Derek Finch's wails echoed through the hospital corridor. I laughed.

In my past life, I'd be lying in the bed next to him right now, mummified in bandages, foolish enough to expect his gratitude—waiting for a "thank you" that would never come.

Not this time. I stood outside the emergency room, completely unscathed.

The girl who "saved" him had a death grip on a nurse's arm, her voice sharp enough to shatter glass.

"Hey! Don't walk away! That guy hasn't paid me yet! Two million! He said he'd give me two million!"

The nurse looked ready to snap. "Miss, the patient is severely burned and unconscious. He needs immediate trauma care. Get out of the way!"

"No! If he dies, who am I supposed to get the money from?" She actually lunged for the stretcher. "I risked my life for this!"

Watching her claw at the dying man, her face twisted with greed, I couldn't reconcile her with the "Department Beauty" Derek had hallucinated about.

I shook my head and turned to the police officers.

As the sole eyewitness, I laid out the facts exactly as they happened—especially the most crucial detail: Derek had refused my help.

"He was lucid," I told the officer. "He explicitly rejected my rescue attempt because he was waiting for the 'Department Beauty' to save him."

I also described how the other girl's clumsy dragging caused the secondary explosion.

The young officer frowned. "Let me get this straight. The victim was conscious, and he refused to be rescued?"

"Yes. He insisted on waiting. The hallway surveillance cameras will back me up. I didn't abandon him—he sent me away."

The officers exchanged baffled looks.

After finishing my statement, I stepped back into the corridor just in time to run into Derek's parents.

In my previous life, Vincent and Isabella Finch had despised me. They picked apart every aspect of my existence, claiming my common background made me unworthy of their "genius" son.

Now, Isabella was sobbing hysterically while Vincent cornered the doctor, his face purple with rage.

"What do you mean his hands are gone?" Vincent roared. "He's going to hold a scalpel! He's a future surgical prodigy! You have to save his hands!"

The doctor shook his head. "Mr. Finch, the hands were subjected to extreme sustained heat. But the real damage came from the secondary tearing caused by rough extraction. The nerves and tendons are necrotic."

He paused. "Saving his life is a miracle in itself. As for his hands... he'll struggle to hold chopsticks, let alone a surgical instrument."

Isabella's eyes rolled back. She collapsed in a dead faint.

Vincent slammed his fist against the wall. "I don't care! My son is not ruined! Fix him!"

Watching from the sidelines, I felt nothing but cold detachment.

Is this the choice you wanted, Derek?

In the past, I'd cut the power and used wet cloths to shield his hands. I'd used leverage to move the debris carefully, ensuring he was extracted intact. I destroyed my own lungs in the process, leaving me with a lifelong respiratory illness.

And he hated me for it.

I wondered if he'd be satisfied with the "Department Beauty" who'd just crippled him for life.

Right on cue, the savior herself stormed over.

"You're his parents, right? Perfect!" She held out her hand. "Your son promised me two million if I got him out. Hurry up and pay!"

Vincent whipped around, brows knitting furiously. "Who the hell are you? This is a hospital—stop screaming!"

"I'm his savior!" The girl puffed out her chest, oblivious to the atmosphere. "If I hadn't dragged him out, he'd be a pile of ash by now! Pay up. Two million, not a cent less!"

Vincent froze. His eyes narrowed.

"You dragged him out?"

Vincent Finch's face darkened.

"The doctor said his hands are destroyed because they were dragged across the ground! If you lack common sense, stay out of rescue situations!"

Rage propelled him forward. He seized the girl by the collar.

That single, violent tug revealed something impossible.

"Watch it! What are you, a pervert?"

She slapped his hand away, clutching her collar tight against her throat.

My expression shifted.

I replayed the image in my mind.

This girl was not simple.

"Cut the crap! You ruined my son's life, and you will take responsibility!" Isabella joined the fray, grabbing at the girl's arm.

The moment Isabella made contact, the girl threw herself to the floor. She rolled around, wailing at the top of her lungs.

"Murder! The rich are killing the poor! I saved a life and this is the thanks I get? Help! They're framing me!"

The corridor dissolved into chaos.

I had no patience for this farce. Turning on my heel, I left the hospital.

Back at school, I poured myself into my major. My dedication paid off—I soon secured a mentorship under a nationally renowned forensic medicine professor. My future was bright, the path clear.

I didn't see Derek again until a month later.

I had returned to the hospital to collect case materials for the professor. He had been transferred to a regular ward.

He had survived, but the cost was steep. Just as the doctor predicted, the hands he once prided himself on were swathed in thick gauze, useless and ruined.

Worse, his fractured right leg hadn't been set in time. Combined with the dislocation from being dragged, it healed poorly. He would walk with a limp for the rest of his life.

As I passed his room, shouting erupted from inside.

"Dad! Mom! Give her the money! I promised her!"

Derek's voice was hoarse, desperate.

"Are you insane?" Vincent's roar shook the walls. "That woman is a street rat! She's not a student! The university checked—there is no 'Chelsea' in the Forensic Science Department!"

Vincent sounded broken. Despairing.

But Derek refused to listen.

"Liar! You just look down on her because she's poor!"

"She is my savior! The love of my life!"

"I lost her once and regretted it for a lifetime. I won't let go this time!"

He screamed, eyes red and manic.

"You bastard! You'd throw away your hands, your education, everything—for a delinquent?"

"So what if my hands are gone? I don't need to be a surgeon to live! As long as she's here, I can start over!"

"Fine. Fine!"

Vincent let out a cold, incredulous laugh.

"You have so much backbone? Good. As of today, I have no son. I'm freezing all your accounts. You're on your own."

"Freeze them! Keep your stinking money!"

The door flew open. Vincent and Isabella stormed out, trembling with fury.

Through the crack in the door, I watched Derek on the hospital bed.

"Chelsea, you'll stay with me forever, right?"

His tone dripped with pathetic excitement.

Only then did I notice the 'savior' sitting in the corner.

Chelsea curled her lip, peeling an apple. She shoved a slice into Derek's mouth to shut him up.

"Get the money first. Then we'll talk."

She mumbled the words, stood, and headed for the restroom.

As she turned, her collar slipped down her shoulder.

The sight confirmed the suspicion that had taken root a month ago.

My instincts were right.

She wasn't the beauty of the Forensic Science Department.

She wasn't even a 'she.'

That day in the corridor, when Vincent tugged at Chelsea's collar, I had seen it clearly beneath the heavy foundation and the strategically placed scarf.

A protruding laryngeal prominence.

An Adam's apple.

In the chaos of the struggle, biology betrayed the disguise.

My forensic training kicked in instantly. The bone structure, muscle density, the sheer mechanics of the body—"Chelsea," the so-called campus beauty, was a fraud. A man in a dress.

I had no intention of warning Derek Finch.

In my past life, he had sacrificed me for this illusion, pushing me into a living hell. In this life? If he wanted his "white moonlight" so badly, he could have him. I would sit back and let him enjoy every twisted second of this unique love.

Derek's discharge day was a spectacle of humiliation.

The Finches were ruthless. Seeing their son obstinately clinging to that delinquent, they nuked the bridge—published a newspaper announcement severing ties, repossessed his luxury car and apartment, froze every credit card in his name.

"Derek, don't be afraid. Even if the whole world turns its back on you, I never will."

Chelsea dabbed at dry eyes, her gaze locked not on Derek's face, but on the Vacheron Constantin on his wrist.

Oblivious to the predatory stare, Derek wept with gratitude.

"Chelsea, I knew it! You're the only one who truly loves me. I swear, I'll get you that two million. When I make it big, you'll be the happiest woman alive."

They moved into a cramped room in the slums that very night.

Though I tried to distance myself from Derek's train wreck of a life, the scandal was too loud to ignore. He was an alumnus involved in a massive public fallout; gossip followed him everywhere. As I shadowed my professor on cases, updates drifted my way.

Derek, unable to care for himself, relied entirely on Chelsea. And in that intimacy, he started noticing quirks.

Chelsea guarded the bathroom like a fortress, locking the door for every shower. Her strength was unnatural—she hauled a heavy gas cylinder up five flights one-handed.

Yet Derek bragged on social media: "My Chelsea is such a tough girl. So straightforward and cute!"

Then came the rumor that someone saw Chelsea urinating standing up.

Derek's defense was immediate and delusional: "It's a European lifestyle trend. You peasants wouldn't understand. Chelsea is forward-thinking!"

Reading the classmates' mocking reposts, I laughed until my ribs ached.

Desperate to prove he didn't need the Finch fortune, Derek dragged his crippled body to deliver takeout. But with weak hands and a lame leg, he was fired within two days after a barrage of complaints.

Finally, Chelsea "couldn't bear to watch" and produced a stack of cash.

"Derek, this is the dowry I saved. It's not much, but it's enough to start a small business."

Derek nearly fell to his knees. He told anyone who would listen, "See? This is true love! Valerie Fox is just a gold digger who abandoned me, but Chelsea is my salvation!"

People looked at him like he was deranged.

By then, I was already assisting on high-profile investigations. He was a disowned cripple; I was a rising forensic consultant. Worlds apart.

Through my police connections, I quickly realized the source of Chelsea's "dowry." It wasn't savings. It was loot.

A string of burglaries had plagued their neighborhood—electric scooters, jewelry, cash. The police had opened files but lacked hard evidence.

I didn't. Cross-referencing the timeline with surveillance footage, I spotted a familiar silhouette.

Chelsea.