Chapter 2: The Cure Had a Price

I woke before dawn with the taste of bitterness still lingering in my mouth.

For several seconds, I stared at the unfamiliar ceiling above me, unable to remember where I was. Then the memories returned all at once—the hospital, my brother's desperate promise, the experimental treatment, and the strange weakness that had followed after I was declared cured.

My fingers tightened around the blanket.

I had spent years believing that my brother had saved my life. He had stayed beside my hospital bed when everyone else had given up. He had found specialists when ordinary doctors told my family there was nothing more they could do. He had paid an unimaginable amount of money for my treatment and repeatedly told me that my life was worth everything to him.

But now that I had been given another chance, I had begun noticing things I had ignored before.

The first was the silence.

Whenever I asked what exactly had been used to cure me, everyone changed the subject.

The second was my brother's behavior.

He had always been protective, but after my recovery, his concern had become strangely controlling. He wanted to know where I went, whom I spoke to, what documents I read, and even which relatives I visited.

At first, I told myself he was simply afraid of losing me again.

Now I wasn't so sure.

A soft knock came from the bedroom door.

Before I could answer, my brother stepped inside.

He looked exhausted. His shirt was wrinkled, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes. Anyone looking at him would have thought he had spent the entire night worrying about me.

Perhaps that was exactly what he wanted me to think.

"You're awake," he said.

"I couldn't sleep."

He walked over and sat beside my bed. His eyes immediately moved to my face, studying me carefully.

"Are you feeling any pain? Dizziness? Nausea?"

"No."

He visibly relaxed.

"That's good."

I looked at him quietly.

"Brother, what exactly cured me?"

His expression changed for only a fraction of a second.

It was so brief that another person might never have noticed it.

I noticed.

"Why are you asking that?" he replied.

"Because everyone keeps avoiding the question."

He smiled gently and reached over to touch my hair the way he used to when we were children.

"You don't need to worry about those things anymore. You're healthy now. That's all that matters."

"But I want to know."

His hand stopped.

"Some medical procedures are confidential. You know that."

I lowered my eyes.

"So even I can't know what was done to me?"

"You were sick, and I saved you. Do you really want to keep digging into something that could make you anxious again?"

His words sounded reasonable.

They always did.

That was what made him so dangerous.

He knew exactly how to make control sound like love.

I gave him a faint smile.

"You're right. I was only curious."

The tension disappeared from his face.

"Get some more rest. I'll handle everything else."

After he left, I remained motionless in bed.

Then I slowly reached beneath my pillow.

My fingers touched the small flash drive I had hidden there.

I had found it three nights ago in an old storage box that my brother believed I would never open again.

It contained medical records.

My medical records.

And one file had been deleted repeatedly, as if someone had desperately tried to erase it.

Fortunately, whoever deleted it had not known that the original hospital database stored an automatic backup.

I had only seen a few lines before my brother entered the room that night.

Patient: unnamed donor.

Genetic compatibility: exceptionally high.

Procedure authorized under family emergency protocol.

I still didn't understand what it meant.

But I knew one thing.

My cure had not been as simple as my brother claimed.

That afternoon, I waited until everyone was busy downstairs before opening the flash drive on my laptop.

The folder contained dozens of encrypted documents, but one file opened without a password.

It was a transfer record.

The date was the same day I had received my treatment.

I read the first page twice.

Then a third time.

My breathing became shallow.

The treatment had required biological material from a close genetic match.

A living donor.

And beside the donor identification field was my brother's full name.

I covered my mouth with my hand.

For years, I had believed my brother had simply spent money to save me.

But he had given something of himself.

Something serious enough that the hospital had classified the entire procedure.

For a moment, guilt overwhelmed my suspicion.

Maybe I had misunderstood him.

Maybe every secret had been kept because the treatment was dangerous and he didn't want me to blame myself.

Then I opened the next document.

My heart stopped.

The report stated that the procedure had not been performed voluntarily.

There had been pressure from my family to obtain the donation because my condition had been considered critical.

The donor had signed the consent documents under circumstances that were described as 'highly irregular.'

I stared at the screen.

Why would my brother agree to something like that?

Before I could read further, I heard footsteps approaching my room.

I immediately closed the laptop and hid the flash drive beneath the mattress.

The door opened.

My brother stood there.

He smiled when he saw me sitting peacefully on the bed.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Nothing. Just resting."

His eyes moved toward the laptop.

Then toward me.

"Good," he said softly. "Because there are some things you are better off never knowing."

A chill traveled down my spine.

He walked away after saying those words, leaving the door slightly open behind him.

I stared at the gap in the doorway.

He knew.

Maybe he had known for a long time that I would eventually discover the truth.

I reached beneath the mattress and gripped the flash drive tightly.

The brother I had trusted more than anyone in the world had saved my life.

But if the documents were real, then my cure had come at a price.

And I was beginning to fear that the price had not been paid only by him.

For the first time since my recovery, I made a decision without telling my brother.

I would find out exactly what happened to me.

No matter how ugly the truth was.

No matter who I had to betray to uncover it.

And if my brother had lied to me about the cure, then I would make sure he regretted every lie.