NovelNext Chapter 8
Chapter 8
She started showing up punctually every day outside the company building, clutching a thermal lunchbox. Through the office window, I could see her standing under the scorching sun.
"Director Jefferson, should we..." My assistant hesitated.
"Leave her be." I didn't even look up as I continued reviewing documents.
The online backlash against her grew fiercer, yet she seemed utterly unfazed. The insults, accusations, and mockery—none of it fazed her. Day after day, she came without fail, only to leave with the untouched lunchbox.
Then, on the fifth day, she didn't appear.
"I heard Mia Jefferson was hospitalized," a colleague whispered in the break room. "HIV complications—her body covered in festering blisters..."
My grip on the coffee cup trembled slightly.
News from the hospital said that during her isolation treatment, she screamed hysterically every day: "Evan Sutherland! Just you wait!"
Meanwhile, Evan's social media followers surpassed a million. He regularly shared his treatment journey, his positive and optimistic image winning over countless supporters. His live-stream sales skyrocketed.
My phone buzzed—a message from Evan: Director Jefferson, thanks for advising me to test Mia back then. Without you, I wouldn't be where I am today.
Just as I was about to reply, chaos erupted in the office.
"Mia escaped from the hospital!" The receptionist burst in, panicked. "Security saw her heading this way!"
I shot to my feet. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, dark clouds loomed. A bolt of lightning split the sky, and rain poured down in torrents.
A terrible premonition coiled in my chest.
The blue glow of my phone screen cut through the darkness. I swiped open the trending page—Evan Sutherland's emergency hospitalization dominated the headlines. The accompanying photo showed his ghostly pale face on a stretcher, his hospital pants soaked in blood.
When the words "genitals severed" flashed across the screen, I nearly laughed. My scrolling finger froze—the surveillance footage clearly captured Mia Jefferson holding a scalpel.
The police updated their statement at 3 AM. The suspect was at large, and a citywide manhunt had begun. I stared at the name "Mia" for a long time, the tip of my knife screeching against the screen. That lunatic was even more ruthless than I'd imagined.
The next day, the hospital reported that Evan had survived—but he'd lost all male function forever. That night, a nurse's scream echoed down the hallway—his bandaged wound had been torn open again, and a bloodstained note was nailed to his headboard: [This is just the beginning.]
The explosive surveillance footage went viral by noon. In the shaky clip, the sickening thud of Mia tumbling down the stairs made my teeth ache. Evan adjusted his cuffs with the elegance of a man leaving a gala, and when his polished shoe stepped over a dark red puddle, the screen flooded with comments.
The word "HIV/AIDS" ignited a second storm. Mia's account left a taunting comment under the police's official post, the red exclamation mark burning my eyes. I replayed her fall on loop, my stomach twisting in phantom pain.
Sirens shattered the neighborhood's peace that evening. Two officers flashed their badges as I toyed with a scalpel model from my drawer. "Recent contact?" I shook my head, the blade glinting coldly between my fingers. "She's probably busy catching up with an old flame."
After they left, I refreshed the live updates. Four extra guards now stood outside Evan's hospital room—and on the edge of an abandoned building's rooftop, surveillance cameras caught a flash of white fabric fluttering in the wind.