Zhan's pov
She turned it into a habit. Every time, without fail.
I remember the second time it happened. It was a nightmare because I still hadn't gotten over the first. The pain, the humiliation, the fear, it all lingered, poisoning my thoughts. But she didn't care. If anything, she seemed to enjoy it more, as if she derived pleasure from beating me. And not just me but whoever she wanted me to have sex with suffered too.
The swamp became my hell. Every time she led me there, I knew what was coming. The fear, the helplessness. The sick satisfaction in her eyes as she recorded everything, capturing my suffering like it was some kind of entertainment. It wasn't just the beatings. It was the way she controlled everything, the way she decided who I would be with, the way she turned my pain into a spectacle.
Then one day, she got bored.
She stood in front of me, tapping her fingers against her phone, her expression unreadable. "Let's do something different," she murmured, almost to herself.
I didn't move. I knew better than to ask questions.
Her eyes flicked to the girl beside me. "You're done," she said, waving her away like she was nothing. She left without hesitation. She was just as trapped as I was.
I knew what was coming before she even spoke again.
"Xue Yang, You do it."
I froze. My chest tightened. "What?"
She smirked. "You heard me."
I had never done it before, not like that, not willingly. But I had already lost count of the hands that had touched me, the bodies that had used me. What difference did one more make?
Still, something in me resisted. Maybe it was the last shred of myself that I had left. Maybe it was the small, desperate hope that if I refused, she would stop.
But she didn't stop. She never did.
The first slap sent me reeling, pain exploding across my cheek. Then came another. And another.
She didn't stop until I was gasping for breath until I was too weak to resist.
And then, she told me to do it again.
This time, I obeyed.
Because what else could I do?
It didn't matter anymore.
Xue Yang didn't mind, and neither did everyone else, but we didn't take him to the swamp.
Then, she got bored of watching.
That was when she started taking me home with her. Every night. Whenever she was drunk, whenever she was high, she would come to my house and drag me with her. It didn't matter if I was asleep if I was exhausted, if I was barely holding myself together, she always came.
And I went.
Because what choice did I have?
At first, I thought maybe it would be different at least she wasn't taking people's children to the swamp. Maybe without the water, without the mud swallowing their screams, it wouldn't feel as bad. But I was wrong.
Her house was just another kind of prison. A different kind of nightmare.
Some nights, she laughed like we were friends. She would wrap an arm around me, her breath reeking of alcohol, and whisper things I didn't understand. Other nights, she was angry, shoving me, hitting me, and calling me names until her voice went hoarse. And then there were the nights she didn't say anything at all, just looked at me with those empty eyes, like I wasn't even a person anymore.
Like I was just something she owned.
I lost count of how many nights it happened. How many times have I lay awake, staring at the ceiling of her room, wondering if this was it, if this was how my life would be forever?
Until one day, I got tired.
Tired of waiting. Tired of hoping. Tired of surviving when it didn't feel like I was alive.
So we went to the police.
And they did nothing.
They listened, they nodded, and they wrote things down. But in the end, they didn't help. Maybe they didn't care. Maybe they didn't believe me. Or maybe they just thought someone like me wasn't worth saving.
My grandma would go to the school, shouting and complaining, but no one listened. No one said anything to her. They just looked away, as if silence could erase what was happening.
Then, when things got worse, her father and mother started giving us money, like that could fix it. Like that could make it all disappear.
But my grandma wasn't having it. She would shove the money back in their faces, yelling, calling them stupid, dumb, useless. Her rage was the only weapon she had, and she wielded it fiercely.
My mom was a different case. She was a drug addict and an alcoholic. While my grandma fought, my mom would sneak behind her back, take the money, and sign whatever they wanted her to sign. She never fought. Never shouted. Never tried to stop anything.
It was humiliating. It was terrible.
And every time I reported it, every time my grandma stormed into the school, demanding justice, the same thing happened.
Nothing.
God, I couldn't do it anymore.
I had to drop out of school.
That still didn't stop her.
She came to my house, dragging me along with her friends like I was nothing. Night after night, it never ended. I'd hide, curling into the smallest spaces I could find, holding my breath as if that could make me invisible.
But they always found me.
And when they did, I became a punching bag, something to take their anger out on, something that couldn't fight back.
Fists kicks, slaps, it never stopped until they were satisfied, until I was too weak to move.
Then they'd stop, laughing, as if my pain was nothing more than entertainment. I stopped fighting it. Stopped hoping for a way out.
But then, finally, they left.
They went to university.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, I had peace.
Fengmian's gaze was steady. "Can you mention any other victims' names?"
I shook my head, my throat tightening. "No... I don't know their names," I admitted. "Except for Mian Mian, the first girl. And Xue Yang."
As I said their names, a flood of memories crashed over me like a wave, drowning me in the past. Mian Mian's tear-streaked face, her trembling hands clutching mine in front of the swamp. Xue Yang's empty laughter, the way he pretended it didn't hurt like it was all just some sick game. The cries, the pleading, the silence that followed when they realized no one was coming to save them.
A heavy weight settled in my chest. It was like being trapped all over again, suffocating under the weight of everything I endured.
Wang's mother hissed, snapping me back to the present. Her fists were clenched at her sides, her lips curled in fury. Her breath came out in sharp, angry bursts as if the rage inside her was too much to contain. "Those monsters," she spat. "They should burn for what they did."
Her whole body trembled, not just with anger, but with something deeper, something raw, something broken.
"They dropped the charges of fake documents. We rectified that," Fengmian said.
I felt a brief wave of relief at the good news, a small moment of ease in the storm.
But it didn't last.
Because deep down, I knew peace never stayed for long.
"He studied me for a moment before asking. So, is there proof? Pictures? Hospital records?"
I nodded slowly, my voice steady despite the memories clawing at me. "There should be hospital records for my broken ribs, arms, busted eyes, and mouth. I think they have pictures and scans as well."
Fengmian's eyes darkened. I could see the weight of my words settling on him.
"There should also be records at the police station," I continued. "My grandmother reported it. The victims' parents did too."
Silence stretched between us before he finally spoke. "Then we'll start there."
"We are going to Jeju tomorrow morning," Wang's mom said, her voice sharp with determination. "I need to look at those brats and sentence them to life imprisonment without parole," she hissed, her anger palpable.
"Will Wang come?" I asked, my chest tightening at the thought.
"Of course," she replied. "I'm going to see him now."
I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing a small nod. "My regards to him," I said, my voice carrying more emotion than I intended.
They both stood up, and I followed them.
"Take care of yourself," she said, her tone softer this time.
"Thank you," I replied. She gave a small nod before walking away, her footsteps fading into the distance.
To my surprise, I wasn't taken back to my cell. Instead, they led me to a small room. Inside, there was a simple bed pushed against the wall, and on the table beside it, a plate of warm food.
I stood there for a moment, staring at it, unsure of what to feel.
She meant well, I guess.
Maybe I was wrong about her.
I sat on the edge of the small bed, staring at the plate of food. The warmth of it, the simple act of being given a space that wasn't a cold cell was unexpected.
She didn't have to do this.
Maybe, beneath all the anger and sharp words, there was something else. Something I hadn't seen before.
I picked up the spoon, hesitating for a moment.
Maybe, just maybe, she wasn't as heartless as I thought.
When I finished eating, I lay awake for a while, thoughts drifting to my husband and grandma. My heart ached for them, a familiar, heavy pain that pressed against my chest. But what could I do now?
Sleep eventually took me, and the thought of seeing Wang in the morning comforted me like a soft blanket over bruised skin.
I woke to the sound of the door creaking open.
"Your ride to the airport is waiting," a voice said.
I got up quietly, following him out. He opened the car door for me, and I slid inside.
But Wang wasn't there.
Only his mother and the lawyer.
"Good morning," I greeted, trying to keep my voice steady. "Where's Wang?"
"He will join us," his mother replied.
But something in her eyes had changed.
Yesterday, they had been warm, understanding, almost motherly.
Today, they were distant. Cold.
Like she was shielding something.
And suddenly, the comfort I felt the night before began to slip through my fingers.
When we got to the airport, the police officer stepped forward and reached for his cuffs.
But Wang's mom raised a hand. "It's not necessary," she said firmly.
The officer hesitated. "What if he runs away?"
She let out a sharp, cold hiss. "Shoot him. Isn't that why you have a gun?"
The words hit harder than any slap.
And in that moment, I knew I'd opened up to the wrong person.
The warmth from yesterday, the small kindnesses... they were a mask.
I didn't bother asking for Wang.
Because deep down, I knew she didn't even know where he was.
We boarded the plane, and within five minutes, it took off, smooth and silent, like it wasn't carrying the weight of my world crashing down.
My heart ached. I sat by the window, staring blankly as the clouds swallowed the sky. People around me talked in low voices, the hum of the engine steady and constant, but it all felt distant, and muted.
My reflection in the glass looked tired. Hollow.
I hated how small I felt.
My fists clenched in my lap, not from anger but from shame. I told myself I was strong, that I could endure anything, but right now... I just felt pathetic.
Every time I tried to breathe, it caught somewhere between my chest and my throat.
I pitied myself.
I pitied the boy who once believed things would get better. The boy who hoped Wang would show up. The boy who trusted the wrong people.
I closed my eyes, trying to stop the tears from welling.
Why me?
Why did it always have to be me?
The plane flew steadily toward Jeju, but all I could feel was the sinking. Deeper and deeper into something I couldn't crawl out of.
And all I could think was, maybe this is what breaking truly feels like.
Because this was it.
There was no turning back, no escape route, no miracle waiting at the end of the runway.
I was on my way to my doom.
And no one, not even Wang was coming to save me.