is nearly complete. Charlotte's next treatment should proceed smoothly."

Lying there completely drained, I could barely lift a finger.

The system prompted: "Host's health dropped to 30%, danger zone. Samuel's affection up 5%, heartbreak value +30%."

It was ironic how my suffering could boost his fondness for me.

Using my final reserves of energy, I propped myself up, wiped the blood from my mouth, and extended a weak hand toward him.

My voice came out raspy and broken. "Hazard pay is due, right? Cash this time."

Checks could get frozen, after all. Cash was always the safest option.

Samuel paused, clearly not expecting me to focus on money even in that state. His contempt deepened, and he tossed a credit card into the puddle of blood. "PIN's six zeros. Now get out."

My hands trembled as I picked up the stained card and clutched it tightly. It was what I had earned. Leaning against the wall for support, I staggered to my feet and headed out.

At the hospital entrance, craving a breath of fresh air, I bumped into a solid chest. It was Theodore Xander.

"Lindsey, I'm here to pick you up," he said, smoothly guiding me into a black sedan parked by the curb.

He took the driver's seat, looking every bit the polished gentleman in that sharp suit. He was like a knight arriving to rescue me, but his following words plunged me straight into despair. "Wendy got into a hit-and-run last night."