The day my billionaire parents came to claim me, the whole village lined up to see me off with tears in their eyes.

The moment I walked through the front door, they told me I'd be donating bone marrow to my sister.

I ripped out her oxygen tube on the spot.

They locked me in a room to "reflect."

That night, I climbed out the window while they slept and turned on the gas on my way out.

Too bad they caught me before the valve was even fully open.

That was the last straw. They blindfolded me, threw me in a car, and dumped me at the infamous Devil's Hollow.

The second we reached the village entrance, my father leaned in close.

"Everyone here is dangerous. A kid like you—three days, and there won't be enough left to bury."

My mother put on a show of gentle persuasion.

"Sally, just donate the marrow and you're still our good daughter. Stay here, and this is where you die."

I shook my head.

Her face twisted. She ripped the blindfold off and shoved me to the ground.

I looked up at everything around me.

Nobody ever told me the village I'd grown up in for twenty years was called Devil's Hollow.

Well. We were all here now. Nobody was leaving.

——

I lifted my gaze and spotted Chief Harmon standing not far away. My eyes lit up.

I tried to call out but no sound came. My cheeks burned like they were on fire.

My mother leaned against the car door with a smug little smile.

"New product from the company's lab. That ought to keep you quiet."

My father pressed in beside her.

"Do as you're told, or you'll regret it."

I curled my lip.

Like hell.

They couldn't force me. That was the whole reason I was here.

Every time they tried to drug me or drag me to the hospital, I turned it around on them.

Big-shot billionaires, terrified of a scandal. Me? I had nothing to lose. Lay a finger on me.

I'd kill them.

When I didn't answer, my father shoved a phone screen in my face.

He dug his fingers into my jaw and forced me to watch.

"Think carefully. Refuse, and there's a spot waiting for you in there."

On screen, people lay in a pigsty, wallowing in a cesspit, cramming rotten fish and shrimp into their mouths.

I rolled my eyes.

Idiot.

There was plenty in this world I feared. Chief Harmon was not on the list.

Though when exactly had he picked up the hobby of keeping people like pigs?

Traffickers like the ones in that video—the Chief dealt with God knows how many every year.

At first, I'd believed I was one of their victims too, snatched away by strangers.

Night after night I'd prayed for heaven to send word to my real parents, begged them to come bring me home.

But every uncle and aunt in the village treated me well, and bit by bit I let go of the thought.

Still, when news finally came about my biological parents, my heart skipped.

Mom and Dad would be different from the uncles and aunties. They had to be.

So I caught the first train out before dawn.

Now, looking at them, I wished they were dead instead.

I pressed my lips tight, headbutted the phone out of his grip.

Struggled to my feet and ran toward Chief Harmon.

The last scrap of calm drained from my father's face. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and wrenched me back.

His open hand cracked across my face, again and again.

"You really don't learn until it hurts, do you."

My vision went white. I crumpled to the ground.

Blood ran from my nose down over my lip.

He recoiled, let go at once, and pulled out a handkerchief to scrub the blood from his fingers.

My mother glanced at her watch.

Tugged his sleeve.

Not to stop him. To tell him to hurry up.

"Jean needs her medicine soon. If we're not there she'll throw a fit."

My father shot me one last glare, the thick muscles of his jaw rigid.

"Jean can't stand the smell of blood, and this little curse got it all over me on purpose."

"If she weren't still useful, I'd lock her in this village for the rest of her life."

All that careful, anxious fussing over each other. The way their voices went soft the second Jean's name came up—warm and easy, like loving her cost them nothing at all.

If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I might have imagined my parents would look at me the same way.

Treat me like their own flesh and blood. Worry when I was sick. Nag me to take my medicine.

My mother noticed the tears leaking from the corners of my eyes and paused.

Then her brow creased.

"God, she's ugly. If it weren't for the DNA report I'd seriously question whether I gave birth to that."

"Honey, just get it over with. I don't want to spend one more second in this godforsaken place."

My father nodded, reached into the back seat, and pulled out an iron rod.

He grabbed me by the collar and dragged me a dozen meters, then tossed me aside like garbage.

Then he swung—straight into my right leg.

He was raising it for the second swing

when I sobbed and clawed my way toward Chief Harmon, who had just walked over.

He looked down at me, and something in his face flinched—a flash of pity he couldn't quite hide.

"So this is the one you sent here to be disciplined."

"That's enough. Leave her to me."

My father dropped the iron rod and hauled a bag of cash from the car, tossing it on the ground.

He glanced at me as I dragged my broken leg, scrambling to get away.

His smile didn't reach his eyes.

"This time's different. We're staying to supervise personally."

My mother had been about to leave. She hesitated at that.

But anything involving Jean required no deliberation. She nodded without a second thought.

"Exactly. Nothing can go wrong with Jean's marrow supply."

Marrow supply.

So in the end, I wasn't even a person to her.

I stopped hoping for anything from them.

My fingers locked around the Chief's pant leg, and I tried to hum the lullaby he used to sing me to sleep with when I was small.

But the raw, scalding pain in my throat turned even breathing into agony, and the melody barely came out at all.

The Chief gave me a puzzled look.

He was about to crouch down and study my ruined face more closely

when my father spoke.

"I recall there's a butcher in this village. Sliced up his own wife, wasn't it? A real expert with a blade."

"Bring him over. I've got a job for him."

"Keep her alive and peel the flesh off strip by strip—bet that's a hell of a good time."

As he spoke, his gaze settled on me.

A cruel smile.

As if he was certain that would terrify me into crawling back and behaving.

I gave him the look you'd give an idiot.

The man he was talking about—Old Dale—did have masterful knife skills. He was also fiercely protective of his own.

When I was little and lost a fight to some kid from the next village, Dale went straight to their door and put the whole family in their place.

If he recognized me here, my parents would wish they were dead.

My father saw that nothing was getting through.

He stepped on my injured leg and ground down harder, his face twisted and ugly.

"Think you're tough? Let's find out how long those bones hold."

Beside him, my mother held up her phone and gestured for him to keep it down.

"Jean wants to talk to you. Don't let her know—"

My father snatched up a dirty rag from the ground and stuffed it in my mouth, then took the phone with an expression so doting it could have been a different man entirely.

"Baby girl, have you been listening to the doctor? Taking your medicine like a good girl?"

"Daddy's taking your little sister on a trip abroad right now. She can't come to the phone."

"Don't worry. You know you'll always be Mommy and Daddy's favorite…"

Faint crying bled through the speaker.

Both of them panicked instantly, cooing and soothing as they walked away.

In the dim light, I clenched my teeth

and pushed the shard of bone jutting through the skin back into the flesh. The pain sent me writhing across the ground.

The Chief's eyes were full of ache. He brought over a bowl of crushed herbal poultice

and pressed it gently over the wound, his mouth opening and closing before the words came.

"Child, don't blame me. The village kids need schooling, and schooling costs money."

Tears streaming, I whimpered and raised my hand—pressed it against my own chest, over and over, desperate for him to understand: *it's me.*

It's me. It's Sal. I'm Sal.

The Chief went still.

"What're you trying to say, kid?"

I dipped my fingers in the herb juice and reached for the wall—

The cellar door yanked open.

My parents walked in, all smiles, a phone cradled between them, already talking about taking Jean for Japanese food that weekend.

"Our baby girl loves king crab. You'd better not disappoint her." My mother's voice was warm, coaxing.

My father was grinning ear to ear.

"Relax, honey. I booked the table days ago."

"After dinner, we'll take her to that new movie she wants to see."

Jean's bright laughter rang out from the phone speaker.

A family of three, picture-perfect and warm.

I hadn't eaten in over a day. My stomach was hollow and cramping.

My mother noticed me swallowing hard, one hand pressed to my belly.

The smile didn't leave her face, but her eyes went cold.

She scooped a ladle of pig slop from the bucket in the corner and dumped it on the ground in front of me.

"Eat. You were born for this—cheap life, cheap feed."

"Can't let you actually starve, though. What would our baby girl do without you."

The stench hit the back of my throat and I gagged.

My vision darkened at the edges and I collapsed onto my side, gasping.

The Chief's voice was barely a murmur:

"That's not fit for a person to eat."

My mother looked down at him, one slow, freezing glance.

"Mind your own business."

Time blurred. Then the door groaned open again.

Old Dale stepped in, reeking of blood—years of slaughtering pigs had ground the smell into his clothes, his skin.

He stroked his heavy beard out of habit and gave me one flat look.

Then he turned on my parents with open contempt:

"A scrap of a girl like this, and you need me for the job? Insulting. I won't do it."

He picked up his boning knife and started for the door.

My mother cut him off after a few steps.

"You don't want the money, then?"

Dale's face went dark. He fixed her with a hard stare.

Cursing under his breath, he shoved everyone toward the cellar door.

"I don't like people watching me work. Get out. All of you. Out."

He took a long pull on his water pipe, then looked at me, something weary and reluctant behind his eyes.

"Kid, I'm not gonna hurt you."

"You look about the same age as one of ours who left the village. Whatever they're asking you to do, just agree to it."

I shook my head as hard as I could, tears streaming, mouth working but only a thin rasp coming out.

Old Dale had been good to me since I was small. He was a butcher, yes.

But he wrote beautiful calligraphy.

He was the one who taught me to read and write.

The memory pushed my hand forward. I dragged my blood-tipped finger across the ground, slow and deliberate.

But the pain shook through me until my whole body jerked and my hand wouldn't obey—every stroke fell apart into meaningless scrawl.

Dale sighed.

"Girl, I can't make out a thing you're writing."

"Can you talk at all?"

I shook my head, chest heaving with panicked breaths.

If I missed this chance, it was over.

What else could prove who I was?

The birthmark.

There was a crescent-moon birthmark on my forearm. Everyone in the village knew it.

Hope surged through me and I bit down on the cloth binding my wrists, teeth slipping on the wet fabric, tearing until my jaw ached.

One look at that mark and Dale would know me instantly.

He noticed what I was doing.

He set his water pipe down and came toward me.

The cloth was almost off. I was reaching for my sleeve.

My father shoved through the door. His gaze landed on my loosened hands.

His face went stone.

"What do you think you're doing?"

I thrashed and whimpered, forcing out a broken moan, jerking my chin toward Dale, toward my own forearm.

My mother spotted the crooked blood-smeared characters on the ground in one glance.

Her face twisted. She shoved Dale and the Chief out of the cellar and slammed the door behind them.

I watched them go, helpless, and then the slap came. Her long nails tore across my cheek, and the pain was white-hot.

The scratches burned like fire on raw skin.

My mother sneered:

"This wretched girl was trying to send a message."