Chapter 1

2:10 AM, "Deep Night Whispers" live studio.

Clara Wynter adjusted her headset and spoke softly into the microphone:

"Now, let us connect with our fifth caller of the night."

The signal connected, accompanied by a faint crackle of static.

"Hello, how should I address you?"

After a brief silence, a deep male voice came through from the other end:

"......Anonymous is fine."

The voice was somewhat hoarse, like sandpaper rubbing together, yet it somehow struck a chord in a hidden corner of her memory.

Her fingertips curled instinctively.

"Very well, anonymous friend. What story would you like to share?"

Another silence followed, so long that Clara was about to switch to music when the voice spoke again:

"I want to tell a story... about a betrayal."

Outside the window, the rain grew denser, pattering against the glass like someone’s tears.

"There was once a girl who, to earn money for the medical treatment of the boy she grew up with, fought in underground pits for three years."

Clara’s hand, reaching for her water glass, froze mid-air.

"Many times, she was nearly beaten to death."

"The worst time, she suffered a concussion, lost hearing in one ear, and had three broken ribs."

The man’s voice grew lower. "The boy always cried and promised he would never fail her, that he would give her a good life."

"And then?"

Clara’s voice remained calm, but her gaze lost focus, drifting toward the listener curve climbing steadily on the monitor.

"Later, the boy was reclaimed by his wealthy father. In less than three years, his heart changed."

The man paused. "He met a so-called 'soulmate.' He subjected the girl to cold indifference, cheated on her, and forced her to abort their child..."

"Finally, at his engagement party, the girl slit her wrists in front of everyone."

A dead silence filled the studio.

"She didn’t die then. But a few months later, she was brutally murdered by the seaside, leaving not even a trace of her remains."

The man stopped for a long time, so long that the director raised a hand to signal the time. "And at that moment, the boy was with his new love, hosting a wedding party on a cruise ship."

The rain outside suddenly intensified, drumming against the window like a frantic beat.

Clara’s right hand gently touched the scar on her left wrist; it felt faintly warm.

She looked up at the producer, Jane, through the glass.

Jane was excitedly gesturing to her: the ratings were skyrocketing, already hitting the platform's trending list.

"A very tragic story," Clara responded in her usual professional, gentle tone.

"So, by calling tonight, what kind of consolation are you hoping for?"

Again, a long silence.

The director held up three fingers, indicating only thirty seconds remained.

Just as she was about to cut the connection, the voice suddenly asked:

"If... if the girl hadn't died back then, but luckily survived. After eight years, do you think... she still hates that boy?"

Clara looked down at the pale scar on her wrist and smiled very faintly:

"I think probably not."

"Why?" The man pressed urgently. "She gave so much, was hurt so deeply. Why shouldn't she hate him?"

"I suspect the girl's hate back then actually stemmed from an obsession and a love for the boy that went to her very marrow."

Clara looked at her own reflection in the glass, her tone tranquil:

"When she has truly 'died' once, all that love and obsession dissipate along with the near-death experience."

She paused, her gaze drifting to the neon lights blurred by rain outside:

"When there is no more love, naturally, there is no more hate."

A long silence followed in the headphones, save for the sound of suppressed breathing.

"So... that’s how it is," the man murmured, his voice carrying an indescribable sense of loss. "I see..."

"Is there anything else you’d like to say?"

"......No. Thank you."

"Then, let us welcome our next listener."

Clara cut the connection, her fingertips feeling slightly chilled.

......

6:00 AM, the program ended.

Clara took off her headset, rubbed her neck, and turned her wheelchair.

Jane rushed in excitedly:

"Clara, it’s a hit! Last night’s ratings reached a three-year high!"

"Especially that fifth story—the discussion has gone straight to number one on the trending list!"

Clara only gave a soft "mm" and looked down to tidy the papers on her desk.

After eight years as a night-shift host, her journey was finally coming to a formal close tonight.

From tomorrow, she would be moved to the day shift, finally able to live on a normal schedule.

"There’s even better news!" Jane’s eyes sparkled. "The station just received an anonymous advertisement placement specifically for your segment—one million!"

"The director is thrilled. He decided on the spot to move you to the prime-time slot!"

An anonymous advertisement.

Clara’s fingers tightened silently.

She looked at the rain that still hadn't stopped, a shadow faintly surfacing in her mind.

"By the way," Jane’s voice grew more serious, "that anonymous listener called again just now. He said he hopes to be on the show tonight to finish the story."

"The station thinks we can arrange it. After all, the buzz is too high..."

"Isn't tonight my last night shift?" Clara asked calmly.

"That’s exactly why you must seize the chance!" Jane patted her shoulder. "This is the best opportunity for your transition."

"The day slots are stable, but if you want to stand out, you need a hook like this."

Clara stayed quiet for a few seconds before nodding. "Alright."

When she left the station, the rain was still falling.

Clara pushed her wheelchair into the curtain of rain.

This electric wheelchair was a birthday gift Sera had bought for her last year using two years' worth of saved allowance.

The little girl had looked up with a serious face and said:

"Mommy, you won't have to work so hard anymore."

In truth, Clara’s hands still had strength, she just couldn't overexert them.

The old injuries at her wrists and ankles would flare up predictably whenever it rained.

The umbrella felt a bit heavy in her hand.

She slowly pushed the wheelchair toward the subway station but stopped at the edge of the road.

At some point, a speed bump had been added to this previously smooth path.

The black rubber bulge wasn't particularly high, but for a wheelchair, it was an obstacle difficult to cross alone.

Clara tried several times.

A familiar sharp pain shot through her wrist; she couldn't find the strength.

The umbrella slipped from her hand, rolling several times in the wind before getting stuck by the drainage ditch.

The rain instantly soaked her hair and shoulders.

She looked at her trembling wrists, where the pale scars on her exposed skin meandered like rivers.

Eight years ago, in that abandoned warehouse by the sea, the blades of those men had followed these very lines, inch by inch, severing her tendons.

"Hurry up! The party on the cruise ship is about to start!"

The voice from her memory, mixed with the sound of waves, seemed to echo in her ears again.

Clara closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, a figure suddenly appeared in the rain.

The person carried a large black umbrella and walked with steady strides toward her.

The rain blurred her vision; Clara could only make out the well-tailored fabric of the man’s trousers and his polished leather shoes.

The umbrella tilted, shielding the sky above her head.

The next moment, a pair of hands wearing black leather gloves gripped the handles of the wheelchair.

With ease, those hands pushed the wheelchair over the speed bump.

When the wheelchair came to a steady stop on the other side of the road, Clara spoke softly:

"Thank you."

The person did not respond but continued to push her forward, stopping only when they reached the shelter of the subway entrance.

Clara looked up.

The rim of the umbrella slowly rose, revealing a face that was both familiar and a stranger...

Chapter 2

Eight years had left indelible marks on this man.

The young boy who once had cold, clear features and always wore white shirts was now dressed in a perfectly tailored, bespoke suit with sharp shoulder lines and a meticulously tied necktie.

His jawline was set tight, and a few faint lines had touched the corners of his eyes.

Only those eyes remained as deep as they were in her memory.

Right now, they were staring at her intensely, almost greedily.

But the most piercing sight was the platinum wedding ring on his ring finger.

Under the dim sky, it glinted with a cold light.

Time seemed to stretch thin amidst the rustling sound of the rain.

After an unknown amount of time, the man spoke in a hoarse voice:

"Long time no see... Clara."

Clara looked at him calmly.

Rainwater was dripping from the tips of his hair across his forehead, sliding down his high nose.