Lost in the haze of past memories, Serapha's thoughts drifted like feathers caught in the wind, light and scattered.
In a moment of distraction, her elbow accidentally knocked over a stack of papers that Mo had left on the table. With a loud crash, the books and documents scattered across the floor like falling snow. Serapha snapped back to reality and hurriedly bent down to pick them up.
But as she picked up one particular sheet, her gaze was suddenly drawn to the words written on it.
She froze.
On the page, in clear handwriting, it said:
"July 16 — Serapha secretly repaired all the broken equipment in my lab again today. She thought I didn't notice the sparks at her fingertips..."
A sharp chill stabbed through her heart.
She rifled through the other pages, only to find even more shocking entries.
"August 3 — After she healed the stray cat downstairs, her own left leg limped for three days..."
Each record described moments from Serapha's life — things she thought only she knew. Hidden pains, quiet sacrifices, all laid bare in Mo's private notes.
Her face turned pale. A wave of betrayal and rage surged in her chest.
Just then, the door creaked open.
Mo stepped in, immediately confronted by the chaotic scene: the scattered papers, the open notebook, and Serapha's stunned expression.
"You—" Mo started to speak, but Serapha cut him off sharply, her voice shaking with fury.
"You were spying on me?"
Her voice was low but thunderous, filled with accusation. The weight of her anger hit Mo like a tidal wave, leaving his mind blank.
"Hah. So from the beginning, you pretended not to care, all to gain my trust?" Her words were knives, slicing straight into his chest.
"What do you want from me this time? Too bad — I've already been drained dry."
"I..." Mo opened his mouth to explain, but before he could finish, Serapha shoved past him, slamming the door behind her without looking back.
—
That night, moonlight spilled into the old hotel room like silver water.
Serapha lay still on the bed, her body drained of strength, but her heart burning with a wildfire of rage.
She stared wide-eyed at the cracked ceiling, as if trying to pierce through the endless darkness above.
The fury inside her gnawed at her soul like a wild beast, tearing her apart from the inside.
She hated herself.
Hated how foolish she had been — trusting, again and again, the very people she should have guarded against.
Every time she opened her heart, it was met with a dagger. Every ounce of trust she gave was repaid in blood.
And she hated fate itself.
Why was she always the one betrayed?
Why did pain and suffering always find her?
The helplessness wrapped around her like an invisible web, binding her tight. No matter how she struggled, she couldn't break free from this suffocating abyss.
Suddenly, a voice roared from deep within her.
It exploded in her mind like thunder:
"Why?! Why must I bear this again and again? Why do the betrayers walk away unharmed?"
The voice grew louder, more furious, crashing against the walls of her heart like a raging flood, breaking through every dam she had tried to build.
Serapha shot upright in bed.
Her eyes burned with a fierce, unyielding fire — the fury she had suppressed for so long finally tearing free.
Suddenly, everything before her went dark. Her consciousness blurred.
In that fleeting moment, she remembered only one thing — her voice, hoarse with hatred, spitting out a curse:
"I want everyone who has ever used me, humiliated me... to die!"
And in the next instant, she seemed to hear screams — panicked, terrified screams — echoing around her, the sound of people fleeing in fear.
That chaos filled her with a strange, almost euphoric satisfaction.
She watched, detached, as those who had once hurt her scrambled in terror,
and for the first time in what felt like centuries,
her hatred found a release.
But when she finally regained full consciousness,
she found herself standing in the sands of the Egyptian desert.
Beside her,
lay a dried-up corpse.