Professor Wen did not ask me to forgive anyone.

That was the first reason I trusted her.

She simply copied every file from the USB, disconnected the computer from the hospital network, and called someone from her personal phone.

“Professor Lu? It’s Wen Ruotang. I need you to come here.”

She paused.

“No. Don’t tell anyone.”

Another pause.

“Especially not anyone connected to the Song family.”

Twenty minutes later, my chest began hurting again.

I turned away and coughed into a tissue.

When I lowered it, there was blood.

Professor Wen saw it.

Her face changed.

“Your scans.”

I handed her the medical records from prison.

She read them in silence.

The longer she read, the tighter her expression became.

Finally, she removed her glasses.

“Why wasn’t this investigated when the first nodule appeared?”

I smiled.

“Because I was inmate 4179.”

She looked at me.

“This isn’t something to joke about.”

“I know.”

She wanted to admit me immediately.

I refused.

“Six months is an optimistic estimate,” she said.

“I know.”

“You may have less.”

“I know that too.”

“Then why are you sitting here worrying about research data belonging to someone who’s already dead?”

That question should have hurt.

Instead, I felt strangely peaceful.

“Because Professor Zhao believed me.”

My voice trembled for the first time that day.

“When everyone else said I was a thief, she believed me.”

Professor Wen became silent.

I continued.

“My brother didn’t.”

Four years earlier, I had believed Giang Tu Hanh would save me.

When the police arrived at the laboratory, I wasn’t frightened.

Why would I be?

I hadn’t stolen anything.

Song Uyen Nghi cried while telling the police she had seen me enter the restricted storage room.

Security footage showed me entering the corridor.

Expensive laboratory equipment was later discovered inside my locker.

Everything pointed toward me.

Everything except the truth.

I called my brother from the police station.

He arrived within an hour.

I still remembered running toward him.

“Brother, I didn’t do it.”

He caught my shoulders.

For one beautiful second, I thought everything would be fine.

Then Song Uyen Nghi entered.

Her eyes were swollen from crying.

“Brother Tu Hanh…”

He released me immediately.

She said I had threatened her.

She said I hated her because our parents had adopted her.

She said I had become obsessed with Professor Zhao’s research and wanted money.

Every lie came wrapped in tears.

And Giang Tu Hanh believed her.

I begged him to investigate.

He refused.

I begged him to check who had accessed my locker.

He said enough.

When the case went to trial, his testimony helped complete the chain of evidence against me.

After sentencing, I was taken away in handcuffs.

I turned around and screamed his name.

He never looked back.

Professor Wen closed my medical file.

“I’ll reopen Zhao Rong’s case.”

I nodded.

“Thank you.”

“But there’s something you need to know.”

She turned her computer toward me.

One of Professor Zhao’s files was open.

“This isn’t merely proof that Song Uyen Nghi manipulated research data.”

She enlarged a spreadsheet.

“It records who authorized the altered dataset.”

A name appeared on the screen.

My breathing stopped.

GIANG BIOMEDICAL RESEARCH FOUNDATION.

Professor Wen looked at me carefully.

“That foundation belonged to your family, didn’t it?”

“Still does.”

“Who controlled it four years ago?”

I already knew the answer.

“Giang Tu Hanh.”

For the first time since leaving prison, fear moved through me.

Not anger.

Fear.

Had my brother known?

Before I could say anything, the clinic door opened.

A nurse hurried inside.

“Professor Wen, there are people outside asking for Miss Giang.”

My entire body stiffened.

“Who?”

The nurse looked at me.

“A man named Giang Tu Hanh.”

Of course.

He had followed me.

Professor Wen stood.

“You don’t have to see him.”

“No.”

I slowly got to my feet.

“I do.”

Not because I wanted reconciliation.

Because suddenly I needed to know whether the person who destroyed four years of my life had done it through stupidity…

or deliberately.

When I entered the corridor, Giang Tu Hanh was standing near the elevators.

He saw me.

Then he saw the Oncology sign above my head.

His face turned white.

He walked toward me.

“Nien So.”

I said nothing.

He stopped two steps away.

His eyes moved over my face, as though only now noticing how thin I had become.

“Come home with me.”

“No.”

“I’ve arranged treatment overseas.”

“No.”

“The best specialists are already—”

“I’m dying.”

His mouth closed.

I watched those words enter him.

Slowly.

Brutally.

“You have six months to get used to it,” I added.

His eyes immediately reddened.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why?”

His voice cracked.

“Because you’re my sister.”

I almost laughed.

Four years ago, those words would have saved me.

Now they meant nothing.

“Was I your sister when you testified against me?”

He looked away.

“Was I your sister when I begged you in the snow?”

“Nien So…”

“Was I your sister when you chose Song Uyen Nghi’s word over mine?”

His hands clenched.

“I thought the evidence was conclusive.”

“You made it conclusive.”

His face changed.

I stepped closer.

“You told the police the laboratory cameras had malfunctioned between nine and eleven that night.”

“Yes.”

“How did you know?”

He frowned.

“The security department informed me.”

“When?”

Silence.

A strange silence.

My heartbeat accelerated.

“When did they tell you?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You testified the next morning.”

His expression hardened.

“What are you trying to say?”

I stared at him.

“That according to Professor Zhao’s records, someone using authorization from your foundation accessed the research database that night.”

All color drained from his face.

That was enough.

He knew something.

Maybe not everything.

But something.

“Who?” he asked.

His voice had changed.

“That’s what I’m going to find out.”

I turned away.

He grabbed my wrist.

I immediately flinched.

Not because he hurt me.

Because four years in prison had taught my body to react before my mind.

Giang Tu Hanh felt it.

His fingers opened instantly.

He stared at my wrist.

There were old scars there.

His lips trembled.

“What happened to you inside?”

I pulled down my sleeve.

“That stopped being your concern four years ago.”

I returned to Professor Wen’s office.

The door closed behind me.

For several minutes, Giang Tu Hanh remained outside.

Then I heard his footsteps disappear.

I thought he had finally left.

I was wrong.

An hour later, while Professor Wen and two researchers were examining the USB, my old phone rang.

Unknown number.

I answered.

“Nien So.”

Song Uyen Nghi.

Four years.

Four years since I had heard her voice.

And she still sounded exactly the same.

Soft.

Fragile.

Innocent.

“I heard you were released today.”

I said nothing.

She laughed quietly.

“Why did you go to Professor Wen?”

My blood went cold.

She already knew.

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t do this.”

The sweetness disappeared from her voice.

“Professor Zhao is dead. The case is finished. You served your sentence. Why can’t you just let the past stay buried?”

I looked at Professor Wen.

She immediately understood something was wrong.

“Are you afraid?” I asked.

Silence.

Then Song Uyen Nghi laughed.

“Of you?”

“No.”

I looked at the USB.

“Of what Professor Zhao left behind.”

The line became completely silent.

That silence was the first victory I had felt in four years.

Then she whispered:

“You should have destroyed that USB.”

My fingers tightened around the phone.

So she knew.

“You knew I had it?”

“I knew Zhao Rong gave you something.”

“Then why didn’t you find it?”

She laughed again.

“Because you were unexpectedly good at surviving prison.”

A chill crawled down my spine.

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Uyen Nghi.”

She was silent for several seconds.

Then her voice became almost gentle.

“Your brother still hasn’t told you, has he?”

“Told me what?”

“Why do you think your sentence reduction was rejected twice before suddenly being approved this year?”

I stopped breathing.

My original four-year sentence had been eligible for reduction.

Twice I had been recommended.

Twice the applications disappeared.

Three months after my cancer diagnosis, everything changed.

Suddenly the paperwork moved.

Suddenly Giang Tu Hanh personally submitted another application.

Suddenly I was released.

“What did you do?”

Song Uyen Nghi whispered:

“Ask your brother.”

The call ended.

That evening, Professor Wen arranged a hospital room for me.

I couldn’t sleep.

At 11:43 p.m., someone knocked.

I expected a nurse.

Instead, Giang Tu Hanh entered.

He looked destroyed.

In one hand was a thick envelope.

He placed it on my bed.

“I went back and checked the foundation archives.”

I didn’t touch it.

“And?”

His eyes were bloodshot.

“The authorization wasn’t mine.”

I stared at him.

“It used my credentials, but I wasn’t the person who logged in.”

“Convenient.”

“I know you don’t believe me.”

“Correct.”

He nodded slowly.

Then he removed another document.

“There is something else.”

I looked down.

It was a copy of my prison sentence-reduction application.

The first one.

Dated two years earlier.

Across the bottom was a rejection request.

Signed by someone from Giang Group’s legal department.

My hands began shaking.

“Your company blocked my release?”

“I didn’t know.”

I looked up.

Giang Tu Hanh’s face was terrifyingly pale.

Then he placed a second document beside it.

An internal authorization form.

My stomach dropped.

Because the signature approving the legal department’s intervention belonged to him.

Giang Tu Hanh.

He stared at his own signature as if he were looking at a corpse.

“I never signed this.”

I laughed.

Quietly.

Exhaustedly.

“You expect me to believe that?”

“No.”

He swallowed.

“But there’s one person who had access to my signature seal four years ago.”

I already knew the name before he said it.

“Song Uyen Nghi.”

He nodded.

Then my phone vibrated.

A message.

From Professor Wen.

I opened it.

There was only one sentence.

“Don’t let your brother leave. We found the original laboratory video.”

Below it was a still image.

Timestamp: 10:16 p.m.

The night of the theft.

A woman stood in front of my locker.

Song Uyen Nghi.

But she wasn’t alone.

Beside her stood a man.

My breath caught.

Giang Tu Hanh leaned closer.

The moment he saw the man’s face, he staggered backward.

Because the man helping Song Uyen Nghi plant the evidence wasn’t a stranger.

It was the person who had raised both of us.

Our father.