The city of Cloudspire shimmered beneath the neon lights, the brilliance masking the shadows of the bustling noise.
Outside the car window, streaks of light flashed past, blurring into fleeting moments. Inside the car, the low hum of the engine was the only sound breaking the silence.
I stepped into the vehicle, closed the door, and left the chaos of the outside world behind.
"Mason," I asked softly, "is it still possible?"
Mason's hands remained steady on the steering wheel, his tone calm as ever.
"Miss Cindy Shen is already waiting for you at Dreamcore Heights. But… are you certain you won't stop by to see Mr. Shiao?"
I didn't respond. My gaze lingered on the city lights, flowing endlessly like a river. The air in the car grew heavier with every unsaid word.
It had been only two weeks since I reconnected with Cindy Shen, my cousin, someone I had only seen at family gatherings in our younger years. Back then, she had always been gentle, radiant—a picture of warmth. Now, beneath the polished image of a glamorous model, something darker loomed.
The door to the room opened, and dim light spilled over Cindy Shen.
She was curled up in the corner of the sofa, her figure small and fragile, as if the weight of the world had drained her of every ounce of strength. The face that had once graced countless advertisements and magazine covers was now ghostly pale, with dark circles under her eyes that seemed almost too stark to be real.
She wore a loose silk dress, her long hair tied back in a low ponytail, with a few strands falling loosely around her face. Though her features were still delicate, her pale complexion and cracked lips betrayed an undeniable frailty.
"Myles, you're here," she said, her voice hoarse and weak. She forced a faint smile, but the gesture never reached her eyes.
I sat across from her, my eyes falling on her wrist. The faint marks of needles stood out against her skin.
"Are you still taking those injections?" I asked bluntly.
She lowered her head, her silence stretching for a long moment before she replied softly, "Myles, do I have a choice? The company has already arranged my next treatment. If I stop now… you know what they'll do to me."
"Cindy-jie," I said, addressing her with the respect due to an elder cousin, "how can the company have the power to force this on you? What about the contract? Medical safety?"
She let out a bitter laugh, her smile tinged with helplessness. "A contract? Who cares about that? The company's contracts have always been one-sided. Whatever they say is law. The moment we sign, we lose the right to say no."
"And the medical justification?" I pressed. "How can they inject you with something so dubious? It's impossible that it's been properly tested."
"Of course not," she leaned back, her exhaustion evident. "They told us it was a 'custom therapy' designed specifically for artists, tailored to our unique needs. They claimed it was perfectly safe and even brought in a 'medical consultant' to vouch for it. How many of us dared to question them?"
"A medical consultant?" I sneered. "And you just believed them?"
"Myles," she murmured, lowering her gaze, "at the time, all I wanted was to be better. My weight was dropping, and on camera, I looked flawless. There was no reason to doubt."
"When did you first realize something was wrong?" I asked.
"After the third injection," she sighed deeply, her voice almost inaudible. "That's when my appetite started to fade. Even the smell of food made me nauseous. I began to feel constantly exhausted, even after just a little movement. The company said it was all part of a 'detox reaction' and told me not to worry."
"Detox?" I scoffed, my voice sharp. "That's what they're calling it?"
"Yes," she nodded, a faint, mocking smile tugging at her lips. "They said my condition would improve after the adjustment period. But the truth? After the last few injections, my heart started racing erratically, and at night, I could barely breathe."
She looked up, her eyes filled with fear. "Myles, do you think I'm dying?"
"Cindy-jie," I said, forcing my voice to stay steady, "you need to stop. You can't keep doing this."
Her fingers gripped the edge of the sofa tightly. "If I stop… I'll lose everything."
"If you don't stop, you might lose your life," I said, meeting her gaze, my tone grave. "These injections are a mystery. I've researched similar cases—some ended in thyroid cancer or pancreatitis."
Her hands trembled as if the weight of my words was too much to bear. "It could really get that bad?"
"Yes," I nodded, my voice calm but firm. "Your body is already sending you warnings. Continuing this is no different from slow suicide."
She closed her eyes, exhaling shakily as if trying to compose herself. After a moment, she asked softly, "But Myles… if this gets out, you know what will happen, don't you?"
Her eyes opened, fixing on mine, her voice low and urgent. "I'm not the only one. The company uses this on everyone. If I come forward, what do you think will happen?"
My fingers curled slightly, a chill running through me. We both knew the answer.
NexDream Entertainment's influence ran deep, rooted in power and fear. To expose them would mean her career's end—and the fallout wouldn't stop with her. For me, as Mr. Shiao's son, there would be no escape either.
"Myles," she spoke again, her voice trembling faintly, "will you help me?"
I stood up, my gaze shifting to the bustling cityscape outside. The neon lights cast a cold, unforgiving glow against the glass.
"I'll help you," I said quietly, my eyes falling back on the faint needle marks on her wrist. "When's your next injection?"
Cindy lowered her head, glancing at her wrist. Her voice was barely a whisper. "Three days from now."
I turned to the window, the streams of light outside reflecting the turmoil inside me. My tone was icy, resolute. "Then don't waste any time. Tell me everything."