Wrapped in a white robe that stopped at his knees, his wet hair stuck to his forehead, Chris stood barefoot before the mirror. His gaze stayed locked on his wounded palms as he wrapped fresh bandages around them. The first aid box sat open inside the sink below the mirror.
The bathroom smelled of floral soap and water, but beneath it lingered a faint tang of blood.
His mouth was a tight line. Shoulders slack. Eyes bloodshot, bruised by shadows.
He had made up his mind last night, he reminded himself, tightening the bandage with a sharp tug. He would ask his uncle. He needed to know—why him?
"I think we should let him go. Let him stay somewhere far away from here," he remembered hearing his uncle's wife whisper just as he reached their bedroom door.
His uncle and his wife sat on the bed, facing each other with grim expressions as though a storm was brewing between them.
"What do you mean?" Chris heard his uncle's voice, his brows knitting in confusion. Chris knew he shouldn't listen. It wasn't his business. He began to step back, but the next words froze him in place.
"Chris is cursed, Felix. The prophetess said so." His uncle's wife exhaled, shaking her head. "Don't tell me you don't believe it?"
Chris couldn't move—neither forward nor back. The world seemed to pause around him, and all he could hear was the argument echoing inside the room—and the pounding of his own heartbeat like a suspenseful drumbeat.
"And don't tell me you do!" his uncle snapped, disgust rising in his voice as he stood abruptly, as though needing space from his wife's words. "Those people are frauds. They want our money!" He gestured toward the door with irritation.
"No!" she shouted, her voice trembling with fury. "If they wanted our money, they'd have contacted us again. But they didn't!"
"I'm not sending my nephew anywhere! Nowhere, Jessica!"
Chris clutched his pajama shirt as his whole body trembled. His head buzzed, and the voices in the room seemed to fade into nothing. Only one phrase rang loud and clear:
"He's cursed."
Chris slammed his hand against the counter, the word echoing in his head again like a curse. He clenched his fists, his breath coming in heavy bursts.
Sometimes, he felt foolish for ever believing in prophecies. His father had been a staunch atheist, while his mother was a devout Christian. They had fought endlessly over faith and spirituality. Chris imagined his father hearing that conversation; he would have said the same thing as Uncle Felix. Maybe that was one of the few things the brothers had in common.
Chris had chosen his father's path—chosen not to believe. But everything had work against him.
Now, he had made a choice.
He stared at his reflection and repeated, "I'll find the prophetess."
Even if death awaited him, this would be his final act. He needed to know the truth. To confront her. To know why.
A sharp beep shattered the silence. Chris flinched, as though the sound had pierced his thoughts. He frowned, dug into his pocket, and pulled out his phone. His brows furrowed deeper when he saw the caller.
"Alex," he muttered, exhaling as he answered.
There was silence on the other end, long and weighted. Chris waited, as if daring Alex to speak first. Eventually, he heard a sigh through the receiver, and the quiet stretched a second too long.
Chris gripped the phone tighter, his patience thinning.
"What?" he snapped, irritation leaking into his voice.
"Have you checked the internet?"
Chris squinted, replaying Alex's words. With him, the conversation was almost always about his health.
"What are you talking about?"he asked cautiously.
"Go to your page," Alex replied—and hung up.
Alex's last words dredged up a memory.
"You think no one knows about you? The cursed CEO—the cursed child!"
Chris stared at the phone, unease crawling under his skin. Was it his illness? His past? He shut his eyes, trying to block the rising panic.
With a trembling hand, he opened his page. His eyes widened as he took in the screen.
His sketches—his artwork for the exhibition—were online.
Unfinished. Exposed. His dreams, laid bare—as if he were naked beneath a spotlight, every flaw magnified.
His project.
His future.
Disbelief flooded him. He let out a hollow scoff, veins tensing beneath his skin.
A wrong hand. A wrong link. And now, the world saw what wasn't ready.
"I warned her," Chris growled through clenched teeth.
He scrolled through the flood of comments. Guest withdrawals. Investor doubts. Critics tearing his work apart.
Is this what Nova Company is presenting?
I expected something groundbreaking.
The painting lacks emotion. Not impressed.
Chris slammed the phone onto the vanity shelf beneath the mirror. His head throbbed as though a metal band were tightening around his skull. Gripping the sink, he tried to steady his trembling fingers and calm his ragged breath.
"Isa,"he muttered.
He had known. Deep down, he had known she wasn't competent. She couldn't handle the responsibility. But guilt had clouded his judgment. Pity had weakened his resolve. He had let a promise to his uncle override his instinct.
And now?
Now, he had destroyed everything he had built.
Years of work undone in seconds. The future he'd fought for—smeared in pixels and judgment.
Because of her.
She had made her final mistake.