For ten thousand yuan, I bought the book's biggest, gloomiest villain and brought her home. The only problem? She's now a cripple, both of her legs completely useless. She was supposed to die. Instead, I took her home and forced her to become my housewife. The dark, obsessive woman I remembered picked up a kitchen knife and sneered, "Yellow croaker. Guess what I'm going to do to you today? Steamed or braised? You pick." Later, when the story's main hero and heroine showed up at our door, she was in the middle of angrily washing a fat stray cat I'd just brought home. "All you do is drag home these... things!" she snapped, covered in suds. "And who ends up taking care of them? Me!" She glared at the newcomers. "Why are you here? Since you're here, make yourselves useful. Go fold my wife's laundry." 1. The shouting started just as my shift was ending. It’s a common sound in a hospital, so common I already had the de-escalation script running in my head as I walked into the room. I didn't even get to speak before a wheelchair slammed backward into my legs, nearly sending me sprawling. A man’s voice, sharp and bitter, sliced through the air. "You can keep the useless cripple! I'm not paying another cent for her! You want your money? Take her to the curb and let her die, for all I care!" The woman in the wheelchair was facing away from him, her head bowed. She didn't flinch. If it weren't for the shallow rise and fall of her chest, I would have thought she was already dead. My charge nurse, Helen, was trying to reason with the man, but he just glared at her. He shoved past us, stopped in front of the woman, and spat on the floor at her feet. "Pathetic," he snarled. "If I were you, I’d have killed myself by now." He stormed out. The woman remained perfectly still, a statue of misery. I grabbed a tissue from the dispenser, knelt, and wiped the spittle from the floor before it could touch her. It was only then, as I looked up, that I saw her face. She was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Her skin was translucent, her features sharp and perfect. But her entire face was shrouded in a shadow, a palpable aura of gloom that was, in its own way, breathtaking. I stared, completely mesmerized, until I felt my face flush. I stood up and turned to Helen. "What's the story?" Helen sighed. "That was her uncle. Car accident a week ago, severed her spinal cord. She's a paraplegic. He's her only family. He’s refusing to pay the bill or arrange for post-op care. She owes just under ten thousand. We... we can't legally discharge her to 'homeless.'" I looked at the woman. I thought about the story. I pulled out my phone and checked my savings account. Then I walked out to the hallway where the uncle was still arguing with security. "You don't want her, right?" I said. He looked at me, disgusted. "What's it to you?" "I'll take her." Helen grabbed my arm. "Zoe, don't. You can't just..." "It's fine," I said, my voice betraying a confidence I didn't feel. "I've got the money." "Zoe, you're a physical therapist, not a charity," she whispered. "You're 25. You can't just adopt every tragic case." The woman in the wheelchair actually stirred at that. "I know, Helen," I said, turning back to the uncle. "I've got this one." I waved my phone at him. "Ten grand. I'll pay her bill. But you sign the discharge papers. You sign away any right to her. You're done." He looked at me like I was insane. Then he looked back at the woman. "Fine! You want the burden? She's all yours! Just don't come crying to me when she ruins your life!" He signed the forms so fast his pen tore the paper. 2. I couldn't help but feel a strange sense of destiny as I pushed her chair. I’d known, ever since I was a child, that this world wasn't quite real. I had memories of another life, another world where this one was just a story. A very dramatic, very trashy romance novel. And I, Zoe, was a background character. Seraphina—the woman in the chair—was the main villain. The tragic, ruthless ice queen. And I had just bought the story’s final boss for ten thousand dollars. When we got to my crappy one-bedroom rental, she still hadn't spoken. The tiny apartment was filled with my nervous chatter. "So, this is it! Home sweet home. What's your name? I mean, I know it's Seraphina from the chart, but... are you hungry? I can make something." She said nothing. She just stared at her own useless legs. I finally gave up. I wheeled her to the tiny kitchen table, knelt in front of her, and physically tilted her chin up. Her eyes, gray and fogged-over, met mine. "I said," I enunciated, "are you hungry?" The physical contact seemed to shock her. Her pupils dilated. After a long, tense silence, she finally spoke. Her voice was a dry, rusty croak. "Seraphina. Twenty-seven." It took me a second to realize she was answering my earlier questions. She still hadn't answered the one about food. "Okay, Seraphina. If you won't choose, I'm making what I want. I'm Zoe, by the way. I’m 25. And I'm making egg-fried rice." I made a huge pan of it and split it between two bowls. I put one in front of her. She didn't move. She just turned her head away. I held my ground, holding the bowl. "I'm not putting it down until you take it." My hand started to shake from the weight. Finally, she snatched the bowl and slammed it on the table. But she didn't eat. I lost my patience. "Who are you fighting with? Me? Yourself? Fine. You don't eat, I don't eat. We can starve to death together. I'm too tired to care." She shot me a look—a quick, sharp glance of pure disbelief. I meant it. I slumped onto the couch, my body aching from a double shift, and watched her. We sat in silence. Hours passed. The sun went down. My stomach was churning. Just as I was about to pass out from hunger and exhaustion, the statue moved. She licked her chapped lips. "Can I... have some water?" I staggered to my feet. "If you drink, you eat. Got it?" She gave the faintest, most miserable nod. I got her water, with a straw. She drank it all. Then, slowly, she picked up the spoon and began to eat the cold, greasy rice. She ate a few bites, then watched me. When she saw I wasn't eating, she stopped. She wasn't a villain. She was a stray cat, terrified the food was a trap. I sighed, snatched her bowl, scraped it back into the pan, threw in some leftover chicken, and microwaved the whole thing. "Here," I said, handing it back. "Now we both eat. Happy?" She took the bowl. Then, with her spoon, she carefully scooped half the chicken from her bowl into mine. When I looked up, she was already staring back at her lap, pretending it never happened. 3. That night, I moved to get her into bed. "Okay, arms up," I said, moving to lift her shirt. "You know the drill, I do this all day." She reacted like I'd tasered her. She gripped the arms of the chair, her face burning. "Get out! I can do it myself!" I stood back, arms crossed. "Okay." Her face got redder. "I said, get out!" Her eyes were wet. I sighed. "Fine. Yell if you need me." I closed the door. I heard her struggling, the scrape of the chair, the rustle of clothes. Then... a heavy, sickening thud. Before I could grab the doorknob, she screamed, her voice cracking, "Don't come in! I'm fine!" I waited, my hand on the door, for ten agonizing minutes. Finally, a small voice. "Okay." I opened the door. Her clothes were scattered everywhere. The wheelchair was on its side. Seraphina was on the bed, but she was tangled in the sheets, sweating and trembling, her back bare. I didn't say a word. I just fixed the chair, picked up her clothes, and pulled the blanket over her shoulders. "What do you want for breakfast?" She didn't answer. I understood. It takes time to accept this. To accept help. But I also knew that life isn't a novel. She couldn't afford to be a tragic heroine. I’d give her three days. Then the real work would start. I slept on the floor. The next morning, I woke up with my spare blanket draped over me. I didn't give her a choice. I hauled her out of bed. She was lighter than I expected, all bone and no muscle. I carried her into the bathroom and set her on the toilet. "Can you do this yourself, or do I help?" She stared at the toilet, her face crimson, veins popping in her neck. I didn't look away. "Seraphina. The hospital is gone. This is home. I'm a PT. I am not shy. Can you do this, or do I help?" Finally, in a voice so small it was barely air, she whispered, "I... I can't. You help." She closed her eyes in humiliation as I did. But she didn't fight me. 4. We found a rhythm. But I was worried. I kept finding her with a steak knife from the kitchen, just... holding it. Testing the edge against her palm. The fourth time I found a blade hidden under her mattress, I took it and dropped it into the kitchen trash. She exploded. "Don't I even have the right to die?!" she shrieked, a raw, painful sound. "No," I said, my voice hard. "You don't. I paid ten thousand dollars for your life. It's my investment. You don't get to throw it away." "You... you...!" She was so angry she couldn't speak. "What?" I said, crossing my arms. "What are you going to do? Kill yourself? That's your big move? You know what that is? It's easy. It's what they want. You're giving up." "I have no one!" she finally choked out. "Am I no one? I saved your life, didn't I?" She was silent, tears streaming down her face. "Why? Why did you save me?" I sat on the floor, leaning my head against her useless knee. "I'm an orphan," I said quietly. "Car crash. Whole family. Gone. I was 16. Bounced around foster care. When I was 18, I got pneumonia. I was in my dorm, broke, and I couldn't afford the co-pay for antibiotics. I remember lying there, thinking, 'This is it. I'm going to die over $40.' "I promised myself, if I made it... I'd never let anyone else feel that. That specific, cheap kind of despair." I looked up at her. "So... just... live, okay? For me. Just live." She didn't say anything. She just gripped the fabric of my scrubs. After that, she stopped hoarding knives.
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