The man’s face darkened. Seeing Clarissa’s composed demeanor and the fact that she was willing to write a check for $800,000 so easily, he realized this woman was no pushover. With a grunt, he turned and walked out.

  “Clarissa! Thank God you're okay.”

  Clementine had been standing guard at the door, anxiety flooding her mind. She’d been ready to rush in and confront the men if they attacked Clarissa, giving her a chance to escape.

  When she saw Clarissa was safe, she breathed a deep sigh of relief and hurried over to her.

  Clarissa, still shaken by the encounter, forced a smile. “Mom, I’m fine.”

  “I was scared to death. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.”

  Clarissa’s heart warmed at her mother’s concern. The tension and anxiety that had been gnawing at her since the confrontation began to ease a little.

  “Why are you helping me?” Atticus' cold voice interrupted from behind.

  Clarissa turned to see him standing there, his face as expressionless as ever, his delicate features as still and emotionless as death itself. His eyes scanned her up and down, like he was trying to figure her out.

  Clarissa froze. She instinctively took a step back.

  Clementine felt a shiver run down her spine, too. The place was so cold, so desolate. The eerie emptiness and the fact that there was a dead body lying in the bedroom made it impossible not to feel a chill.

  She reached out and grabbed Clarissa’s arm. “Clarissa, let’s go...”

  Clarissa felt her mother’s unease, but she had already done it. She couldn’t back out now. So, she steadied herself and looked at Atticus.

  She spoke softly, trying to ease the tension. “We’re not here to harm you. We just.....”

  Atticus’ gaze shifted from Clarissa to the lunch box in her hand. Before she could continue, he interrupted, his voice sharp and cold, still demanding the same thing.

  “Why are you helping me?”

  “Because you feel sorry for me?”

  Clarissa opened her mouth to answer, but he spoke again, cutting her off.

  “Get lost! I don’t need your pity! Just take your stuff and get out!”

  His voice cracked with emotion, his eyes bloodshot with anger.

  “Don’t talk to her like that, boy! We’re just trying to help, and you’re being ungrateful—” Clementine started, but Clarissa cut her off.

  “Mom.”

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  She shook her head, signaling for her to be quiet.

  Clementine fell silent, but she didn’t stop pulling Clarissa away. “Clarissa, we shouldn’t waste our time with someone like this! He’s not worth it.”

  Clarissa gave Atticus one last glance before placing the IOU on the table. “Keep this.”

  Atticus froze. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles went white. He trembled, his body shaking with rage. With gritted teeth, he barely managed to squeeze the words out.

  “I’ll pay you back. I swear, I’ll pay you back.”

  Clarissa didn’t respond, just gave him a final, unreadable look before turning away with Clementine in tow.

  As they made their way back, Clementine couldn’t hold her thoughts any longer.

  “This kid... his temper is out of control. That house is so creepy, no wonder the neighbors call it a haunted house. Clarissa, maybe we shouldn’t get involved. It could bring bad luck.”

  Clarissa frowned, her expression hardening. “Mom, stop with that superstitious nonsense. The dead are gone; Don’t talk like that.”

  Clementine paused, taken aback by her daughter’s seriousness. She fell silent.

  She couldn’t shake the feeling that Clarissa was different now. With a deep sigh, Clementine finally spoke again, though her words were filled with concern.

  “I’m just worried about you. That kid... his temper is so unpredictable. You paid his debt, but he’s not grateful. He just told us to get out and said he’d pay you back. I don’t think we’ll see that $800,000 again.”

  Clementine felt a pang in her chest when she heard the amount. The $800,000 wasn’t a small sum.

  In the past, money like that would’ve meant little to Clarissa. A necklace, a designer dress, no big deal.

  But things were different now. She was no longer the pampered daughter of the Lancaster family.

  Clementine seemed to sense Clarissa’s shift in mood, but she didn’t want to bring it up, not knowing how to broach the subject without making her daughter feel bad.

  Clarissa didn't hear much of what Clementine was saying afterward. Her thoughts were scattered, swirling in her mind like a storm.

  She kept thinking about Atticus—the image of him screaming at her. But strangely, she didn’t feel the anger or frustration that Clementine had. Instead, she felt that, in that moment, Atticus had been like a little beast trapped in a cage, refusing to bow his head.

  That angry roar wasn’t a rejection of help; it was the last shred of dignity he had left. To him, no matter what she said, it wasn’t kindness. It was just humiliation.

  That night, Clarissa lay in bed, her mind still occupied with the image of the lonely, tormented boy.

  If Atticus really was the villain, his story would likely end in tragedy—the kind of tragedy where he’d be pushed over the edge, spiraling into dark actions before finally succumbing, perhaps even taking his own life after being inspired by the heroine to do so.

  But Atticus hadn’t hurt anyone yet. It wasn’t him doing the hurting—he was the one being hurt, over and over.

  The bloody scene flashed before her eyes again. She shuddered, turning over to bury her face in her pillow, trying to push it out of her mind.

  But sleep didn’t come easily.

  That night, she had a nightmare.

  In the dream, she didn’t intervene like she had in reality. Instead, she walked away, indifferent—just like everyone else. She stood there, cold, watching as Atticus was dragged in front of a middle-aged man by those thugs. The man’s eyes were filled with lust as he looked him over, before the door slammed shut.

  And then came the screams.

  Clarissa could hear them clearly in her dream—shrieks of agony as Atticus, hidden a small fruit knife in his clothes, used it the moment the man tried to unbutton his pants. He sliced through the man’s lower body in one swift motion.

  The screams only got louder, but no one outside seemed to care. The men in the hallway thought it was the man’s action, their laughter echoing as they smirked at each other.

  But inside the room, things were far worse. The boy—Atticus—clutched his mouth, muffling his sobs, as he stabbed the man again and again. Blood spurted, staining his white t-shirt, splattering across his face...

  Clarissa jerked awake, drenched in sweat, her heart racing as the nightmare clung to her like a suffocating fog.

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