The notes section listed hundreds of words of instructions.

Yet they'd forgotten—today was also my birthday.

The absurdity and irony consumed me whole.

I couldn't hold back anymore. I shoved the door open and screamed.

"How dare you give my kidney to someone else?!"

"I waited three years in that queue!"

"You have no right to do this!"

I fought to control the trembling that came with my rage.

I rushed forward and snatched the consent form from my mother's hands, tearing it to shreds.

"Penelope, what are you doing here?!" She didn't even flinch. "Shouldn't you be out delivering food right now?"

"Don't tell me you're slacking off over a little illness?"

"Did everything we taught you go in one ear and out the other?!"

My mother's brows knitted together.

She didn't address my accusation. Not a flicker of panic at being caught.

Her eyes raked over me, head to toe, her gaze and the curl of her lips dripping with contempt.

"We raised you to respect your elders. Is this how you speak to your parents?!"

"You have three seconds to try that again!"

Fury etched into every line of her face, she strode toward me and seized my sleeve—the fabric so worn from washing it had faded to gray.

"Three... two..."

Her voice was ice.

I pressed my lips together, my throat tight and raw.

"I said—how dare you take my kidney away?!"

"You have no right!"

The words tore out of me. My eyes locked onto hers, unblinking.

Before she could answer, my father's palm cracked across my face.

"Penelope! Who do you think you're talking to?!"

"You want to know what gives us the right? We gave you life. We raised you. We got you into Ivybridge University!"

"So many girls are coddled their whole lives and end up with nothing to show for it. You should be thanking us for teaching you hardship!"

His voice rang through the room, sharp as a blade.

"Suffer now, and you'll thank us later!"

"Giving up your kidney to that village girl is our final test for you."

"This is not a discussion!"

The sprawling executive office felt cavernous around us. My parents stared at me, their expressions carved from stone.

Just like when my sister was bullied at school because of their "character-building poverty" experiment. Just like when she jumped off that building.

All they'd given her were those same cold, hollow words.

"Weak-willed. Can't handle a little hardship."

"So mentally fragile. Making a fuss over nothing."

Antonia died believing our family was destitute. She didn't want to be a burden.

She never knew it was all a performance.

My nails dug crescents into my palms. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat.

Every word came out measured, deliberate.

"This is my kidney. I won't give it to anyone."

"If you try to forfeit it in my name as my parents—then we're done. I'll sever all ties with you."

I turned and walked toward the door without hesitation.

I'd barely reached it when a crystal ashtray exploded against the frame.

Glass shards sprayed across my cheek, slicing skin.

Behind me, their voices erupted.

"Have you lost your mind?!"

"Who gave you the nerve to threaten to cut ties with us?!"

"Penelope, if you walk out that door, you won't see a single cent of the family fortune!"

My footsteps halted. A bitter smile curved my lips.

"I've been alive for over twenty years and never once tasted this so-called wealthy life. I don't want your money."

"But my kidney? That, I will take back."

I walked out of that gilded office, stepped into the elevator, and descended.

Outside the hospital, I pulled out my phone and dialed the complaint hotline without a second thought.

"Hello, I want to report Jerome Swanson and Stacy James for using illegal methods to steal my kidney donor!"

"What is your relationship with these two individuals?"

"Do you have concrete evidence?"

The operator's voice remained calm and professional.

I murmured under my breath.

"They're... my parents."

The operator's tone shifted, rising involuntarily.

"Your parents stole your kidney donor?!"

"For a stranger?!"

Ignoring her shock, I recounted everything.

Back in my rented basement room, I waited for hours.

During that time, my parents didn't call once. Didn't send a single text.

It wasn't until the third hour that Mom's number finally lit up my screen.

"Penelope, you've really outdone yourself!"

"You actually dared to report me and your father!"

"Having a child like you—we should have strangled you at birth!"

"You want that kidney so badly? Fine. We'll give it to you."

"But the surgery costs fifty-five thousand dollars. Do you have that kind of money?"

Her voice dripped with contempt. Then, just as quickly, she softened her tone.

"We're only doing this for your own good. There will be other kidneys. You just need to be a good girl and listen to us..."

The moment I heard that familiar manipulation, I hung up without hesitation and called Dr. Chavez.

"Dr. Chavez, I can get the money together. I have to have this transplant!"

He sighed, his voice heavy with reluctance.

"Penelope, a kidney can only be preserved for thirty-six hours."

"You need to hurry."

The moment I ended the call, I messaged every classmate I had from college, asking to borrow money.

Then, fighting through the exhaustion clawing at my body, I started taking delivery orders.

I had thirty hours left.

I couldn't lose.

For the next thirty hours, I didn't sleep. I delivered like a woman possessed.

On my final order, running on nothing but willpower, I pulled up to a mansion in the wealthy district and dialed the customer's number.

"Hello, your delivery has arrived—"

Before I could finish, an impatient horn blared behind me.

Honk. Honk. Honk.

"Hey, delivery girl! Move it!"

I turned.

And saw my parents in the car.

They were dressed impeccably—expensive, polished, dripping with luxury.

In the backseat sat a bald little girl with a pale, sickly face.

Her eyes sparkled as she clutched a cake.

A cake that cost over four hundred dollars.

In that moment, the world inside the car and the world outside it felt like two different planets.

Without thinking, I stepped aside to let them pass.

The security guard's voice drifted to my ears, reverent and envious.

"Director Swanson and Director James are really something—wealthy and generous. I heard this is the nineteenth patient they've sponsored."

"Can you imagine how lucky their kids must be?"

Lucky to be their child?

I caught my reflection in the glass—gaunt, colorless, hollow.

A bitter smirk twisted my lips as I turned and walked away.

Thirty hours.

I scraped together fifty-five thousand dollars like my life depended on it.

Because it did.

The moment I handed over the payment at the hospital, I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. My vision went black, and I nearly collapsed right there.

I had just turned to leave when someone grabbed the back of my head and slammed my face into the glass of the payment window.

"So you're the one who stole my daughter's kidney!"

"You piece of garbage! Give it back!"

My skull pressed against the cold glass, my ears ringing.

A rough, foul-smelling hand clamped over my face.

The man's eyes were bloodshot, his teeth bared like he wanted to tear me apart.

Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a girl—seventeen, maybe eighteen—being clutched tightly by a sobbing middle-aged woman.

"Everyone, look at this!"

The woman's voice rose to a shriek.

"This is the girl who stole the kidney we waited a whole year for—"

"If Director Swanson and Director James hadn't called to warn us, we'd have been completely fooled."

"My poor daughter has been on dialysis for a year now. Her father and I—our hearts are breaking..."

The woman's wailing drew a crowd of passing patients.

Their fury found a target. Pill bottles, medical supplies—whatever they held—came flying at me.

"I hate people like you who cut in line!"

"We're all sick here! What makes you so special?!"

All the fear and tension that had been festering in these hospital corridors suddenly found its outlet.

I was shoved to the ground. Fists and feet rained down.

I curled tight, arms locked around my head, absorbing every blow.

Minutes later, security finally arrived.

I dragged myself upright through the pain—and heard the middle-aged man's triumphant shout.

"I destroyed the kidney!"

"You wanted to steal my daughter's kidney source?"

"Go ahead and try now!"

"It's gone! No surgery for you!"

My mind went blank. I stared at his sneering, laughing mouth.

That's when Dr. Chavez rushed over.

"Penelope, I'm so sorry..."

"The kidney really was destroyed."

"You'll have to... get back on the waiting list..."

His words passed through me like wind through a hollow room.

I pushed through the crowd and walked out, a body moving without a soul inside it.

Back in my cramped, damp basement room, I curled into myself.

I didn't understand.

I just wanted to live. To be healthy. To survive.

Why was that so impossible?

I stayed locked in that room for two days. No food. No water.

On the third day, my phone rang.

"Penelope, turn on the news! Now!"

"Director Swanson just performed a kidney transplant himself!"

The voice of a fellow dialysis patient hit me like a hammer to the skull.

I grabbed my phone and found the city's latest hospital headline:

DIRECTOR SWANSON AND WIFE FUND KIDNEY TRANSPLANT FOR RURAL GIRL WITH UREMIA — COMPLETELY OUT OF POCKET!

Below the headline, a gallery of photos.

My parents in their white coats, beaming smiles, posing with the little girl.

Standing beside her—the same middle-aged couple who had beaten me days ago.

The kidney was never destroyed.

It had all been staged.

My body began to shake. I clutched the phone as bile rose in my throat.

I vomited—acid and blood—then forced myself to read the entire article.

Every word praised their selflessness. Their noble hearts. Their dedication to healing.

Three years I had waited. Three years.

And they had handed my kidney to someone else with their own hands.

A bitter laugh escaped my cracked lips.

Then I saw it: the hospital's commendation ceremony.

The families my parents had "sponsored" over the years had organized an awards event in their honor. Provincial media. City press. Everyone who mattered would be there.

I closed my phone and checked the time.

I stood. Went to the cabinet. Pulled out the video from ten years ago—the recording of my sister's suicide.

I gathered everything I needed and dragged my failing body to the hospital.

"Director Swanson, Director James—you're living saints!"

"If it weren't for you, I'd have jumped off a building with my child by now!"

In the hospital courtyard, my parents stood at the center of an adoring crowd. Grateful families pressed close, voices trembling with emotion.

Their faces wore masks of humble kindness.

Reporters jostled for position, microphones thrust forward, cameras flashing.

The scene before me played like some grotesque film—a comedy so dark it circled back to absurdity.

I shoved through the crowd, forcing my way to the center.

And I screamed.

"I HAVE A KNIFE! I'LL KILL SOMEONE! GET BACK!"

The words "kill someone" hit like a detonation. The crowd scattered, stumbling over each other to escape.

A ring of empty space opened around me.

My parents' benevolent expressions vanished the instant they saw my face.

Their smiles froze—then turned to ice.

Their voices came at me in sharp whispers.

"Penelope, this isn't the time for your theatrics!"

"Get out of here. Now!"

I ignored them completely, turning to face the crowd of guests and journalists behind me.

"These two are my parents!" I shouted. "Ten years ago, they drove my sister to her death. And now they're trying to do the same to me!"

"Today, I'm exposing everything they've done!"

Before they could stop me, I hit play on the recording and held the speaker up high.

The moment the audio filled the room, everyone froze.