He was the one who drove Mathias to his death in my last life.

"You’re back?" His voice was flat, completely unreadable.

"Jonathan, this is Tyler." Mom gave me a small push, her face instantly bright with a practiced smile. "Tyler, say hello to your Uncle Jonathan."

I stepped forward and gave a slight bow. "Hello, Uncle Jonathan."

Jonathan turned a page in his book as if he hadn’t heard me. A few seconds later, he let out a quiet hum through his nose.

"Mm."

His gaze flicked briefly to my wet shoes. His brow creased ever so slightly. "The carpet was just replaced."

He lowered his head again, returning to his book. "The first room on the left upstairs is the guest room. It’s been cleaned out."

"Thank you, Uncle Jonathan," I said.

Mom visibly relaxed and pulled me toward the stairs.

"See? Your Uncle Jonathan is a good man." She lowered her voice. "As long as you don’t upset him, you’ll be able to stay in this house."

The room was large and empty.

"Mom." I stopped her as she was about to leave.

"What now?"

"I want to switch rooms."

Her expression changed instantly. "Tyler Clark, you just got here, and you’re already being picky? What’s wrong with this room? It’s a hundred times better than the dump your father lives in. Don’t be ungrateful."

I looked at her calmly as she vented, only speaking after she finished.

"There’s nothing wrong with it. It just faces north. It’s too cold. I want a south-facing room. It doesn’t matter if it’s smaller."

I really was cold. The brain tumor had thrown off my body’s ability to regulate temperature. It felt like I was trapped in a freezer all the time. Only sunlight gave me even a hint of warmth.

"Cold? Then turn on the A/C." Mom looked at me like I was being unreasonable. "The south-facing room is your Uncle Jonathan’s study. The other one is a storage room."

"Then I’ll take the storage room."

Her eyes widened. "Are you insane? You’re turning down a perfectly good guest room to live in a storage closet? Are you trying to make your Uncle Jonathan think I’m abusing you?"

Her voice turned sharp and shrill.

I pressed my fingers against my throbbing temple. It was too loud.

"I’m just afraid of the cold," I repeated.

Just then, there was a soft knock at the door. Jonathan stood there at some point, holding a glass of water, his expression dark.

"What’s all the noise about?"

Mom immediately switched her demeanor, her voice trembling slightly. "It’s nothing, Jonathan. Tyler’s being difficult, complaining about the room. I’ll discipline him right away."

Jonathan looked at me.

I met his gaze. His complexion was pale, his lips nearly colorless. He looked like someone already halfway to death.

"Where do you want to stay?" he asked.

"The south-facing one." I pointed toward the end of the hallway.

"That’s where the old furniture is."

"That’s fine. As long as there’s sunlight."

He fell silent for a moment. "Suit yourself. Just don’t shout in the hallway."

With that, he turned and left, completely uninterested in the dispute between mother and son.

Mom jabbed a finger against my forehead, frustrated. "Do whatever you want. Living in a storage room… What will people think of me?"

I ignored her. Carrying my woven sack, I walked to the end of the hallway and pushed open the door.

A wave of dust hit me in the face, but I saw the floor-to-ceiling window. When the sun rose tomorrow, this place would be warm. That was enough.

I made the bed and placed the photo album under my pillow. The diagnosis report was tucked inside. As long as I didn’t die, no one would bother digging through my things.

That night, I slept deeply.

No debt collectors in my dreams. Only endless, boundless darkness.

I settled into life in this house like a ghost.

Jonathan preferred silence. Even the house staff walked on tiptoes.

Every day, Mom tried new ways to please him. She made casseroles, gave him massages, and sat with him watching those dry financial news programs. In this house, she lived like a high-end housekeeper.

As for me, I barely left my room except to eat. I cleaned out the storage room until it was spotless. Even though it was still packed with old furniture, the sunlight there was perfect. I often dragged a chair to the window and sat there for hours, basking in the sun, like an old man waiting for the end.

Sometimes Jonathan would pass by my door. When he saw me sitting in the sunlight, he would pause for a moment, but he never said anything.

The look in his eyes was strange, like he was looking at a reflection of himself.

That afternoon at lunch, the table was quiet. The only sound was the faint clink of cutlery against plates.

My phone suddenly vibrated. In the silence, it sounded like an alarm.

Jonathan frowned.

Mom immediately set down her spoon and shot me a glare. "Who told you to bring your phone to the table? How rude. Hang up."

I took out my phone and glanced at the screen.

It was Mathias.

I declined the call.

Two seconds later, it rang again, and I declined it again.

The third time it buzzed, Jonathan set down his cutlery.

"Take it," he said flatly. "It’s giving me a headache."

I took the phone and stepped out onto the balcony. The moment I answered, Mathias’s voice exploded through the line.

"Tyler, are you doing this on purpose? You took the bankbook, didn’t you?"

I held the phone a little farther away. "What bankbook?"

"Dad said the one at home is missing. You must’ve stolen it. There’s $5,000 in there!"

I laughed. That $5,000 was what I earned last summer hauling bricks at a construction site.

"I earned that money," I said.

"If you earned it, it still belongs to the family." Mathias sounded completely justified. "Dad doesn’t even have money for cigarettes right now. He’s losing his temper at home. Transfer the money back now. Or I’ll tell Mom you stole it."

From the other end of the line came the sound of things smashing and Dad’s angry shouting.

"Ungrateful trash! Raising you was a waste. I should’ve strangled you when you were born."

Even across hundreds of miles, those words made it hard to breathe.

"I didn’t steal anything," I said calmly. "That was supposed to be my medical fund."

"Medical fund? What’s wrong with you?" Mathias let out a mocking laugh. "What are you acting so delicate for? Transfer the money now, or I’ll go to your school and make a scene. I’ll tell everyone you don’t care if your own father lives or dies."

I looked out over the garden. The flowers were in full bloom, red as blood.

"Mathias, you chose your path. You’ll live with it. Don’t bother me again." I hung up and blocked his number.

As I turned, I felt something warm under my nose.

I reached up. My hand came away covered in blood. I fumbled for tissues and pressed them against my nose, tilting my head back to stop the bleeding. The blood flowed fast, running down my throat and into my stomach, making me nauseous.

I rushed into the downstairs bathroom.

Standing in front of the mirror, I watched as the bright red blood stained half my face. I turned on the faucet and started washing frantically.

"What are you doing?"

A voice came from behind me.

I froze.

Through the mirror, I saw Jonathan standing in the doorway. He looked at my face, wet with water and streaked with blood, his gaze deep and unreadable.

I wiped my face hastily.

"Just a nosebleed," I said, keeping my head down. "Probably the heat."

Jonathan didn’t respond. He walked over and handed me a clean towel. "Wipe it."

I took it and pressed it to my nose. "Thank you, Uncle Jonathan."

His eyes lingered on the faint red stains still in the sink. "Does this happen often?"

"Sometimes," I lied. The nosebleeds had been getting more frequent lately.

Jonathan stared at me for a moment. "You should go to the hospital," he said.

"It’s fine. Just an old issue." I kept my head down, trying to move past him.

"Tyler." He stopped me. "In this house, you don’t have to live like you’re walking on eggshells. Your mother is your mother. You are you."

I paused and looked up at him. His expression was still cold, but there was something in his eyes I couldn’t quite understand.

"If you don’t feel well, say it. No one’s going to give you a medal for toughing it out."

Then he turned and walked away, leaving me standing alone in the bathroom.

The towel in my hand still carried a faint scent of pine.

His scent.

And beneath it… something faintly resembling death.

Jonathan had a secret.

I knew, because I had seen it with my own eyes.

In the trash can in his study, I found a pill bottle, just like mine. It was painkillers—the strong kind prescribed for late-stage cancer patients.

That day, Mom told me to bring a plate of fruit to the study. Jonathan wasn’t there because he had gone to the hospital for dialysis.

I set the fruit down and was about to leave when I noticed the familiar white bottle in the trash. I picked it up and took a closer look. It was labeled as ibuprofen extended-release capsules. However, inside were morphine tablets.

I had used the same trick before. Putting life-saving medication into an ordinary vitamin bottle to deceive others and myself.

So the man who seemed untouchable, the cold-blooded figure Mathias once called a monster, was enduring his own private hell.

I put the bottle back and pretended I hadn’t seen anything.

That night, Jonathan came home. He looked worse than usual, his steps unsteady. Mom rushed up to him, trying to help.

"Don’t touch me." He pulled away, his voice strained with suppressed pain.

Mom’s hand froze midair, her eyes reddening. "Jonathan, did I do something wrong?"

"I’m just tired." He didn’t look at her as he went straight upstairs.

When he passed by me, he paused.

In that brief moment, I caught the sharp scent of disinfectant on him, and beneath it… a faint trace of blood. It was the smell left behind by dialysis.

That night, I woke up from the pain. The tumor in my brain was crushing my nerves, relentless and merciless. Cold sweat drenched my body as I curled under the blanket, trembling.

I wanted water. I forced myself up and staggered toward the stairs.

The living room lights were off, but I saw a shadow on the sofa.

Jonathan sat there, motionless. A cigarette burned between his fingers, glowing faintly in the dark.

I didn’t dare make a sound. I tried to slip back upstairs quietly.

"If you’re awake, come here." His hoarse and exhausted voice came from the darkness.

I had no choice but to walk over. "Uncle Jonathan."

"Do you know how to play chess?" he asked.

"A little."

"Play a game with me."

I sat across from him. In the faint moonlight, his face was pale as paper, beads of cold sweat covering his forehead. He was in pain, just like me.

We played three games.

Neither of us spoke. Only the crisp sound of pieces hitting the board filled the silence.

His moves were aggressive, almost violent, like he was venting something. Mine were steady and deliberate.

"You’re afraid of losing?" Jonathan suddenly asked.

"I can’t afford to lose." I placed my next piece.

Jonathan let out a quiet chuckle. "Life is a losing game. No matter how hard you struggle, you end up losing anyway."

I didn’t argue.

By the time dawn approached, the final game ended.

A draw.

I started to gather the pieces, ready to return to my room.

Suddenly, Jonathan’s hand pressed down on the board. He lifted his head, his deep eyes locking onto mine.

"Tyler, how long were you planning to keep the diagnosis report you hid under your pillow from me?"