I was the daughter the whole internet nicknamed "The Scourge," the one who stole my mother’s life savings—the money meant for her cardiac surgery—and blew it all on high-end escorts at a downtown club, claiming it was for my own selfish vanity. That very night, I was brought down in a VICE raid. My father, Police Director Frank Wallace, nearly had a heart attack from the sheer humiliation. He cut all ties with me in front of his entire squad. “Sloane Wallace! You are no daughter of mine. Never show your face to your mother or me again!” I vanished as he wished, a ghost in the wind. Seven years later, a little girl appeared at the precinct. She was wearing rags and clutching a backpack stained dark red. She spoke timidly. “I’m looking for Mr. Wallace. Sloane asked me to bring him a gift.” Dad’s eyes immediately went bloodshot. “She’s out of money, so she comes crawling back? Is that leech, Sloane, trying to bleed her mother and me dry from the grave?” The little girl shook her head in fear. “Sloane doesn’t want money. She’s with lots of other sisters, living in the black house. She wants you to come get her.” 1 Seven years. Dad looked so much older, but the fury in his face when he heard my name was exactly as it had been that final night. I drifted close to him. No one could see me, but I dropped to my knees anyway and lowered my head seven times, a deep, silent apology. “Dad, I’m so sorry. Your daughter won’t be able to take care of you and Mom anymore.” The agony of my physical death still clung to my soul. I felt like I was enduring the slow burn of a terrible fire at every moment. But even that great pain couldn't compare to the ache in my heart over the gray strands threading through his hair. Phoebe flinched at Dad’s sharp voice. She was the toughest of the children, though. She sniffled but didn't cry. Instead, she stretched out her small arms, holding the stained backpack up, trying to reach it to him. “Mr. Wallace, this is the gift Sloane left for you.” But Dad angrily slapped the bag away. “Where is Sloane? She severed all ties seven years ago and walked out without a single look back. What good are these gifts now? Does she actually expect me to forgive her?” Bringing up the old scandal caused a wave of whispers among the uniformed officers. Detective Miller, Dad's closest friend, couldn’t hold back his frustration. “She really is a debt-collector, isn’t she? Couldn’t rest even after leaving. Nearly killed Ellie seven years ago, and now she's back to finish the job on you?” That seven-year-old headline seemed to be burned into everyone’s memory. Without exception, they all saw me as the monstrous daughter. “Ellie needed her cardiac bypass. Not only did she ignore her own mother’s illness, she stole the money and hired escorts.” “I was actually the one who caught Sloane in the raid. Three guys. I still can’t bring myself to talk about the scene.” “Thank God the Director managed to recover the stolen funds, or Ellie… God.” The sighs grew heavier. Phoebe, anxious and frightened, retrieved the backpack and clutched it fiercely. She seemed to understand that they were badmouthing me, her eyes wide and tear-filled as she defended me in a choked whisper. “Sloane is good. Don’t call her bad names.” “What’s the connection with Sloane? Why is this kid so protective of her?” Everyone’s attention slowly shifted to Phoebe. She looked two or three years younger than her actual age due to chronic malnutrition. Dad’s expression flickered between anger and confusion. “Are you Sloane’s daughter? That leech’s child?” Phoebe’s environment had been so brutal that I’d only taught her how to talk after I arrived. She didn’t know what a “mom” or a “daughter” was. She only clung to the task I had given her, struggling to explain. “Sloane took the best care of me. Mr. Wallace, please, open the backpack. Sloane and so many other sisters are in the little black room. They want to get out, but they can’t.” Detective Miller scoffed. “She walked out so easily back then. Now she can’t afford to raise her kid, so she sends her back to cheat money out of you. Sloane is truly a leech.” Dad grabbed Phoebe’s arm and then froze. Beneath the thin skin, he could see layers of scars, old and new, sickeningly overlapping. “Sloane… that animal. She can’t even raise her own daughter properly? Did all those lessons about protecting the people go straight to the dogs?” Then, he seemed to remember something else, and his voice became desolate. “Maybe I never taught her anything at all.” I felt the deep disappointment radiating from him. Perhaps the wounds to my body had been so profound that they had shredded my soul, too. I shook my head gently, a lonely voice in the silence. “You taught me very well, Dad.” The word “animal” must have hit a nerve. Phoebe suddenly dropped, covering her head and screaming in a loud wail. “I’m sorry… please don’t hit me… I won’t run away again.” I knew this was the deep-seated PTSD of the black house, but Dad didn’t. Everyone fell silent, watching Phoebe curl up on the floor, crying helplessly. “Sloane…” Miller’s eyes were red-rimmed, but they didn’t curse me anymore. My nose stung with unshed tears. They had never changed. Always so soft-hearted and good. That’s why I had sent the only one who could escape, Phoebe, to find them. Dad’s hands clenched white-knuckled. He stiffly patted Phoebe's head, his voice hoarse. “Tell me where Sloane is. I’ll go ask her myself if she’s fit to raise you. If she can’t, I’ll take you to a foster home. I won’t let you be abused again.” Without the expected fists or whips, only a warm hand rested on her. Phoebe slowly relaxed, clinging to the backpack. She furrowed her brow in painful memory. “Sloane is in the black house.” Seeing that Phoebe couldn't offer any more information, Dad silently pulled out his phone and brought up a contact. He used to have me saved as "My Princess." Later, when I was demanding, greedy for money, he changed it to “Sloane Wallace.” After we cut ties, I became a cold, anonymous number. His finger hovered over the screen for a long time before he finally pressed the dial button. I knew this was a call that would never be answered. I’d broken the SIM card and thrown it in a dumpster the day I left seven years ago. “Hello?” But the call connected. 2 Dad’s mouth twitched. It was as if a thousand needles were lodged in his throat. He swallowed hard before speaking with effort. “Do you still want your daughter? If not, I’m sending her to the State Home.” “What the hell is this? I’m sending my daughter to school! Who are you?” The voice on the other end was angry and completely unfamiliar. “Are these scam calls getting this sloppy? If you curse my daughter again, I’m calling the police and having you arrested.” The line disconnected. I felt a sudden jolt of realization. Seven years was so long. Even my phone number had been recycled and reassigned. Dad slowly lowered the phone, his lips a thin, tight line. His finger aimlessly traced the screen. “So cold-blooded. She won’t even claim her own child.” Miller sighed and patted Dad's shoulder. Dad exhaled, then his brow suddenly furrowed. “I want a full trace on Sloane Wallace. Where has she been all these years? Child abuse, abandonment. If this is all true, I won’t let her get away with it.” “What about her?” Miller pointed to Phoebe, who had calmed down and was looking at them expectantly. Dad looked at her for a long time. “I’ll take her to a State Home.” When Dad held out his hand, Phoebe obediently took it and walked behind him. She was so good, so obedient. Her journey had been long and difficult, all because I told her: “Phoebe, don’t cry.” Seven days and six nights. Even when she fell down a rocky slope, her knees bloody and scraped, she didn't shed a single tear. When she was chased by stray dogs fighting over scraps in the early hours, or kicked into a dark alley by a disgusted passerby, she only wiped her eyes, bit her lip, and continued on her journey. I told her: “Phoebe, you must listen to Mr. Wallace.” Despite being bruised and scarred by men, she didn't resist or struggle when Dad held out his hand, following him docilely toward an unknown future. I floated silently behind Phoebe, but I wasn't as strong as she was. Tears streamed from my eyes. A single tear fell onto her cheek. Phoebe seemed to feel something. She looked up slightly. “Mr. Wallace, I think it's raining.” Dad didn’t say anything. He just spread his hand to cover her head. The two of them drove in silence to the State Home entrance. The Director there looked at the scarred Phoebe with deep sympathy. She murmured constantly. “Such a poor child. Is this another one you rescued?” Dad simply nodded, gently pushing Phoebe toward the Director. “Just for a few days of temporary placement. Once we find her mother… I’ll come back for her.” The Director agreed. Phoebe stood still, clutching the backpack, her eyes wide with terror. She nervously darted her gaze around, as if searching for someone. I watched Dad’s resolute back, shouting in despair. “Dad, don’t leave Phoebe! She walked so far to find you! They’re the last hope! If she’s found, she’ll die! We’ll all die!” But no one could hear my voice. I could do nothing but circle helplessly. A deep feeling of powerlessness enveloped me, making my soul feel heavy. Phoebe suddenly let out a short, sharp scream. She fiercely shielded the backpack and crouched in the corner, muttering repeatedly. “Don’t catch me, don’t catch me, oh God, I won’t go back.” I knew this was Phoebe’s core trauma response, but Dad didn't. Everyone fell silent, watching Phoebe curl up on the ground, crying frantically. “Sloane…” Miller’s eyes were getting red, but they didn’t utter any more harsh words. I felt a familiar lump in my throat. They had never changed. Always so compassionate and kind. That’s why I had desperately sent the only escapee to them. Dad’s hands were shaking as he knelt down. He stopped Phoebe's movements and pulled her into his arms, his voice ragged. “Sloane taught you to threaten me like this?” 3 Phoebe's face was deathly pale with terror, and her tears flowed uncontrollably, like a broken faucet. “Mr. Wallace, please don't leave me.” Something must have clicked in her mind. Her trembling hands started to unbutton her t-shirt. “Phoebe can take her clothes off and earn money. Just please don't leave me.” Dad’s body seized up. His face turned ashen as he quickly stopped her. “She actually made you… made you go out and do that for money… How could she turn out this way? She swore she would become a hero, just like me.” But Dad’s weakness lasted only a moment, so fast that the tear in his eye seemed like a trick of the light. He called Miller. “Issue an immediate warrant for Sloane Wallace. Move fast. I’m going to personally bring her in.” He did, however, bring Phoebe home. I looked at the familiar front door and the familiar, yet strangely distant, sight of my mother, Eleanor. My soul trembled with pain. Mom had aged so much. She used to meticulously fix her hair, never letting a strand be out of place. Now, she looked frail, like an old woman. Yet, despite her pale face, she gently wiped a tear from Phoebe’s cheek the moment she saw it. “What’s your name, sweetie? Why are you so hurt? Did someone bad hurt you?” Phoebe numbly rubbed her face against Mom’s hand and whispered. “I know you… You’re Sloane’s Mom.” On many unbearable nights, I would hold the equally distraught Phoebe and softly hum a song to soothe her. Phoebe would quiet down, dependent, and ask me. “Sloane, what is that? It’s so pretty.” I told her it was a lullaby, the song my mother loved to sing to me. Mom was the person who loved me most in the world, the one who would feel guilt if I was hurt and who would try her hardest to give me everything I ever wanted. Phoebe didn’t know what a mother or daughter was. After all, in that black house, we were all just called "livestock." “When you meet my mom, you’ll understand.” The instant Phoebe pressed against Mom, she suddenly relaxed like a lost cub finding its den. She threw herself into Mom’s embrace, sobbing. “Sloane, I know what a mother is now.” Mom went completely rigid. She looked at Dad in disbelief. Dad lowered his head, his voice strained. “Sloane sent her to me. She’s her daughter.” My usually forgiving mother suddenly shoved Phoebe away. A hint of disgust and an unspeakable pain twisted her eyebrows. “She… How dare she? Is she back to see if I’m dead yet?” Mom’s voice trembled as she spoke wildly to the confused Phoebe. “Do I owe her something? She stole my life-saving money for men!” “For seven years, she never called, not even when your father was stabbed and bleeding out in the street, waiting to die! She abandoned her own child! Sloane Wallace, it took me seven years to see her wicked nature. I should never have given birth to her!” I knelt before Mom, repeatedly whispering, I’m sorry. Phoebe stood there, clutching the backpack and apologizing, too. Our voices overlapped, as if I was voicing through Phoebe the repentance I never got to speak seven years ago. Dad worriedly rubbed Mom’s chest to help her breathe. Yet, despite their hatred and resentment, they didn’t abandon Phoebe on the doorstep. Mom instead took Phoebe to the bathroom to clean her wounds. The moment she removed Phoebe’s shirt, the coldness in Mom’s eyes dissolved into shock and heart-wrenching pity. Her trembling hand touched Phoebe. The small child had almost no unscarred skin; she was covered in lacerations. “Did Sloane do this?” Her voice was laced with towering rage. Phoebe slowly shook her head. “Sloane protected me.” Mom clearly didn’t believe her, but no matter how angry she was, her hands became even gentler. Then she reached for Phoebe’s dirty backpack, and Phoebe suddenly shrieked. “Don’t touch it! Only Mr. Wallace can touch this backpack!” Phoebe struggled violently, splashing Mom with warm water. Mom quickly soothed her, gently coaxing her. “Phoebe, it’s okay. I won’t touch the backpack. You want to give it to Mr. Wallace, right? He’s right outside the door. You can give it to him yourself.” Dad, who had been listening anxiously outside, watched as Phoebe pleaded and handed him the backpack. He finally took it. “Mr. Wallace, if you open this, my sisters can all come out of the black house.” Because it was wet, the first thing that happened when Dad touched the bag was a pool of blood seeping onto his palm. He frowned uneasily, exchanging a worried glance with Mom. The apprehension in their eyes deepened. Dad’s hand trembled as he pulled open the zipper. A piece of decaying human skin fell out. It had a reddish, butterfly-shaped birthmark. I had that exact mark on my chest. Mom gasped, clutching her chest, her breathing shallow. The phone rang at that moment. Dad mechanically answered the call. It was Miller’s grim voice. “We’ve got a lock on Sloane’s last location. It’s the warehouse where the main suspect from the massive missing persons case seven years ago last vanished.”
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