I'm my brother's walking blood bank. Mom and Dad keep forcing me to go for blood transfusions to the point that I don't even weigh 80 pounds.

Later, my brother's kidney fails. Mom and Dad want to gouge mine out to be transplanted into his body.

At the peak of my despair, the thief who sneaks in from the ventilation hood secretly carries me out and helps me escape.

He says, "I'm here for you. Don't be scared."

I spaced out at the fried chicken and tart in front of me for over an hour. Finally, I picked up the chicken wing with hesitation. In the end, I couldn't bring myself to eat it.

I rose from my seat with a heavy heart. It was time to go home.

"Wait a minute. Aren't you going to eat that?" A good-looking but shabbily dressed teenage boy stopped me.

"No."

Hearing that, he stuffed the chicken wing into his bag. He mumbled, "Rich kids like you—ordering food and not eating it. How silly! It's such a waste."

I opened my mouth but couldn't say a word. I didn't mind him taking the chicken; it was better than throwing it away. But he was wrong—I wasn't rich.

It had taken me ages to save up for that 50-dollar meal. Yet, I dared not even savor it.

When I got home, the familiar sight of my parents at the dining table greeted me. Tonight's dinner was the same as always—a "nutritious and balanced meal" that, in all honesty, tasted like crap.

The meat, its skin bristling with unplucked hairs, gave off a putrid stench. The vegetables, overcooked and mushy, resembled vomit and tasted bland.

I started to miss the smell of that fried chicken. I'd never tasted fried chicken in my life, but at least it wouldn't make me gag.

"Why are you home so late?" Mom's expression clouded over. Her lips were downturned.

I hung my head low. "I was doing homework at school."

"Tsk. We shouldn't have let you attend school. It's too much trouble. From now on, you're to be home by 7:00 pm sharp, or you'll stop going altogether," she warned me sternly. "Now, come eat."

I obeyed and meekly shoveled the food, bit-by-bit, into my mouth.

"Wait a second. What's that smell?" Mom's nostrils flared, and her gaze sharpened.

My heart sank in shock.

"Extend your hand!" Her voice was shrill enough to slice through steel. "I smell fried chicken on you!"

I had been caught. Trembling violently, I started to cry. "Dad, Mom, I was wrong. I didn't eat the fried chicken. I just had a whiff of it—"

She snatched my hand and sniffed. Then, without warning, she slapped me hard across the face.

"Your fingers reek of spices! How dare you lie to me?"

My face turned to the side after the slap. My nose felt sore to the touch, and a warm liquid trickled out of my nostrils.

"Geez, why did you make her nose bleed?" Dad asked. He always spoke in an unhurried yet authoritative manner. "It's such a waste. Didn't I tell you not to hit her until she bleeds?"

"Why couldn't I?" Mom answered. Her shrill voice could pierce through my eardrums. "She secretly had junk food behind our backs. What will August do if she destroys her health?"

"But beating her up is not the solution."

During their argument, I grabbed a napkin to wipe off my blood, tears, and snot.

Half an hour later, they reached a decision—I was to be grounded.

The mere mention of it made my legs turn to jelly. Trembling, I felt warmth trickle down my legs. I had wet myself.

"I'm sorry. I was wrong. I will never eat outside food anymore. Please don't ground me. Take my blood, however much you want. Just don't ground me…"

I collapsed on the floor, my pride all gone. In my desperation, I forgot I hadn't even eaten the chicken in the first place.

My parents loomed over me, watching me cry. Such was my life.

"You're grounded for two days. Learn your lesson. Don't upset us again," Dad announced the verdict in a drawl as he stared at me from above.

Grounded for two days? Before I could struggle to break free, I had blacked out.

Dad dragged me to the basement by my arm. The door clicked shut, and all light vanished from the space. A suffocating silence filled the darkness, like a black hole.

I covered my ears when I heard some rustling, hoping that the rats wouldn't nibble on my ears this time.

…

My name was Alessa Lieblich, and I had an older brother named August. My name signified my destiny—born to protect.

August was born with a congenital blood disorder that required constant transfusions to keep him alive. Unfortunately, like our mother, he had an exceptionally rare blood type. The blood bank rarely had a sufficient supply to meet his needs.

The Lieblich family had spent a fortune to purchase the blood supply. Finally, they came up with an idea—to give birth to another child, who would be a guaranteed blood supply.

For that reason, Mom got pregnant and gave birth to a girl. As luck would have it, the poor girl did not inherit Mom and August's rare blood type. Disappointed, my parents gave her up for adoption.

Following that, I was born—a baby girl with RH-negative blood, just as my parents had wished for. Before I had even tasted my first mouthful of breast milk, my blood was being drawn to save August.

For the longest time, I thought this was normal. Didn't every child have regular blood drawings?

I was around six when I noticed the smooth, unblemished arm of a neighbor's daughter. I gasped in admiration. "Why don't you have bruises from the needle?"

The little girl tilted her head quizzically. "What bruises?"

I rolled up my sleeve and showed her the bruises all across my arm. "See? Don't your Mom and Dad take your blood for your brother?"

Shocked, the parents around me shot me looks of bewilderment and sympathy. They immediately made a police report.

When the police arrived at our door, my parents greeted them with warm smiles and calm composure despite feeling fearful.

My parents explained to the police, "Our poor kid is sick. We always bring her for IV transfusions. She had probably picked up the wild ideas from TV and was speaking nonsense."

The police nodded. Before they left, they commented about how difficult it was to raise a child.

One second ago, my parents acted just like any other parents concerned about their children's mischief. However, once the police were gone, they turned to me with an evil scowl on their faces that made me tremble.

They hissed at me, "Alessa, you're a bad girl."

They grounded me for the first time in my life. Being grounded was a terrifying experience. I was cooped up in a pitch-black environment. I couldn't even see my own fingers, nor was I aware of the flow of time. I had no idea when I would be let out.

All I could hear was the rustling sounds from the rats, cockroaches, and other bugs that scurried around.

It was so horrible that I cried hysterically until I fell asleep from exhaustion. The next time I woke up, I sensed the rats nibbling at my ears.

I learned not to fall asleep, or the rats would chew my ears off.

Somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, I heard it—the grating sound of metal against metal.

Suddenly, light flooded into my eyes. My eyelids glowed red, every vein illuminated. For a moment, I thought I was dreaming. Light wasn't supposed to exist here.

The teenage boy screamed, "What the hell? What's going on?"

He fell onto the floor and pushed me on the shoulders, asking, "Hey, are you alive?"

My eyes fluttered open. I recognized the good-looking boy who mocked me over the fried chicken, holding a flashlight in his hand.

Relief washed over him when he confirmed I was alive. His brow furrowed. "Wow, I can't believe it's you! Tsk! Are you gonna call the cops on me?"

Seeing the opened vent window behind the teenage boy, I immediately understood he had crawled into the basement from that entry point.

Finally, I was no longer alone. I didn't care who showed up—even a thief or a robber—as long as I didn't have to spend two days in the dark alone.

"I'm not calling the cops!" Tugging his sleeve, I stopped him from leaving. "Don't go!"

"What are you doing, telling a thief to stay?" He tried to remove his sleeve from my grasp, and it slowly slid away as I had a weaker grip than him.

"I-I don't care if you're a thief or not. Just don't go. It's too scary down here. P-Please stay by my side," I stammered, "I-I have 46 dollars here. They're all yours. Don't go…"

I pulled out a crumpled bill and handed it to him. He frowned at me for a while before snatching it away. "Tsk! Fine. I'll stay with you since you're buying me fried chicken. How long do you want me here for?"

"Two days."

"I can make a few hundred dollars in two days. 46 dollars for two days to stay by your side? That's a bad deal," he grumbled.

Pursing my lips, I meekly promised, "I'll give you more money later. This is all I've got on me."

"I'll need 400 dollars."

Where would I even collect 400 dollars? Despite feeling troubled, I agreed to the deal. I would go to any lengths as long as I didn't have to be alone.

Once I overcame the fear, what followed was a feeling of shame. I must've been filthy and smelly after wetting my pants and spending a long time on the ground.

I stayed away from him, but not too far—about two feet away. I stared at him in silence.

The boy didn't look at me. "Why are you pulling away from me? I'm not gonna steal from you."

Waving my hands with a flushed face, I clarified, "No, I'm staying away from you because I'm dirty." I didn't want him to turn his nose up at me.

His tone lightened. "Oh, don't worry about that. There are times I get filthier than you. I won't look down on you."

"Really?"

"Yeah. It's hard being a thief, especially when you're caught. They beat you into a pulp, sometimes so badly, until you wet and soil yourself. By the way, what's your name? I'm Eason Stone."

"I'm Alessa Lieblich."

"Alexa? That's a cool name."

I shook my head. "No. It's Alessa."

Seeing his confusion, I grinned and motioned at him to extend his hand. Then, I spelled out my name by tracing the letters on his left palm.

His eyes focused on my fingers that traced his palm. Finally, he admitted, "I've never seen this name before, but it sounds way cooler than mine."

Lips tightened into a line, I lowered my head. "I don't like my name."

Just like my destiny, my name was an apprehensive curse.

"I've been wanting to ask you about it. You look like a well-behaved girl. Why are you locked up in the basement?"

In my silence, he attempted to joke. "Was it because you secretly ate fried chicken?"

"Exactly." I forced a smile.

His smile waned. Silence filled the space between us again.

"Why, though? Looking at your house, you must be from a well-to-do family. Your parents had no reason to punish you for the 50 dollars spent on fried chicken." His voice echoed in the cramped and dusty basement.

Although Eason was a stranger and a thief who wanted to burglarize our home, I immediately trusted him the moment he sneaked into the basement, bringing me light.