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?"