Part 3It's Never Too Late for Revenge

Over the next 15 years, having lost a kidney and endured such trauma, my health was consistently poor. I couldn't take on any heavy labor, and my earnings were barely enough to support myself.

I always lived in the cheapest rental houses available in the city slums. Every day, I'd collapse onto the rickety bed after work, and the night would be over in the blink of an eye.

I didn't delete Isabella's contact information from my phone. She hadn't deleted me from her WhatsApp either, perhaps because I'd so readily agreed to the divorce back then, so she was satisfied with my performance.

For the past 15 years, I'd watched her and Phil live their lives as a silent spectator.

She'd married Phil after our divorce, and they'd held a grand wedding.

Isabella was very proud of Phil's daughter, whom he and Isabella had conceived behind my back while I was still married to her. Her social media had become an album tracking Jennifer's growth—the awards she won, her academic rankings, her admission to a prestigious middle school.

Just yesterday, I came across Isabella's latest post on her timeline.

In the very center of a nine-grid set of photos was a photo of a spirited young woman dressed in a police cadet's uniform.

Isabella's caption for it read, "Congratulations to my daughter Jennifer for passing both the physical examination and interview for the police academy! She had her heart set on this academy ever since scoring among the top ten in the city for sciences!

"It's only a matter of time before she brings honor to our family! Her ancestors must be so proud!"

I stared at the post for an entire night.

Then, as the sun began to rise, I let out my first genuine laugh in 15 years.

I laughed like a maniac, tears streaming freely down my face.

I hadn't cried since the night Mom drove me away.

Over the past 15 years, countless friends and relatives had scorned me for being a spineless ingrate after severing ties with me. They'd cursed me for overlooking Dad's death for the sake of a woman, but I didn't care what they thought.

I waited alone for 15 years until I finally had the opportunity I wanted.

"That's how everything unfolded, and the details of what I wished to report."

It was only then that I realized my voice had gone hoarse from speaking. It made sense—I'd barely spoken to anyone for the past 15 years. Although I lived in a big city, I lived like an insect in the shadows, barely sustaining myself while clinging to a single conviction.

After listening to my account, the supervisor was silent for a long time—long enough that I thought he'd hung up on me.

Eventually, he said, "Sir, we've made a detailed record of your report. Can you guarantee that every word of it is true, and that you're willing to be held accountable for it?"

"I can," I replied resolutely.

"Alright. Thank you for your report. We'll form an investigative team to thoroughly verify your account immediately. During our investigation, we'll suspend Jennifer Gentry's vetting process."

After hanging up, I collapsed to the floor as if I'd expended 15 years' worth of energy at once.

15 years. I'd waited 15 years for this.

Dad, did you know?

This lowly insect had finally found a blade fit for its revenge, and it was now about to transform into a vengeful demon.