Sophia had lived in the Xiao household for twenty years, always aware she was an outsider—she had been taken in, and her foster mother never let her forget it. In her previous life, she was forced to care for the crippled, elderly man upstairs, who coughed so violently it tore through the silence. For a month she brought him tea and meals, until he unexpectedly bequeathed his five–billion–dollar fortune—along with a family heirloom ring—entirely to her. On the signing day, she went alone. The moment she put on the ring, it pierced her finger, her blood reversed course, and her body withered to ash, inch by inch. As she died, one thought consumed her: if she could live again, she would rather have nothing. She opened her eyes once more—back on the night of his worst coughing fit. She pushed open her door, ready to go upstairs, only to hear her sister Elena’s honeyed voice already drifting down. Elena had rushed in to “care” for the old man. Sophia froze at the stairwell, then smiled silently. She knew who that old man really was—a four–hundred–year–old vampire. The ring was a blood pact; once worn, it could never be removed. Elena knew nothing of this. She only smelled money. Sophia turned back, packed a single bag, and walked out of that house without a backward glance. In this life, she would not fight, not compete, not warn. She would simply let the greedy ones knock on that door themselves, sign that contract themselves, and put on that ring—which they would never take off again.
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