The Stunt Double's Final Take Burning Down His Gilded Cage

Introduction: I loved Ethan for eight years and worked as his behind-the-scenes stunt double for three. Yet I never knew the eight life-threatening accidents I suffered were all traps he had meticulously laid to avenge Chloe. It wasn't until the eighth time, when I pulled a dummy out of a raging fire covered in my own blood, that I realized what a pathetic joke I was. He admitted it himself. There was just one more time left. He was going to take my life to pay back the nine days of cyberbullying Chloe had suffered years ago. I didn't question him. I didn't expose him. Instead, I quietly accepted a stunt coordinator position abroad and deleted the full three-month action design portfolio I had prepared for him. In five days, I would vanish from his world completely. And this time, he would never find me again. Harper's POV *BOOM—!* The shockwave tore off the corrugated metal roof, sending shattered glass raining down with deafening clatters. "Explosion on the third floor is out of control! The pressure valve blew!" the pyrotechnician's panicked voice screamed through the walkie-talkie. "Ethan is still scouting scenes on the east side of the third floor! The ladder collapsed—he didn't make it out!" I was standing by the second-floor scissor lift unhooking my harness. Hearing those words, my fingers tightened, and I ripped off the safety pin, tossing the lumbar support onto the ground. "Harper! It's an inferno up there! The ceiling tiles are collapsing! Fire trucks are still ten minutes out!" My coworker Kai grabbed my sleeve in a panic. "Get out of my way!" I yanked my arm free, grabbed a thick towel to cover my nose and mouth, and bolted toward the east emergency stairs. A wall of scorching heat hit me full force. The iron staircase leading from the second to the third floor was already blasted half off its frame. Without hesitation, I scrambled up the warped steps. Dense, black smoke billowed across the third floor, reducing visibility to less than six feet. "Ethan!" I ducked low, feeling my way along the load-bearing wall. "Ethan! Can you hear me?" No answer. Just the crackle and pop of flames licking at discarded paint cans. Less than ten paces ahead, through the dancing glare of the fire, I spotted a stretcher pinned under a collapsed prop rack. It was covered with a silver-gray fire blanket, exposing the hem of black tailored trousers and a pair of custom leather shoes. I recognized those shoes. Before heading out this morning, I had personally wiped the dust off them for Ethan. "Ethan!" I lunged forward, grabbing the scalding iron pipes to shove the rack away. It wouldn't budge, and blisters instantly erupted across my palms. Taking half a step back, I braced my right shoulder against the main beam, engaging my core to heave with everything I had. With a sickening screech of metal, the rack shifted a foot. Right then, an overhead steel beam carrying lighting rigs snapped and plummeted straight down! There was no time to dodge. By pure instinct, I arched my back, throwing my right arm over the head and neck of the person on the stretcher. *CLANG!* The jagged metal beam grazed my right forearm before crashing onto the floor. Sharp sheet metal ripped through my sleeve, slicing deep into my flesh. Hot blood gushed down my arm. Ignoring the searing pain, I gripped the stretcher frame with my left hand, tucked the corner of the fire blanket under my bleeding right arm, and hunched over, dragging the stretcher toward the stairwell inch by agonizing inch. The acrid smoke stung my eyes until everything blurred into a bloody haze. Every step drained the last ounce of my strength. Reaching the broken edge of the stairs, a loose precast slab suddenly gave way beneath my boots. Losing my balance, I pulled the stretcher tight against my chest, taking the brunt of the fall on my back as we tumbled down a dozen iron steps. The back of my head slammed against the second-floor metal railing. My vision went black for two seconds. "Harper!" Kai rushed up with two stagehands, scrambling to lift the stretcher. Pushing myself onto my knees, I looked down. The four-inch gash on my right forearm was split wide open, the pale periosteum faintly visible beneath blackened soot and pulsing red blood. Gasping for air, I reached out to yank off the fire blanket. "Call an ambulance! Check Ethan—" The moment my hand pulled back the blanket, I froze. Ethan wasn't under it. It was a rubber mannequin dressed in tailored trousers and custom shoes. Its chest had split open, and the sand packed inside was spilling through the tear, scattering over the bloodstained iron plates. The air fell dead silent. The stagehand holding a bottle of water turned deathly pale. His eyes darted away as he shrank back half a step, not daring to look up. "Harper..." Kai stared at the mannequin, then at the blood soaking my clothes, his lips trembling. "Th-this is a stunt sandbag from the props department..." I stood there, a high-pitched ringing filling my ears. I glanced down at the dummy still leaking sand, then shifted my gaze to the trembling stagehand. "Where is Ethan?" The stagehand swallowed hard, his trembling finger pointing toward the detached building outside the soundstage. "Ethan... Ethan went to the VIP lounge in Area A half an hour ago... Mr. Hayes told us to switch the walkie-talkies to Channel B to make the call..." Without a word, I dropped the singed, damp towel and turned to leave. It was only two hundred yards from the abandoned warehouse to the VIP lounge. My stride was steady. My right arm hung limp at my side, dark red blood dripping from my fingertips, leaving an unbroken trail of crimson dots on the concrete. The second-floor hallway was lined with thick plush carpet, swallowing every footstep. The door at the far end was ajar by a couple of inches. Through the gap came the clinking of ice cubes against crystal glasses, followed by bursts of unrestrained, mocking laughter. "Hahaha! The eighth time! Ethan, I lost this round again. I'll wire the five million straight to your account later!" That was Zachary Hayes's voice. "You guys should've seen Harper on the security monitor. Total idiot. She jumped straight into the fire without even fastening her gear, rolling down the stairs clutching a hundred-and-thirty-pound sandbag like it was her baby! She nearly got herself killed!" Another trust-fund brat, Liam, chimed in with a sneer, "Who told her to get so full of herself three years ago? Going to the judging panel to report Chloe for using a stunt double to win Best Action Actress? If Ethan hadn't stepped in immediately to suppress the trending topics and blacklisted her, Chloe would've been bullied online into severe depression! This is only the eighth time. We're letting her off easy!" "No kidding. The first time, the harness bearing came loose and broke two of her ribs. The third time, the prop blade wasn't blunted and stabbed through her left shoulder. The fifth time, the high platform collapsed... Over the past three years, eight 'accidents' big and small, and she actually believed every single one of them was a set mishap. Still playing the tough girl in front of Ethan, too." Zachary clicked his tongue, lowering his voice with a chuckle. "Seriously though, Ethan, you've been playing the devoted boyfriend for three years. Don't tell me you've gone soft on her? I checked the feed earlier. Her right arm looked pretty mangled by that sheet metal. Lost a ton of blood." Inside, smoke drifted through the crack. I stood rooted in the shadows, peering through that narrow opening. On the leather sofa, Ethan sat with his long legs crossed, leaning back against the cushions. His bespoke white dress shirt was immaculate, the cuffs folded back twice to reveal his luxury watch. He kept his eyes lowered, idly flicking open a silver lighter. *Click.* A flame flared up, illuminating his chiseled, indifferent profile. *Snap.* The lid closed, extinguishing the light. Ethan didn't even bother looking up. He picked up his tumbler of whiskey and took a slow sip. "A fire like that won't kill her." "Back then, Chloe endured nine days of internet hate. She said she wanted nine of Harper's lives in return. There's still one left. What's the rush?" Another burst of laughter erupted in the lounge. A draft blew through the hallway. I slowly looked down at the wound on my right forearm, cut deep enough to bare the bone. The bleeding had slowed. Coagulating crusts were fusing the charred fabric to torn flesh. The slightest twitch sent a tearing agony shooting up my arm. Three years. Over a thousand days and nights. The knife scar across my chest. The broken ribs that kept me awake on rainy nights. The two surgical pins still embedded in my left knee... All this time, I thought I was just an unlucky stunt double. And every time I was wheeled out of the operating room to find Ethan keeping vigil beside my bed, I had felt so incredibly blessed. Turns out, there were never any accidents. He was the one who handed over the blade. He cut the harness cables. He set the fire. Even the fleeting tenderness that had kept me gritting my teeth through countless nights of agony was nothing more than an execution ground he had painstakingly orchestrated to settle Chloe's score.Harper's POV I didn't push the door open. Instead, I quietly took half a step back and turned down the stairs. Dark red drops fell onto the carpet, sinking silently into the deep pile. Movie posters produced by Ascendant Media over the years lined the corridor walls. The most prominent was *The Soaring Blade*, the action blockbuster that had earned Chloe the Best Action Actress award three years ago. On the poster, Chloe was suspended in mid-air holding a sword, her robes fluttering, her gaze fierce. Only I knew that the person who dove headfirst from a ninety-foot tower and pulled off a continuous 720-degree spinning thrust through a bamboo forest was me. After that scene, I battled a high fever for three days and had two syringes of fluid drained from my swollen knees. Chloe hadn't even touched a harness buckle. Yet right after the awards gala, she tearfully released a press statement accusing me of being jealous and maliciously framing her for using a double. What had Ethan told me back then? "Harper, Chloe is fragile. She can't handle public backlash. Don't release your original action storyboards just yet. Once the storm blows over, I'll produce a female-led action flick just for you. You'll take center stage, fair and square." I had believed him. For that single promise, I bore the stigma of being a bitter copycat and an envious stunt double, retreating from the spotlight to the shadows, swallowing everyone's scorn. Turns out, from the moment his fingers brushed the back of my neck, the first pawn in his nine lethal traps had already been played. Around the corner on the first floor was the crew's makeshift medical room. Mike, the set medic, was crouching by his first-aid kit when he looked up. Seeing me walk in covered in soot with half an arm dripping blood, he nearly dropped his bottle of antiseptic. "OMG! What happened to your arm? Sit down, now! That cut is way too deep, you need to go to the ER for debridement!" "I'm not going to the hospital." I pulled out a chair and sat down, resting my right arm flat on the disposable paper sheet covering the table, my voice flat. "We have night shoots later. Stitch it up right here." "I can't just stitch this up! There's rust and soot trapped inside that need to be scraped out! Besides, I only have standard lidocaine here, local infiltration takes time to kick in—" Before he could finish, I used my left hand to twist off the cap of the medical hydrogen peroxide and poured it straight into the gaping wound. *Sssss—* Dense white foam instantly bubbled up from the raw flesh. Mike gasped, his stomach turning. I didn't even flinch. My face was pale as paper, but the left hand holding the bottle remained dead steady. "It's flushed," I said, setting the empty bottle down and looking up at Mike. "Use the tweezers to pull out the metal shavings, then stitch it." With trembling hands, Mike picked up the forceps, probing the torn muscle fibers to pluck out two charred fragments of jagged iron. With every tug, the veins on my forearm bulged, but I locked my jaw and didn't make a sound. After cleaning the wound, Mike hurriedly prepped a local anesthetic. Just as he was about to wait five minutes for it to numb the area, I urged, "Do it now. I'm on a clock." The curved needle pierced my skin, pulling the surgical thread taut inch by inch. The anesthetic hadn't had a chance to work. With every pass of the needle, the agonizing tug of torn flesh being forced together was horrifyingly sharp. One stitch, two stitches, three... Seven stitches in total, knotted and clipped, before he wrapped it in thick sterile gauze. From start to finish, my eyes remained completely dry. Not a single tear fell. Just as the bandage was secured, the door flew open and Kai burst in. "Harper! How are you? Word just came from Unit A—they said Ethan and Mr. Hayes already left. They told you to call a cab home after you're patched up..." As Kai spoke, his voice trailed off, his eyes reddening as his fists clenched tight. "Harper, that mannequin wasn't a mix-up by the prop department! I just checked the pyrotechnics call sheet—there were no explosion scenes scheduled for the east side of the third floor this afternoon! Those three blast points were added last minute! They did this on purp—" "Kai." I raised my hand to cut him off, using my left hand to throw my jacket over my shoulders. "Keep your mouth shut. Bury everything that happened today in your gut. Don't mention a word to anyone." "But Harper, you almost lost your arm! Stunt performers rely on their bodies to survive! They're trying to kill you!" Kai's voice trembled with fury and panic. "I know." I patted the shoulder of the kid who had worked under me for two years, my tone eerily calm. "Stay sharp on set these next couple of days. Keep your eyes open when checking the rigging and blast points. As for the rest, I've got it handled." Walking out the studio gates, the biting eleven o'clock night wind cut straight through my collar. Stepping away from the heat and the stench of blood, my frayed nerves suddenly loosened. I walked over to the curb under a streetlamp and reached into my pocket for my phone, only to realize my entire right arm and hand were shaking violently. With a sharp *clack*, the phone slipped from my numb fingers, hitting the asphalt. The screen lit up with an international incoming call. Squatting down, I picked it up with my left hand and swiped to answer. "Harper, still on set?" Marcus Vance's booming voice came through the line. "Our project down in New Zealand, *Edge of the Abyss*, locks down next Monday. We're missing a lead stunt coordinator, and I've held the spot for you until now. Today's the deadline. Are you coming or not?" Marcus was a top-tier action director. Three years ago, when the industry turned on me, he was the one who encouraged me to transition behind the camera. Over the past two years working abroad, Marcus had invited me to join his core team three times. The first two times, unable to tear myself away from Ethan, I made excuses to stay. I looked up toward the brightly lit soundstage in the distance. The fire on the third floor was completely out now, floodlights washing the night sky as bright as day. "I'm coming. The sooner, the better." Marcus went noticeably silent for a moment. "You... serious? You refused to leave twice because of that kid, Ethan. You're really walking away?" "That was then," I said with a faint smile. "The show's over." Marcus paused for two seconds before responding, "Good! I'll have the producers send your contract tonight. Five days from now, Friday morning on the 8:00 AM flight. Once you land in Auckland, you head straight into a closed set. Three years of filming, completely cut off from the outside world. Can you handle that?" "I can," I replied. "Thank you." The call ended, leaving three short beeps in my ear. I sat straight down on the freezing curb, digging out an old tablet from my canvas bag with one hand. Waking the screen, a password-protected folder sat right in the center of the desktop, labeled [ETHAN-28]. In four days, Ethan would turn twenty-eight. To support the gritty action film he was banking on to pivot his career this year, I had pulled three consecutive all-nighters. Relying on eight years of risking my life as a stunt performer, I had hand-drawn and calculated every single frame, creating an original "High-Altitude Long-Take Stunt Choreography Blueprint." It meticulously mapped out thirty-six harness load-bearing points and blast-evasion paths. I pressed my left index finger against the folder, dragged it over the trash can icon, and hit [Permanently Delete]. Then, I emptied the bin. A single tear splashed onto the cracked phone screen. Raising the back of my left hand, I wiped it away.Harper's POV At one in the morning, cradling my injured right arm, I pushed open the iron gates of the mansion. I had lived in this sprawling eight-thousand-square-foot estate for three whole years, yet the house was almost devoid of any personal touches. Ethan was a clean freak. He forbade me from leaving any personal clutter in the living room, and he certainly never allowed a single photo of us on the walls. Yet in a hidden slot of his leather wallet, I had once seen an old photobooth picture with frayed edges—an eighteen-year-old Chloe smiling at the camera. I walked straight to the utility room on the first floor and pulled out four heavy-duty black trash bags. First, I went up to the second-floor guest room. This was where I had slept for three years. The master bedroom was kept locked year-round. Only when Ethan was in a particularly good mood, or had drank too much and needed someone to tend to him, would he call me in for half the night. I slid open the bottom drawer of the nightstand. Inside lay a neat row of trivial keepsakes. A pair of silver-plated cufflinks Ethan had tossed to me on our first anniversary—a free gift with purchase from a luxury brand Chloe endorsed. When he handed them to me, he had merely said, "Keep them. Don't wear them out." A stack of empty pill boxes from our second year, when I drank two entire bottles of vodka at a business dinner to close a deal for him. I had ended up in the hospital with acute gastric bleeding for three days. He never showed, only sending his assistant with two boxes of stomach medication; and dozens of sticky notes covered in his dietary preferences. I used to treat this junk as proof that he cared, taking them out to dust them off now and then. Now, expressionless, I shook open a black trash bag, pulled the drawer all the way out, and dumped it upside down. The cheap cufflinks, empty pill boxes, and sticky notes fell into the darkness of the bag. Next was the trunk in the corner of the walk-in closet. It was filled with old protective gear left over from every "accident" I had barely survived on set over the past three years: the lumbar guard cracked from my first harness snap, the bloodstained shoulder pad punctured by an unblunted prop dagger, the frayed knee pads ground down by the collapsing platform, along with a thick stack of hand-drawn action storyboards I had created for Ascendant Media. Every single piece bore dark brown bloodstains that would never wash out, each matching a scar on my body. Using my left hand, I grabbed them in fistfuls and shoved them into the second trash bag without a second glance. Then I walked over to the living room display shelves. The matching mugs I had bought, the handmade protection charm, the half-knitted cashmere scarf left on the couch, and the solitary picture frame from my bedside—housing the only photo of us together, secretly snapped while he was asleep—all of it was swept into the bag. The frame's glass chipped against the metal cufflinks, cracking right down the middle, splitting us in two. I pulled the drawstrings tight, tied a double knot, and hauled the two heavy bags out the front door with one hand, tossing them straight into the outdoor garbage cans. The heavy lid slammed shut with a dull thud. Dusting off my hands, I turned and walked back inside. The strain of hauling heavy bags had pulled at my wound, and blood was already seeping through the stitches on my right forearm, staining the outer gauze a deep, blooming crimson. Sitting on the edge of the sofa, I used my left hand to grab cotton swabs and fresh gauze, bending down to rewrap it. Just then, a faint sound came from the foyer. Ethan pushed the door open and stepped inside. Frowning slightly, he shrugged off his wool coat and draped it over an armchair. Loosening his tie, he walked over slowly, his voice cool and detached. "Still awake? Why did you clear out the living room?" Without looking up, I used my teeth and left hand to tie off the fresh bandage. "Nothing. Just clearing out useless junk. It was taking up space." "You hurt your arm that badly?" Ethan's voice dropped an octave. Stepping closer, he leaned down and reached out his right hand to inspect my wound. "Why didn't you go to the hospital? Let me see." Just as his fingertips were about to brush my wrist, I pushed myself up quickly and sidestepped him with practiced ease. Ethan's hand froze in mid-air, catching nothing but empty space. The air in the living room instantly solidified. Slowly retracting his hand, he straightened up, staring at me in disbelief. In three years, this was the first time I had ever dodged his touch. A rare flicker of icy irritation crossed his brow. He didn't step forward again. Pulling his gaze away, he said indifferently, "If it's not serious, get some rest early. The wrap party for this production phase is tomorrow night. The investors and leads will all be there. Put on something decent and come with me." Packing the scissors back into the first-aid kit, I answered softly, "Okay." Picking up the box, I turned and headed upstairs without looking back at him once.Harper's POV At seven the following evening, dressed in a tailored black shirt and dark trousers, my injured right arm supported against my chest in a black medical sling, I quietly accompanied Ethan. Ethan seemed to be in high spirits tonight. Holding a champagne flute in his left hand, his right arm rested casually over my left shoulder. Producers and directors approached one after another, glasses in hand, their eyes darting between us as they praised me as "the most talented stunt coordinator by Ethan's side." Ethan didn't deny it. Occasionally, he leaned down to murmur, "Watch your arm," his posture projecting an unusual hint of protectiveness. In the past, even this tiny crumb of public affection would have kept me privately thrilled for days. Yet now, feeling the warmth of his palm on my shoulder, all I felt was a wave of sickening revulsion churning in my gut. Halfway through the party, the grand doors swung open. "So sorry, everyone! I just flew in from Zurich and got caught in traffic." A soft, melodious voice drifted in. The bustling ballroom fell instantly quiet. Under the foyer lights stood Chloe, making her first public appearance in months. She wore a pristine white designer gown, her softly curled hair cascading over her shoulders as she lightly held the hem of her skirt. Her makeup was flawless, yet her face carried a delicate, perfectly measured touch of fragile paleness. Her doe eyes swept over the crowd, landing straight on Ethan. The room held its breath for a second before Ethan's circle of friends—Zachary, Liam, and the rest at the adjacent table—erupted into loud whistles and cheers. "Chloe's back!" "The real girlfriend has returned! Ethan's soul has practically been in Switzerland for the past six months. We're drinking until we drop tonight!" The moment the teasing erupted, I felt Ethan's hand snap away from my shoulder by sheer reflex. Without offering a single word of explanation, he shoved his half-empty glass into my hand and took long strides toward the entrance. "Why did you come straight here from the airport? Your hands are freezing." Ethan reached Chloe, shrugging off his suit jacket and draping it over her shoulders in front of over a hundred cast and crew members, seamlessly taking her evening clutch from her hand. Several producers who had just been chatting with me shifted awkwardly, quickly reading the room and swarming toward Chloe with their drinks. Chloe was instantly surrounded like royalty, with Ethan staying right by her side. And there I stood by the champagne tower, holding Ethan's leftover drink, completely alone. Zachary and Liam exchanged a smirk. Wearing malicious grins, they strode over with a bottle of liquor, flanking me from both sides. "What are you standing here for?" Zachary poured a massive glass of hard liquor, sliding it right in front of me. "Chloe spent months recovering overseas before finally coming back. If you hadn't been reckless enough to report her for using a double and claimed she stole your choreography, would she have suffered so much? Today, out of basic decency, shouldn't you go over and apologize?" Liam let out a cold laugh. "Zach, why be polite to a stunt double? Harper, down this glass and apologize to Chloe. If she's feeling generous, she might just let you keep your job on set." The pungent stench of alcohol hit my face. Setting Ethan's glass on the table, I picked up my glass of sparkling water, my cold gaze sweeping over Zachary. "You and I both know who drew the original action storyboards three years ago. My arm is injured; I'm not drinking. Move." "Who do you think you're talking to?!" Zachary's face darkened instantly. Refusing to give them another second of my time, I turned, glass in hand, intending to head down the spiral steps beside the three-tiered champagne tower. Just as my left foot hit the first step, a violent shove slammed into my back. My balance vanished completely, and I pitched forward off the elevated platform! By instinct, I reached out to grab the railing, but my right arm was pinned inside the sling. The glass in my left hand shattered as I tumbled, crashing heavily from the six-foot-high decorative riser! *CRASH—!* The sickening impact echoed through the ballroom as I slammed into a sea of shattered glass and spilled alcohol. Looking down, my right ankle visibly swelled, ballooning into a purple mass within seconds. The entire room went dead silent. Every single pair of eyes snapped toward me. Ethan whipped his head around. Seeing me crumpled among the broken shards, his face tightened, and he instinctively set down his glass to rush over. "Ethan," Chloe suddenly whimpered, tugging gently on his sleeve, her voice soft and fragile. "Why is Harper being so clumsy? I saw Zachary and the guys offering her a drink just now... Did she drink too much and decide to throw a tantrum in front of everyone?" Ethan's forward stride froze dead in its tracks. He looked at Zachary, then down at me as I struggled on the floor. In front of the entire elite gathering and Chloe, Ethan simply called out across the crowd with cold detachment, "Harper, know your place. There are too many people here. Get up yourself." Snickers rippled through the room. I knelt in the freezing champagne puddle, broken glass biting deep into my left palm, drawing thin lines of red that made my fingers tremble with pain. Two waiters stepped forward to help, but I coldly waved them away with my bleeding hand. I didn't let a single soul touch me. Digging my left fingers into a ridge along the cold marble wall, balancing entirely on my left leg, I gritted my teeth and hauled myself up against the wall. The moment I stood upright, looking across the glittering chandeliers, I caught Ethan's gaze beside Chloe, his brow furrowed. I suddenly remembered the first year we were together. I was peeling an apple for him in the apartment and nicked my index finger with the pairing knife. Back then, Ethan tossed his paperwork aside, yanked me into his lap, and sucked the blood from my fingertip with a worried scowl. He turned the apartment upside down looking for a bandage, gently blowing on the cut as he wrapped it, nagging me repeatedly not to get it wet. That memory had sustained me for three whole years. Only today did I finally understand. It wasn't that he was born cold and incapable of feeling tenderness. It was just that the person he cared about had never been me.Harper's POV Leaning against the corridor walls, I hopped on one foot out the venue doors, hailed a cab in the freezing wind, and returned to the villa alone. The short hundred-foot walk from the front gate to the second-floor guest room took me a full twenty minutes. By the time I collapsed onto the rug beside the bed, my right ankle had swollen to twice its normal size. Deep purple bruising bloomed beneath the skin, jammed tight against the collar of my sneaker. The slightest brush sent a jolt of agony through my spine. The house was dead silent, save for my ragged breathing. Wiping cold sweat from my forehead, I reached into the first-aid kit with my left hand, pulled out a pair of curved medical scissors, and slid the blade against my swollen skin, slicing through the canvas sneaker and the sweat-soaked sock beneath. My shining, distorted ankle was exposed to the air, the swelling extending all the way across the bridge of my foot. Just as I finished disinfecting the glass cuts on my left hand, the low rumble of a Rolls-Royce engine dying down drifted up from the courtyard below. It was already two in the morning. I assumed Ethan would head straight to the master bedroom to sleep. Instead, the heavy thud of leather soles ascended the stairs, stopping directly outside my door. With a soft click, the door swung open. I looked up. Ethan stood in the doorway, smelling faintly of alcohol, his collar unbuttoned, his sharp features shadowed with exhaustion. Glancing at the shredded shoe on the floor, then at my grotesque ankle, an awkward flicker crossed his eyes. He reached into his inner suit pocket, pulled out an unboxed tube of dark green ointment printed only with German lettering, and set it on my nightstand. "Chloe heard you twisted your ankle. She had someone bring this back from abroad specifically for you." He looked down at me, his voice distant and cool. "Put it on before bed. We have shoots tomorrow, don't hold up production." My lashes remained lowered. I didn't even glance at the tube. I stayed silent. Ethan lingered at the door for a moment, his jaw tightening, before turning and pulling the door shut without another word. I stared at the dark green aluminum tube, cold mockery welling in my eyes. Chloe sending me miracle medicine out of the goodness of her heart? It was just another act. I flicked the tube into the corner of the drawer with my finger and pulled up the blanket to sleep. To my surprise, at seven the next morning, my door was pushed open once more. Ethan, who was supposed to be heading to an executive morning briefing, stood by the bed dressed in a crisp dark shirt. Seeing the untouched ointment, his brow furrowed, his voice frosty. "Why haven't you used it? Chloe meant well, stop being petty. Put it on right now." He stepped forward, grabbed the tube, and held it out to me. Shoving one hand into his trouser pocket, he stood over me, his gaze calm yet carrying an unyielding command, waiting for me to comply. Only two days remained until my Friday flight to Auckland. I had no intention of provoking him now and risking any disruption to my departure. In silence, I took the ointment and squeezed a generous dollop of dark green paste into my right palm. A sharp, pungent odor of bitter almonds mixed with industrial chemicals filled the room. Expressionless, I smeared it across my swollen ankle, rubbing it in half-heartedly. Seeing me obey, the tension in Ethan's jaw softened slightly. "Rest at home this morning. Head to the set in the afternoon. Put on another layer tonight and sleep early." The second his footsteps faded down the stairs, I hopped into the bathroom and cranked the cold water tap, scrubbing my ankle and right palm. But the green paste was bizarre—the moment it contacted skin, it seemed to sink straight into the pores. No matter how hard I scrubbed with soap until my skin was raw, that strange, slick residue wouldn't wash away. That evening, Ethan even initiated a FaceTime call to ensure I applied the second dose. It took less than forty-eight hours. My right ankle, which had merely suffered a mild sprain, along with the palm I used to apply the cream, erupted in a violent, burning agony that felt like flaying blades and open flames! By the following afternoon, the burning spun completely out of control. Dense clusters of dark yellow blisters surfaced across my ankle and palm. As they ruptured, vast patches of skin turned necrotic, giving off the foul stench of corroded flesh. Yellow fluid and blood seeped through layers of sterile gauze. Soon after, the toxins breached my bloodstream. Violent chills racked my body, followed by a spiking fever and a deafening roar in my ears. Clinging to my last shreds of consciousness, I wrapped my oozing right hand in a towel and limped into a cab, heading straight for the emergency dermatology ward. The attending physician snapped on sterile gloves. The moment he peeled back the dressing with forceps, his expression warped into horror. "Stat! Rush this to the lab for an emergency toxicology panel!" Thirty minutes later, the report was rushed back to the examination room. Looking at the data, the gray-haired chief physician trembled with rage, slamming his hand onto the desk. "Who on earth do you have a blood feud with?! Who would be vicious enough to use this on a human being?!" My lips were parched and cracked from the fever, my voice a raspy whisper. "Doctor... what is it?" "This isn't medicine! It's a standard base cream laced with lethal concentrations of industrial-grade corrosive agents and neurotoxins!" The doctor pointed to several red-flagged chemical formulas exceeding safe thresholds by hundreds of times, his voice shaking with indignation. "This stuff is engineered to eat through the dermis and superficial tendons! The skin barrier on your right palm and ankle is completely obliterated! If you had come half a day later, or applied it just once more, the tendons in your right hand and foot would have rotted through! You would have never walked properly again!" The room fell so quiet that the ticking of the wall clock sounded deafening. Looking at my battered body, the doctor softened his voice. "This is deliberate assault. Whoever gave you this wanted to ruin you permanently. Do you want the hospital to call the police right now?" I lowered my eyes, staring at my hands and right ankle, now swathed in thick layers of petroleum gauze and compression bandages like heavy white casts. So. They didn't just want to take my life. At the very end, they wanted to personally destroy the very hands and feet I relied on to survive as a stunt coordinator. "No need, Doctor." I looked up, my bloodshot eyes showing not a single ripple of emotion. "Please just print the original toxicology report and the official injury diagnosis. I'll handle it myself." At nine that night, in the hospital lobby. I sat alone on a blue plastic chair in the corner, an IV catheter taped to the inside of my left wrist, pumping antipyretics and broad-spectrum antibiotics drop by drop into my veins. The phone resting on my knee suddenly buzzed. Using the only two fingers on my left hand that weren't wrapped in bandages, I unlocked the screen. It was a group chat Ethan had lazily created two years ago, dubbed [Errands]. The only members were Ethan, Zachary, Liam, and a few other silver-spoon heirs. It was typically used in the dead of night to order me to fetch their cigarettes, deliver coffee, or act as their designated driver. Three seconds ago, Zachary had dropped a message into the chat. [Zachary: Hahaha, Revenge Phase 8.5 is a total success! That spiked ointment Chloe whipped up is brilliant. Industrial corrosives mixed into burn cream—let's see her try to fight Chloe for the action credits with ruined hands and feet! Once the high-wire stunt goes down at Ethan's birthday shoot tomorrow, we'll send her straight to hell!] I stared at the text coldly, quickly using my left hand to press the power and volume buttons simultaneously. *Click.* Screenshot saved. A second later, a gray system prompt appeared at the top of the chat: ["Zachary" unsent a message]. The group instantly fell dead silent. Not another soul dared type a single character. I uploaded the screenshot and the medical toxicology report to an encrypted cloud drive. Then, using two fingers, I fished the remaining half-tube of green paste out of my pocket and tossed it into the yellow biohazard bin beside the chair. The moment the tube hit the bottom, my phone rang. Caller ID: Ethan. I tapped accept and put it on speaker. Ethan's low, detached voice came through the speaker. "Harper, where are you this late? Why aren't you back at the house? What was in the group just now—" "At the hospital, getting some cuts dressed." Staring up at the swaying glass IV bottle, I cut off his probing question, my voice flat and completely devoid of emotion. Ethan went quiet on the other end, his tone softening a fraction. "The swelling hasn't gone down yet? Which hospital? I'll send a car to pick you up. Tomorrow is my twenty-eighth birthday. We're shooting the final high-altitude sequence for *Cloud Spire* in the morning. I need you on set to supervise Chloe's harness rigging. I booked a table at the rooftop restaurant for tomorrow night." Supervise Chloe's harness. The ninth revenge. The fatal plunge. I looked out the window into the pitch-black night, a faint smirk touching the corner of my lips. "No need to pick me up. I'll take a cab after the IV finishes. Ethan... see you on set tomorrow."