Vera Sterling had barely opened her eyes when a slap crashed across her face, hard enough to knock her straight to the floor.

Pain ripped through her like a shockwave. She lay there curled up, coughing up a mouthful of blood.

She forced her head up, vision smeared red and blurry. A shadow swayed in front of her—then suddenly the figure lunged closer, filling her whole sight.

The man grabbed her by the collar and yanked her off the ground. His hand lifted again, ready to swing down on her face.

Vera’s half‑closed eyes sharpened in an instant. Before he could react, she shot a hand up, clenched a fistful of his hair, and yanked him forward—then slammed her forehead into his with every ounce of strength she had left.

A sharp crack rang out. The man’s scream cut the air before he collapsed on the floor, completely out cold.

Vera wasn’t doing much better. She slid down, sitting hard on the floor as stars exploded across her vision. It took her a good ten minutes before her head finally cleared.

When her sight steadied, she realized she was sprawled on the living room floor.

The lights were off. Only the blood‑red glow from the electric candles beneath the household Buddha flickered against the walls, making the wrecked room look even more eerie.

Splintered chairs, shattered vase pieces everywhere, and the most eye‑catching—a kitchen knife jammed straight into the LCD TV, the blade gleaming coldly in the dark.

Two or three meters away lay a man reeking of alcohol.

As an agent for the Fast‑Travel Bureau, Vera had seen scenes like this far too many times. The client for this round was a woman who’d been brutalized by domestic violence for years.

Lucky her—she’d crossed over right after the original owner had endured yet another beating.

Warm blood kept streaming down from her forehead, soaking her cheek and matting her hair. If she kept bleeding like this, this body might just pass out from shock. Gritting her teeth through the throbbing pain, Vera rolled over and began crawling toward the sofa.

It was only three or four meters, but by the time she reached it, she was drenched in cold sweat and gasping. A long, dark trail of blood marked the floor behind her.

Her fingers finally brushed against the phone on the sofa. Hands trembling, she dialed 120.

While waiting for the ambulance, she slumped against the sofa and pulled up the mission storyline.

The original owner, Astrid Garrison, was 28. She’d been married to her husband, Curtis Blackwood, for six years. They had a son together—Andrew Blackwood.

Curtis had grown up in a single‑parent home. His father died early, and he’d been raised by his mother alone. Sensitive, volatile, and quick to explode, he’d been beating Astrid over the smallest things ever since the wedding.

When the bruised and battered Astrid finally asked for a divorce, Curtis tried to stop her. When she refused and hid at her parents’ home, he actually carried a bucket of gasoline to the front of the Garrison residence and threatened to burn the whole family alive if she dared to leave him.

Fearing she’d drag her parents down with her, Astrid Garrison could only bow her head and give in.

Six years of marriage, six years of beatings. She had called the police, begged the neighborhood committee, even gone straight to Curtis Blackwood’s company to make a scene.

She’d tried everything, yet she still couldn’t get away from him.

One night, Curtis came home drunk after some business dinner. The moment he stepped through the door, he started swinging at her again. After venting all his violence on her, he collapsed on the bed, dead asleep and reeking of alcohol.

Astrid lay in a pool of her own blood, and it hit her—she was never getting out of this man’s hands. Despair swallowing her whole, she grabbed the brass ornament from the cabinet and smashed it down on Curtis’s skull, again and again, until everything was a blur of blood and flesh.

She was sentenced to eight years for murder, and in the end, she died sick and alone in prison.

…

After reading through the task guide, Vera Sterling silently rolled up her sleeve. Three black marks cut across her wrist—scars left behind when the client traded their own life force to form a binding contract with her.

Only by fulfilling the client’s wishes would the wounds heal. Otherwise, they would rot slowly, eventually killing the task‑taker.

Three marks. Three unfinished desires.

Vera didn’t even need to think hard. She knew exactly what Astrid wanted.

Keep the Garrison parents and little Andrew Blackwood safe. Make the abuser pay. And drag Astrid out of this hell she’d been trapped in.

Lowering her sleeve, Vera closed her eyes and carefully absorbed every piece of the original owner’s memories.

When she opened them again, a faint spark of excitement flashed in her gaze.

This was a fight where one side had to bleed for the other to live. Since someone had to pay in tears and blood to break the deadlock—why couldn’t that someone be Curtis Blackwood?

Dozens of ways to make him wish he were dead popped into her mind instantly. But before she could savor the thought, a soft “ding‑dong” chimed in her head.

The system came online, speaking in a childish boyish voice: “Host, please note that this realm operates under modern laws. During mission execution, you must comply with local legal and moral codes. No violating public order…”

“…” Vera pressed a hand to her forehead.

Her last mission had kept her in an ancient empire for nearly sixty years. She had climbed step by step to the peak, ruling from behind the curtain, wielding absolute power. After so long living above everyone else, she had almost forgotten—modern society doesn’t let you run wild.

At the very least, she couldn’t just take Curtis Blackwood out the old‑fashioned way.

Looked like this was going to need a long‑term plan.

"Got it," Vera Sterling replied softly, then flicked the system off.

Before long, the wail of an ambulance grew louder from down the street.

Vera struggled to crawl to the door and pull it open. When the medics lifted her onto the stretcher, she turned her head.

Laurel Blackwood stood in her pajamas at the guest‑room doorway, staring at her. Her face was calm—too calm—and cold enough to make the air feel thin.

Vera spent a full week in the hospital.

During that time, Astrid Garrison’s parents called. Vera told them straight up that she’d been hospitalized.

The couple rushed over in a panic. The moment they saw their daughter’s injuries—bruises everywhere, stitches on her forehead—and then heard how it had all happened, Astrid’s hot‑tempered father went pale with fury and immediately tried to storm out to confront Curtis Blackwood.

"Dad," Vera called, stopping him. "You can’t beat Curtis. If you go after him empty‑handed and something happens to you, what am I supposed to do? What about Mom?"

Mr. Garrison’s face darkened like a thundercloud. "Then I’ll bring your cousins! I don’t believe we can’t teach that bastard a lesson!"

"And after you ‘teach him’?" Vera asked quietly. "He’ll just take it out on me. Worse than before. You know he will."

Mr. Garrison snapped, "Then divorce him! You should divorce him right now!"

"You think I don’t want to?" Vera said, her voice cool, tired. "I’ve brought it up so many times. Every time I did, he beat me half to death. Curtis is unhinged—once he snaps, he’s capable of anything. If it really comes to a fight, either he dies or I do, and maybe he drags you and Mom down too. Risking the whole family’s lives for a man like him—it’s not worth it."

In the original Astrid Garrison’s past, these exact fears had kept her silent. She never dared tell her parents about the abuse. Not until she killed Curtis and turned herself in did they learn what she’d lived through for six long years.

Mr. and Mrs. Garrison were heartbroken. They sold their home, their car, spent everything and begged everyone to help with the case. They managed to get her death sentence overturned, reduced to eight years.

But Astrid’s spirit had died long before her body did. She didn’t live to see the outside again; she passed away in prison in her fourth year.

Mr. Garrison now remembered the endless stream of domestic‑violence murder cases on the news—wives killed during the divorce cooling‑off period, entire families wiped out. A cold sweat prickled across his temples.

People like them—ordinary people—couldn’t fight monsters like Curtis. Couldn’t beat them, couldn’t outrun them.

His voice trembled with both helplessness and pain. "Then tell me what to do. What, am I supposed to just stand here and watch him beat you?"

"I already have a way to fight back," Vera said, trying to calm him. "Curtis keeps threatening me with your safety. If you really want to help me, then you can’t let yourselves become the weakness he uses to control me."

Jiang Dad hesitated and asked, "So… what exactly do we do now?"

"Leave this place. Go somewhere far for a while. Once I clean up this mess, you can come back."

Jiang Dad and Jiang Mom stayed silent for a long time. Only when they met Vera Sterling’s steady, unflinching gaze did they finally nod, slow and heavy, like the decision itself weighed a ton.

A week later, she was discharged.

Jiang Dad and Jiang Mom were running all over the place handling the paperwork, while Vera slipped into the restroom to change out of the hospital gown.

In the mirror stood a tall woman with gentle, delicate features—yet her cheeks were sunken, her cheekbones too sharp, the unmistakable marks of years under Curtis Blackwood’s violence. Vera’s lips lifted slightly, a hint of something cold and resolute.

"Astrid Garrison… everything you suffered, every bruise, every minute of fear—Curtis Blackwood is going to pay for all of it, double."