Part 2Pain Transfer System

Julian rushed Monica to his own hospital, City Central, straight into the emergency room. Her screams echoed through the entire ER. He pulled some strings and ordered an emergency full-body CT scan. He stood in the control room, his eyes glued to the monitor.

When the images appeared, the attending physician gasped. "Dr. Barclay... this... this is impossible!"

Julian shoved the doctor aside. On the screen was a massive, irregularly bordered tumor in her stomach. But that wasn't all. Her liver, lungs, even her bones were riddled with metastatic lesions.

It was real. Stage-four stomach cancer, spread throughout her entire body. Incurable.

Julian's legs gave out, and he nearly collapsed. "How can this be? She had a full physical just last month at this very hospital. All her markers were normal!"

The physician sighed. "The images don't lie. With this level of metastasis, she has three months to live, at most."

From the ER, Monica's screams continued unabated. They gave her painkiller after painkiller, but even the highest dose of morphine couldn't touch the pain. She had ripped the bedsheets to shreds.

Julian burst into her room, grabbing her hand. "Monica, don't be afraid. I'm the best surgeon there is. I will save you!"

Ignoring the other doctor's advice, he scheduled an emergency surgery. He was going to open her up and cut the tumor out himself.

The operating light flickered on. Julian scrubbed in, scalpel in hand. The moment he made the first incision, he despaired. Her abdominal cavity was filled with cancerous fluid and nodules. Her stomach was a necrotic, pulpy mess. There was nothing to cut, nowhere to start.

His celebrated surgical skill was a joke.

Julian's hands began to tremble, and the scalpel clattered to the floor. He leaned against the operating table, buried his face in his hands, and broke down sobbing.

Meanwhile, I had returned to the Vance family estate.

The moment I walked in, a teacup flew past my head, shattering at my feet. My father was on the sofa, his face crimson with rage.

"You insolent girl! Do you have any idea what you've done? Calling off the engagement in front of all those people! What about the Barclay family's dignity? What about our family's dignity?"

I looked at him coldly. "Julian abandoned me for another woman. Did you want me to get on my knees and beg him to stay?"

My father slammed his hand on the table and shot to his feet. "She was a patient! Julian is a doctor! Saving lives is his duty! Not only did you show no understanding, you said those vicious things! You will go to the hospital right now, apologize to Julian, and apologize to that girl!"

I stood my ground. "No."

He pointed a trembling finger at me. "If you don't go, you are no longer my daughter!"

When I still didn't move, he clutched his chest, his body swaying. "You... you're trying to kill me! Oh, my heart... I think I'm having a heart attack!" He collapsed onto the sofa, gasping for air.

My mother rushed to his side, then turned to me. "Seraphina! Are you trying to give your father a heart attack?"

I looked at my father's clumsy performance and sneered. He got a full physical twice a year; his heart was as strong as an ox. And now he was pulling this stunt to make me back down.

I walked over to the sofa. "A heart attack, is it? It's very painful. Are you sure you want one?"

My father faltered for a second, then cried out even louder. "You ungrateful child! You really are giving me a heart attack!"

I nodded. "Alright. As you wish."

Instantly, the color drained from my father's face. His eyes flew open, his hands clawing at his chest. His lips, once ruddy, turned a sickening shade of blue. He gasped, but no sound came out, only a rattling in his throat. He tumbled off the sofa, his body convulsing on the floor.

My mother was stunned. "Honey? Honey, what's wrong? Don't scare me!"

My father's eyes had rolled back. He was unconscious.

I calmly took out my phone and dialed 911. "Yes, Vance Estate. We have a case of acute myocardial infarction. Bring a defibrillator. Hurry."

Fifteen minutes later, the ambulance arrived. The paramedics performed CPR on the spot. "No heartbeat! Charging! Clear!"

Thump!

My father's body arched off the floor. It took three shocks to get a faint, thready pulse. The paramedics, sweating, loaded him onto a gurney. "Family needs to come now! We could lose him any second!"

My mother followed, crying. As she left, she shot me a look of pure terror. She had suddenly remembered my terrifying "gift," my "crow's beak" that had followed me since childhood.

The house fell silent. The maids hid in corners, not daring to breathe.

I sat on the sofa and poured myself a cup of tea.

Faking an illness?

In my presence, no one gets away with it.