"You've confirmed his identity. Isn’t that enough to prove the kid is my brother's son?"

  James spoke firmly, showing his ID to the officer. His posture was straight, his expression unreadable.

  Meanwhile, back home, Clementine had been growing restless. Her concern for Clarissa finally got the best of her, and she left the house to look for her daughter.

  But when she arrived at the community gate, she found Clarissa standing there alone.

  Her heart sank. "Clarissa, what’s going on? Why are you by yourself?"

  Clarissa turned to her mother, her expression unreadable. "Mom, let’s talk when we get home."

  Without another word, she took Clementine’s arm and led her back inside.

  ......

  Once they were home, Clarissa finally explained everything.

  Atticus’ father, Jason, had an older brother—James. Jason was a compulsive gambler and had been estranged from his family for years, only ever went home to beg his mother for money, and when she died, he and James completely severed contact.

  Now, with both of Atticus’ parents gone, and no legal guardian left, he should have been placed in an orphanage. But suddenly, James had appeared, presenting his ID and claiming Atticus as his nephew.

  It wasn’t unheard of for estranged relatives to take in orphaned children, especially if they had something to gain from it.

  After hearing the story, Clementine exhaled, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "Well… if a relative is willing to take him in, at least he’ll have a home."

  Clarissa nodded. "Yeah… I guess this is for the best."

  Maybe she’d been right all along—Atticus wasn’t doomed to become the villain. After spending time with him recently, she was sure of it. He wasn’t beyond saving.

  If giving him a push in the right direction meant rewriting his fate… then the 800,000 was worth it.

  Being a villain had no future. She did understand that.

  Maybe that was why, after being reborn, besides Clementine, the person she got along with best was Atticus. They were both villains, after all. Maybe they shared the same kind of magnetic field, drawn to each other like inevitable forces in a story.

  .......

  The next morning, Clarissa stepped outside and saw Atticus packing his things.

  She approached him, holding out an envelope. "Here. Take this."

  Atticus glanced at it but didn’t take it right away. "What is it?"

  "Your rent refund."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  His brows furrowed. "I didn’t pay you that much." The envelope was thick—far more than the one or two thousand he’d given her.

  But Clarissa insisted, pressing it into his hands. "Take it. Keep it as a backup."

  She’d heard things about his uncle’s situation—how James wasn’t doing much better than Jason had been. A factory job, an unemployed wife who liked gambling. Not exactly the most stable environment.

  Atticus might need the money.

  "When you have enough in the future," she said lightly, "just pay me back."

  Atticus looked at her for a long time, as if committing her face to memory. Then, without a word, he turned around, rummaged through his bag, and pulled out a small folded note.

  He handed it to her.

  Clarissa took it and unfolded it—her brows raised in surprise. It was an IOU.

  Everything was meticulously listed—every single expense. The 800,000. The medicine she’d bought for him when he was sick. The meal she treated him to the day before. Every penny was accounted for, even the fucking interest was calculated.

  Atticus’ gaze was intense, his long, narrow eyes unreadable. He always had this strange, misty look to them—cold, distant, unsettling. But now…

  Now, his gaze was steady, almost shimmering, like the surface of a lake at sunset, reflecting brilliant, fractured colors.

  He clenched his jaw, his lips parting slightly.

  "Wait for me." His voice was quiet but firm. "Five years—no, three. I’ll pay you back every cent. And I…"

  His lips trembled slightly, the words stuck in his throat. He wanted to say something more.

  But Atticus had never been good with words. He could only stare at her—stupidly, awkwardly, completely at a loss for how to express the mess of emotions surging inside him.

  And he hated it. Hated how weak he felt in front of her.

  Clarissa smiled. She could feel the sincerity in Atticus at that moment, so without hesitation, she stuffed the IOU into her pocket.

  "You're the first friend I've made here."

  Atticus froze.

  Clarissa continued, her voice calm yet certain. "You’ve probably heard my story by now. We're friends, right?"

  Before he could answer, she took a step forward and gently wrapped her arms around him, giving him a brief, light embrace. "Take care of yourself," she murmured. "Everything will be fine."

  Don’t become a villain. There’s no future in that. Then she pulled away and walked off, leaving Atticus standing there, motionless.

  His fingers twitched at his sides. Slowly, he curled them into a fist—as if trying to hold on to the lingering warmth of her touch.

  And her scent… that soft, warm fragrance still clung to the air around him. His breath hitched.

  Then, with a sharp shake of his head, he shoved all those thoughts away. No. No distractions.

  Without another glance, he stuffed the envelope deep into the hidden compartment of his suitcase.

  Before leaving, Atticus made one last stop. He knelt before a simple black-and-white photograph, staring at the woman captured in it.

  She was smiling. A bright, carefree smile—one that had been frozen in time, long before the weight of the world had crushed her.

  Belle.

  "Mom," Atticus whispered, his voice hoarse. "I'm going to Uncle James' house tomorrow. I’ll come back to see you. I promise."

  His gaze lingered on the photo. She used to be so beautiful. So full of life.

  She had barely finished junior high before she ran off with Jason—that bastard. He fed her sweet lies, promised her happiness, and she had believed him. She had smiled and left home for a man who, in the end, would destroy her.

  Jason was ambitious, but the moment the city’s bright lights dazzled him, he lost himself. He gambled. He wasted every penny. He sold everything in their house, even the money meant for their child.

  Belle had been seven months pregnant when he beat her so badly that she went into premature labor. The baby was stillborn. The damage was permanent—she could never have another child.

  But still… somehow… she had survived. She worked in factories, grinding herself to dust for the lowest possible wages. And even though Atticus wasn’t her biological son, she never treated him any differently.

  She starved herself so he could eat. She sewed his New Year’s clothes by hand, stuffing them with extra cotton to keep him warm—while her own clothes hadn’t been replaced in seven, eight years, barely holding together under endless patches.

  "Atticus, don't worry about money. You can keep studying—my Atticus will have a bright future."

  "Eat, sweetheart. I'm not hungry. You need to grow tall."

  "Atticus… Atticus…"