The moment that thought hit me, rage flooded my chest like fire bursting through cracks in ice.
People always say that after death, the soul turns into a vengeful ghost, seeking justice against those who wronged it.But clearly, that's just a lie.
Because even though my murderer stands right before me — I can't touch him.Something unseen surrounds me, a transparent barrier that keeps me trapped, powerless.
All I can do is watch as she parades my life's work before the world, taking credit for everything I once bled my soul into.The crowd's applause rings like knives in my ears.
Those paintings were never meant for praise.They were born from pain — the only way I knew to keep myself alive.
For two long years, my mind had been sinking deeper into darkness because of Su Ning'an.I went to see a psychiatrist.He told me I had severe depression — that medication could only suppress it, never cure it.
He said I had two choices: leave behind what was poisoning me… or learn to heal.
But how do you leave when the poison wears the face of the man you love and the sister you grew up with?So I stayed, painting in that hidden basement studio — cutting open my wounds again and again, only to stitch them closed with color and light.
And now, even those paintings — the last pieces of me — have been stolen.
Someone in the crowd suddenly pointed at one of them, voice rising in excitement."Wait! Isn't that the signature of S?"
My heart clenched.
Back in middle school, I entered a design competition under the alias S, and it caused a sensation.My parents never knew — they thought painting was a waste of time. I didn't even attend the award ceremony.
I'd secretly opened an account online, and somehow, it blew up.Fans would beg for updates, so I posted one painting a year — quietly, anonymously.Not even Lu Shiyan knew.
Then two years ago, I made a mistake — uploaded my new piece from my real account.Overnight, it hit the trending list.I didn't bother to explain; fame had never meant anything to me.Within weeks, the world forgot.
Now, after two silent years, Su Ning'an had dug up my unpublished works — my hidden heart — and hung them on these white gallery walls.
I always hid my "S" signature deep in the brushstrokes, but the true fans recognized it instantly.They believed she was me.
The old rumors resurfaced — people saying I'd once pretended to be "S" for fame.Now, they cursed me all over again online, calling me a fraud, a leech.
And every charity I'd ever done under that name?All credited to her.
Across the room, Lu Shiyan's expression darkened.Even if he didn't know "S" was me, he still recognized my style — every curve, every stroke of emotion.
"An'an," he said, voice low. "Did you really paint all of these?"
Her eyes shimmered with practiced tears."Brother, who else could it be? You've always said my art was beautiful, haven't you?"
He frowned. "It just… feels a little different from before."
"No artist stays the same forever."Her lips curved, voice turning sweet. "There are many sides to me, Brother. You'll learn them all, eventually."
Her fingers drifted down his chest, slow, deliberate.She was bolder now — shameless.
He caught her hand sharply and pulled away."The auction's starting. Let's go."
I followed them into the hall.The crowd was a sea of eager faces — collectors, connoisseurs, and fans who had rushed here after hearing "S" was back.The air buzzed with excitement.
Lu Shiyan made his way through the throng. Someone brushed past him.
"Sorry," the man said, his voice rough, like it had been scorched by smoke.He was hunched slightly, face hidden in shadow.
Then he looked up.
Bloodshot eyes — sharp, predatory — met mine.
A thunderclap exploded in my skull.
It was him.
The man who killed me.
He was here.