The Tormented Wife in the Steamer

Even if I couldn't smell it myself, I could tell from Tristan's expression that the stench was unbearable.

The windows in the room had been shut for too long, and the air inside had long been saturated with decay. The moment Tristan opened the door, the overwhelming odor hit him so hard that he could hardly keep his eyes open. His face twisted in shock.

"How could it stink this much… Crystal, what kind of trick are you pulling this time? Don't think you can fool me!"

Yes, how could it stink this much?

It was nothing more than my corpse, infested with flies, teeming with microorganisms, spilling out the scent of rot.

And yet, just stepping inside was already too much for him?

What would he do when he opened the steamer and saw me—my wretched, lifeless body—up close?

Tristan spoke with forced composure, but his hands trembled as he switched on the light. The moment the room was illuminated, he froze.

In the center of the room sat a customized steamer, half the height of a man. The fire beneath it had long since burned out, leaving behind only a chilling silence.

Around the steamer, countless flies swarmed, forming a restless black tide in the air, as if celebrating a grand feast. The lid of the steamer was covered in writhing, bloated maggots. Though small, they were so densely packed that they formed an undulating sea of white.

"Crystal, get out here this instant!"

Tristan stood rooted to the spot, unwilling to take another step forward.

I almost wanted to laugh.

Tristan, you locked me in this steamer yourself. You even secured it with three heavy locks, just to make sure I wouldn't escape. So tell me, how exactly am I supposed to come out?

Only as a spirit, I supposed.

"I'm feeling generous today," he declared. "If you don't want to stay locked up in here any longer, then hurry up and get out!"

When I didn't respond, he seemed to feel that his authority was being challenged. He swallowed hard, steadied himself, and forced his legs to move toward the steamer.

With a loud thud, he kicked it hard. The flies scattered in a frantic cloud, the maggots tumbling off the lid like grains of rice spilling onto the floor.

"You actually went this far just to trick me? Creating something this revolting—it suits you." Tristan let out a cold laugh and kicked the steamer again. "Get out here. Sign the divorce papers, and we'll be done."

The locks rattled from the impact, clinking dully against the metal frame. Then a realization dawned on him.

"You're not saying anything because you want me to open it myself?"

Disgust twisted his features. "Crystal, stop playing the victim. Jessica got burned with boiling water, and she didn't even blame you. And yet, you've been in this steamer for only a few days, and now you're pulling this act?"

…

That day, I had still been at home when Tristan brazenly brought Jessica inside.

Jessica clung to his arm, her eyes full of mirth as she smiled at me. "Nice to meet you. I'm Tristan's good friend. We've known each other for years—I'm sure you don't mind, do you?"

But that wasn't true.

I had seen her face plenty of times in Tristan's photo albums.

With an outsider present, I couldn't afford to lose my composure, no matter how I felt.

So I made an excuse and went to the kitchen, putting distance between us. Out of sight, out of mind.

But Jessica followed me. The friendly facade she had worn moments ago was gone, replaced by something cold and venomous.

"Crystal, just because you're with Tristan now doesn't mean I'm out of the picture. I'm his first love, and you know what that means, don't you?"

I frowned and instinctively took two steps back, increasing the space between us.

Something about this didn't feel right.

Sure enough, Jessica smiled triumphantly. Without hesitation, she grabbed the kettle from the table and poured the scalding water over her own wrist.

"Aah—!"

Tristan rushed in at the sound of her scream. He saw only Jessica clutching her reddened wrist, her face contorted in pain.

And me—standing unharmed, beside the kettle.

No matter how I explained, he refused to believe me. He insisted I had done it deliberately. Without a second thought, he took Jessica to the hospital. I sat on the couch, my stomach in knots, waiting.

When he returned, he didn't come alone.

He brought her back with him.

And he brought that half-man-high steamer.

He ignored every word I said. Without a shred of hesitation, he shoved me inside. As if that wasn't enough, he poured boiling water into the compartment below, letting the searing steam scald my skin.

Water droplets splattered onto my arms, each one burning like fire. I twisted in agony, my face contorted in pain.

And he watched, satisfied. "I'll make you feel the pain Jessica suffered a thousand times over!"

…

Now, I hovered beside him, watching as he gripped the key tightly. He wanted to unlock the steamer but hesitated.

It was easy to see why.

Even a single maggot was enough to send most people into a cleaning frenzy, let alone this writhing mass of them.

And Tristan—he was a neat freak.

It must have taken all his willpower just to step closer. Finally, he unlocked the steamer, settled on a spot with fewer maggots, clenched his jaw, and with both hands, wrenched the lid open.

"Crystal, let's see what kind of game you're playing this time."