Chapter 7: The Bed of Knives

Caleb came in alone. He arrived so suddenly, I didn’t even have time to tidy up. I sat on the bed, hair loose, in my pajamas, pretending to be unfazed.

"Sis, are you waiting for me?"

Caleb walked toward me, step by step, his expression calm.

I snapped coldly, "Who let you in?"

Caleb was provoked by my words. He suddenly reached out, grabbed my chin, and forced me to look into his eyes. His fingers dug into my chin, cold and unyielding. I wanted to spit in his face, but all I could do was glare.

"Sis, do you still think I’m that useless loser you could push around, too scared to fight back?"

I raised my hand and slapped him. But there wasn’t even a red mark on his face.

In the past, I always treated Caleb this way—hitting and yelling at him, treating him like a stray dog. But today, this dog wasn’t rolling over anymore.

Caleb looked like he’d snapped. His eyes turned red as he stared at me, then he actually laughed.

He spoke hoarsely: "Sis, do it again."

Damn.

Both the system and I fell silent. After a long moment, the system finally complained: "Look at what you’ve done to the kid—you’ve turned him into a psycho."

I almost burst out laughing, secretly pinched myself, and tears sprang to my eyes from the pain.

I took a deep breath, raised my hand, and slapped him again. This time, I used more force, and Caleb’s face was knocked to the side.

But his expression didn’t change at all. He slowly turned his head back and looked at me.

I wanted to hit him again, but he grabbed my wrist. Suddenly, the world spun, and Caleb pinned me to the bed.

With one hand, he held both my wrists, making me completely helpless. He leaned in, close enough for me to smell the whiskey on his breath, his gaze locked on mine like he was memorizing my fear.

Trembling, I asked the system in my mind, "System, w-what’s going on… did the main guy really turn into a dog?"

The system was eerily silent for a long time before finally forcing out a sentence: "You’d better stab him quickly…"

I listened to the system. When Caleb inexplicably started undressing, I pulled out the knife hidden under my pillow and stabbed him. Then I shouted, "Caleb, I killed you!"

Sure enough, the next second, a group of security guards rushed in. But the bullets flew even faster than they did—all of them perfectly avoided Caleb and hit me instead.

Pain bloomed hot and sharp in my side. I heard someone screaming—maybe it was me. The ceiling lights spun overhead, cold and uncaring. As I closed my eyes, I thought, the main guy really is the main guy—no matter how cold it is in this house, he’s still hot enough to take his shirt off.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a sarcastic voice—my own, probably—wondered if I’d make the crime section or just a footnote in the obits. That’s the thing about stories: you never get to write the ending.