Swapped at the SATs

It had been the same last time. One look like that, and I'd cave—every time.

Their "small favor" meant risking everything just to feed Amelia answers for a whole year.

Once, a teacher even caught me. I took the fall to protect her. That lie? It became their biggest piece of "proof" when they told the world I was a cheater.

I kept my face soft, eyes downcast—but inside, I was done playing nice.

"Dad, Mom, Amelia... It's not what you think. I've been dizzy a lot. Short of breath. Even had a nosebleed in class. My teacher said I should take a year off to rest."

Back then, I survived on scraps while Amelia got the good stuff. I scrubbed their clothes in freezing water, handled all the chores, studied until my body broke down.

No sleep, no food, no care—just endless tutoring and pressure.

Of course I collapsed. Of course I died that night.

I'd tried to speak up before.

They never listened.

But this time, I was done sacrificing myself. That fear—freezing to death, alone—still clung to me. Nothing mattered more than staying alive.

I started coughing, hard, until tears blurred my vision. Then I pulled out a blood-streaked tissue, hand shaking.

Their eyes widened—shock, annoyance, a flicker of panic. But not one drop of actual concern.

Mom's voice cut through, low and tense. "System, what's happening? Why is her health crashing? Should we take her to the hospital?"

The reply came in that weird robotic tone: "Unusual. Her vitals are low, but not dangerously so. No big deal—as long as she makes it to the SATs. Take her in for a checkup, just in case."

But Mom hadn't moved her lips. Only she and that creepy voice had said anything—Dad and Amelia just stared, freaked out.

So Mom could talk to the System.

And I could hear it.

Lucky me.

She gave the tiniest nod, then slapped on a fake worried look, helped me up, and promised a hospital trip tomorrow.

Step one: done.

I wasn't actually sick.

Just red ink. Classic fake-out.

***

Money changes everything. Instead of curling up in a freezing kitchen with cramps and cheap painkillers like last time, I got a full hospital checkup.

The doctor said I was seriously undernourished. No more heavy lifting, eat on time, take supplements, rest—or I'd crash within a year.

After that, I had the first real meal of my life. Stuff I used to only dream about was plated perfectly in front of me. They even told me to eat more.

I nearly cried with every bite.

But the anger just kept building.

That fire in my chest? It snapped me out of it and shoved me straight into step two.

"Mom, the doctor said no heavy work for me... so who's handling the chores now?"