"Bran, just plead guilty. Your dad and I only want to keep you from going down the wrong path. You just have to spend ten years in prison, come out, and start over. We'll be waiting for you at home." Mom looked at me with feigned concern, like she was about to cry.

In my past life, I would've softened and listened to her. In fact, I did. Now, hearing the same words again only made me sick.

"Brandon, don't be stubborn. Mom and Dad treat you even better than they treat me. You just broke their hearts. Just admit it." Even Cody joined in. And just like that, they pushed me into a corner.

Our relatives started chiming in one after another.

"What's the point of raising a son like this? We all saw how your parents doted on you growing up, treating you like a fragile piece of glass. Now, you don't even know how to be grateful."

"Exactly. I thought Brandon would turn out more reliable than Cody. What a disappointment. It makes me think twice about having more than one child, especially giving all your love to the eldest."

One relative even hurled a shoe straight at my face, shrieking hysterically, "You ungrateful bastard! Treating your parents like this… aren't you afraid of karma? If your parents won't discipline you, I will!"

The shoe struck the side of my forehead with a thud. I slowly closed my eyes, ignoring them, then turned to Judge Caine. "I've made my decision. You may begin."

The moment I spoke, I caught the flicker of unease on my parents' and Cody's faces.

Mom dropped to her knees, pounding her chest as she wailed, "Heavens, what did I do to deserve this? The son I raised with such care is dragging us to court!"

I sneered inwardly. Weren't they the ones who brought me here? If I obediently pleaded guilty and refused memory extraction, would that make me a filial son?

I'd already been a fool once. I wasn't about to repeat it in this life. Whatever debt I owed them had long been repaid. What I got in return was never gratitude or mercy, only calculation.

Judge Caine struck the gavel. "Order!"

Mom tried to keep making a scene, but the bailiffs held her back.

"We will now proceed with the judgment. The charges brought by the plaintiff will be examined one by one through memory extraction. I will determine judgment accordingly. Anyone who objects may submit an appeal."

With a sharp click, metal restraints rose around my seat. High-voltage currents ran through them.

Memory extraction was an agonizing process. Both body and mind were pushed to the brink. The moment the extraction device touched my head, it felt like my whole body was hit by a surge of electricity. The extreme pain caused me to break out in cold sweat.

Even so, I didn't hesitate.

Compared to my last life—coughing every day in that prison cell, my lungs rattling like broken bellows, and the pain so intense in the later stages that I would pass out—this was nothing.

Perhaps fueled by endless hatred, I clenched my teeth. I was already drenched in sweat.

The broadcast went live on the giant screen. Within seconds, millions of viewers flooded in. I knew they were all waiting to tear me apart. But that was exactly what I wanted.

Without an audience, how could I expose my family's hypocrisy?

They wouldn't get away with it this time.

Judge Caine began to read, "First charge. When the defendant's mother was unwell, the defendant neither contributed financially nor showed up in person. Defendant, do you plead guilty?"

I licked my cracked lips. Even without a mirror, I knew my face must be deathly pale.

"I do not." My voice was low, but the microphone beside me carried it clearly.

"Very well. Based on the plaintiff's evidence, we will reconstruct the events."

The evidence Judge Caine referred to was my parents' version of events, pieced together from their memories. Only after that would mine be revealed.

The screen immediately shifted to three years ago. Mom had been hit by a car while jaywalking. Since she was at fault, the driver refused to compensate us. Our family had no choice but to accept the loss.

In the hospital, Mom's leg was broken. Sweat beaded across her forehead from the pain.

Cody rushed over from school, while Dad returned from outside the ward, looking dejected as he said, "There's not enough money on the card. Call Bran. Tell him to bring cash."

Cody quickly called me, his voice urgent. "Bran, Mom's been hit by a car. Come to the hospital right away and bring money!"

My quiet reply came through the phone. "I can't make it. Um…"

Before I could finish, the call was cut. Cody slammed his phone down in anger and turned to Mom, saying, "Bran says he's not coming, and he won't give any money. What kind of brother do I have?"

Mom burst into tears. "I raised him all these years, and this is what I get? I'm dying, and I can't even see him once. Why is my life so miserable?"

From the gallery, my relatives erupted in outrage, pointing at me as they cursed.

"Brandon, do you even have a conscience? When you had a high fever as a kid, your family wasn't well off, and your mom carried you miles in the middle of the night to find a doctor. Now that you're grown up, is this how you repay her? How could you be so heartless?"

When I was a kid? I let out a cold laugh. Mom really had put on a flawless act.

I'd only developed a fever because she was busy playing poker. I told her early on that I didn't feel well. She snapped, secretly kicking me, her voice vicious in my ear. "You're blocking my luck, you jinx! Get lost. It's just a little fever. Why are you whining? You're such a dramatic kid!"

In the end, I said nothing. I went home, curled up in bed, and drifted in and out of sleep.

When Mom came back, she didn't even notice me. She tiptoed to Cody's bedside and gently kissed him.

It was only when my aunt came by and noticed something was wrong. She touched my forehead, only to find it burning hot, and quickly told Mom.

Mom played the devoted parent act perfectly in front of people, treating me well only when others were around. Even when my aunt insisted on driving me to the hospital, Mom acted as if she hadn't heard, carrying me and rushing out the door.

The story quickly spread throughout the neighborhood. Everyone said Mom loved me most.

But that night, the doctor said I had nearly burned my brain out, questioning why they had waited so long to bring me in. Mom couldn't answer.

Of course she couldn't. She had been too busy playing poker to even make me dinner. The only thing I had to drink was cold water. No child's stomach could've handled that.

Back in the present, Mom looked at me with a smug expression, as if certain I had no way to defend myself. After all, it was true that I hadn't gone to the hospital or given them money.

I had to admit, my parents were good at choosing incidents that favored them.

Even so, Mom continued her tearful performance, her tears seemingly for me, but in reality, they were for the relatives watching.

"Bran, I can understand if you didn't want to pay for my treatment. But when I was hospitalized, you didn't even visit once. What kind of son…"

The live chat comments immediately turned against me.

"What could possibly be so important that you can't even take a call? I reply to messages while waiting at traffic lights. How can you call yourself someone's son?"

"Unbelievable. Parents are usually closest to the child they favor most, but it's the opposite here. His brother is a better son than he is."

Some comments were also on my side.

"What if he really had something urgent? I once took a call from home during a meeting and got fired for it."

"To the commenter above, how often does something like that actually happen?"

The live chat went back and forth, while my relatives in the gallery hurled insults that were hard to listen to. Meanwhile, Mom kept wiping her tears, playing the perfect victim.

Judge Caine glanced at me. "We will now extract the defendant's memory."

A surge of electricity shot through my body. I convulsed, fists clenched tight, forcing myself not to make a sound.

The screen shifted to my perspective. I was sitting by the roadside, chewing on bread under the blazing sun, sweat soaking through my clothes. Around me were laborers waiting for work. I was one of them.

At the time, my company downsized. Because I hadn't bribed HR, I was laid off. I couldn't afford to sit idle. I had nothing to my name.

My phone rang. I had barely said half a sentence when a truck arrived to pick workers. Everyone rushed forward. My phone was knocked out of my hand and hit the ground, the screen shattering.

Worried about Mom, I dropped to the ground, scrambling to find my phone. But people kept kicking it around. By the time I finally picked it up, it had already turned off.

I didn't have time to think. I heard someone shout that it was 200 dollars for three hours of work. A coworker I got along with pulled me onto the truck.

Once inside, I borrowed his phone to call Cody. But he declined every call.

The live chat comments began to shift.

"I thought Brandon was supposed to be the richest one. Did you guys notice? Cody was using the latest phone, while Brandon had some cheap off-brand phone my grandma wouldn't even use."

"Cody and the parents were dressed in designer clothes too. Even in the hospital, they were in an expensive private room. Meanwhile, Brandon was out there eating bread under the hot sun."

A flicker of unease crossed my parents' and Cody's faces.

I said nothing, simply keeping my eyes fixed on the screen.

I worked at a courier station, hauling packages nonstop. A few times, I nearly collapsed from exhaustion, but I refused to quit. After all, if I gave up, I'd have to walk back on my own, and I wouldn't get to put food on the table.

In the end, I held out. When it came time to receive payment, I was overjoyed. Clutching the cash, I quickly found a phone and called home again. I wanted to know how Mom was doing.

This time, it was Mom's voice on the other end of the line.