She got everything she ever wanted—yet began to wonder what she had truly lost.
—
The silence settled faster than anyone expected.
The kitchen was busy again. The piano, uncovered. And in the sunlight, the lady of the house put on her favorite crimson dress.
Servants spoke to her more softly. The butler's floral arrangements had shifted in color.
It felt like a burden had been unloaded——as if a quiet threat had finally been removed.
She sat on the balcony, tea in hand, holding the letter from the Overseas Mental Health Authority.
No letter opener.
No reaction.
She simply unfolded the page. And read the single line.
"Patient Elric died by self-harm during international transfer. Cremation complete."
Her eyes stopped on the word cremation.
And didn't move for a long time.
***
"It's too quiet."
The words formed silently in her mind.
She used to believe that as long as that woman was gone—
As long as that child never came back—
The house would finally become what she wanted:
No more comparisons.
No more adjusting dinner plans for someone else.
No more eyes questioning her decisions.
And now—she had all of it.
The butler nodded to her.
The maids bowed.
Everything in the house moved according to her rhythm.
Even her husband had stopped pushing back. He only stayed quiet.
She had finally become the mistress of the house.
And yet, she had started losing sleep.
***
At midnight, she sat in front of the mirror, trying to draw her eyeliner.
Her hand was shaking.
The woman in the glass was no longer young.
But she wasn't broken either.
She couldn't tell what had changed.
Only that a voice kept echoing in her mind:
"You won too easily."
"If he really was just a child, how could he have gone without even a struggle?"
—
She started dreaming of the kitchen—
Of the sound of that woman's footsteps.
Then the garden—
A child riding a wooden horse, but without a face.
She woke clutching the bedsheets, hands damp with cold sweat.
It wasn't a nightmare.
It was something deeper whispering inside her:
You didn't win.
You just have no one left to fight you.
***
It wasn't a nightmare.
It was something deeper whispering from a place she didn't dare look at—
You didn't win.
You just have no one left to fight you.
—
Meanwhile, in another city—
An office high above the skyline.
Night pressed against the glass curtain walls, layering reflections into shadows.
Zane sat by the window, the coffee had chilled down at his side
He didn't drink it.
He just stared at the silhouette of the city lit by the streets light.
On his desk: a fresh report.
About the house.
About her.
Liu stood behind him, holding a copy of the same document.
"Has she reached out lately?"
Zane's voice was light—like a blade tracing paper.
Liu hesitated.
"No. Morning walks. Evenings in her room. Quiet. Predictable."
"She still thinks he's dead."
"Yes."
"Then she should hate me."
"…She hasn't shown it."
Zane looked down. His fingertips drifted across the edge of the paper.
He didn't speak.
Not for a while.
Then, softly—
"I always thought erasing the name was for their protection."
"But now…"
He looked up, eyes tracing the silent grid of city lights.
"…maybe it was me I was protecting."
"Maybe I just didn't want to see that look—"
"The one where she sees me, and no longer believes in me."
***
That night, the mansion's lights went out one by one.
She walked into the study room—just to check if the windows were locked.
But on the edge of the desk, something unexpected caught her eye.
The pocket watch.
Silver casing.
Fine chain curled neatly around it.
Clean. Still.
Like an ornament that had never truly been used.
She recognized it immediately.
It was the birthday gift she had once present to Zane.
He had never worn it.
Never said whether he liked it—or didn't.
She had assumed he'd forgotten.
Or that he never meant to keep it.
But now, here it was.
Resting in plain sight.
As if it had emerged from some part of their memories that yet to be buried.
She reached for it.
The moment her fingers brushed the metal, her heart skipped.
Click.
The lid snapped open with a light sound.
No engraving.
No photograph.
Just still hands, frozen at 3:17 a.m.
***
She didn't know why the watch had reappeared.
Or how it returned back here.
She wanted to ask—
But had no reason to.
She wanted to guess—
But feared the answer.
She closed the lid, quietly, and placed it back into the drawer.
And in that moment, she understood:
She had once present to Zane something sincere—
But it had never truly been accepted.
And the watch—
Once belonging to no one,
Now no longer belonged to her.
—
That same night, Elric sat with his terminal open, eyes steady.
He was reviewing the first set of logic-screening questions.
A prompt pop-out on the screen:
"What is the safest way to hide a name?"
He typed his answer slowly:
"Make everyone believe that person never existed."
No pause. No doubt.
Because he was living proof—
Of what it meant to be erased that way.
—————————
[Chapter Epigraph]
Victory isn't about having everything—
It's about whether you can bear losing the things you pretended not to care about.
——————
[Next Chapter Preview]
Chapter 17 · Her Triumph, His Unraveling
Everything looked perfect on the surface—
but someone was already cracking at the edges.