Chapter 3

His voice softened slightly.

"We’ll figure out the rest later."

I looked at him, then at the empty coffee table, and finally nodded.

All the way to the station in the back of the police cruiser, my mind was racing, trying to figure out where things had gone wrong.

The night Chloe came back was last Wednesday.

I remembered it clearly because I had worked late that night. I had grabbed a cup of instant ramen from the convenience store downstairs, thinking I’d just have a quick dinner.

As I walked up to my building entrance, I saw a shadow slumped against the wall.

I startled, instinctively taking a step back.

The shadow moved, and a voice, raspy and incredibly hoarse, called out, "Lucas."

It was Chloe.

I froze on the spot. The cup of ramen dropped from my hands, rolling on the concrete before stopping at her feet.

She took two steps forward, and only then did the dim streetlamp illuminate her face.

She was covered in bruises. Her lip was split, her eyes were swollen almost shut, and her clothes were completely tattered, revealing arms covered in layers of old and fresh scars.

She limped heavily, as if one of her legs was badly injured.

"Chloe?" my voice shook.

She nodded.

I rushed over, wanting to hold her, but I didn't even know where to touch. She was so battered I was terrified of hurting her more.

In the end, I just stood there, tears streaming down my face.

"How did you..." I couldn't even finish the sentence.

She looked at me, and through her swollen eyelids, I saw tears glistening.

"Lucas, I escaped," she whispered.

I didn't remember much of what happened next. I just remembered helping her upstairs, setting her down on the sofa, and frantically searching for the first-aid kit.

Her injuries were far worse than they looked. Her back was covered in whip scars—some had scabbed over, others were still oozing blood.

Her feet were covered in blisters that had popped and healed over and over again, leaving thick calluses.

I cried the entire time I applied antiseptic to her wounds.

She remained incredibly quiet, only letting out a sharp gasp when it stung, never screaming.

Once I finished bandaging her, she leaned back against the sofa, looked at me, and suddenly said, "Lucas, don't call the cops."

I blinked. "Why?"

"The owner of that place has people in high places. Going to the police is useless."

"I saw a girl try to call them once. They just brought her back and beat her twice as hard."

"But we can't just—"

"Lucas." She grabbed my hand. "Just let me catch my breath first, okay? I’ve been running for three years. I just want a few quiet days with you."

Looking into her eyes, I couldn't say no. I nodded.

For the next week, I took some paid time off and didn't leave her side.

Because she was so badly hurt, she spent most of her time lying down. I made her soup, brewed herbal remedies, cooked, and helped her clean up.

She didn't speak much. Whenever I asked about the sweatshop, she’d just shake her head and say she didn't want to talk about it.

When I asked how she survived those three years, she simply said, "By thinking of you."

Once, while I was brewing some herbal tea for her, she watched me from the kitchen doorway and suddenly said, "You still have the same habit. Bring it to a boil on high heat first, then let it simmer on low."

I smiled. "How did you know?"

"You used to make it for me."

"Remember that time I had a terrible cold? You insisted on brewing this fancy herbal remedy. You spent four hours on it, and in the end, it was so bitter I couldn't even swallow a sip."

Now, sitting in the back of the police car, looking at the streetlights flashing past the window, I desperately replayed every detail of this past week.

Her words, her gestures, the way she looked at me.

Everything was so normal.

She remembered my favorite foods, the places we used to go to, every little promise I had made.

Once, I casually mentioned a stray cat we used to feed that eventually got lost, and how I had cried for days over it.

She said, "Yeah, it was a ginger cat named Butterscotch. You searched the whole neighborhood for two weeks after he disappeared."

If this person wasn't the real Chloe, how could she possibly know all these intimate details?