Cleo, the cat Celine and I raised together, had been something we both cherished. Before I left for work today, she had said she’d wait for me to come home with Cleo.
But now Cleo was dead, and I would never go home again.
Celine didn’t want me to look at her, so she quickly pressed the electric shock button.
The current surged, and I convulsed, curling up in pain.
The cramping in my abdomen reminded me of the health check-up report I received yesterday.
The doctor had said that after I donated a kidney to Celine, the wound hadn’t healed properly, and I should get a follow-up checkup.
I didn’t want Celine to worry, so I had planned to wait until after the wedding tomorrow to secretly get it checked.
For a fleeting moment, my chaotic mind wondered: if I had told her that my health wasn’t well yesterday, would I be suffering this torment today?
Celine had once promised that even if I turned to ash, she would still recognize me.
But now, standing in front of her, she didn’t even acknowledge me.
Worse yet, at the host’s suggestion, she picked another special service.
“I'll add half million, I want to see water torture.” Celine’s voice was cold as ice, sending chills down my spine.