Chapter 11 The One Who Killed Me—He's Right Here

• The moment I realized it, rage flooded my chest.
• People always say that after death, you turn into a vengeful spirit, seeking revenge. But clearly, that's just a myth. It felt like I was trapped inside an invisible barrier, unable to do anything.
• Even with my enemy right in front of me, I couldn't touch her!
• I could only watch as she claimed all my hard work, day after day, using it to win effortless praise from everyone.
• Those paintings were never meant to earn praise. They were created to heal myself.
• For the past two years, thanks to Anna, my emotions had been in a downward spiral. I even went to see a therapist, who told me I was suffering from severe depression.
• Medication could only suppress it but not fix it. He suggested that I either distance myself from the source of my depression or learn how to heal.
• I knew the source all too well—it was Anna and Luke. But at the time, I was so consumed by my obsession that I allowed myself to sink deeper into the darkness.
• Before I left the Sanders' house, I often hid in the basement studio, painting over and over again, getting hurt and then healing myself, over and over.
• I never imagined that even in death, Anna wouldn't leave my work alone.
• Suddenly, someone noticed the signature on one of the paintings, like they had just discovered something huge.
• Back in middle school, I used the pseudonym "S" to enter a design competition, and I became famous overnight.
• At the time, my parents had high expectations for me. Fearing they'd think I was wasting my time on art, I didn't even show up to accept the award.
• Privately, I'd created a social media account, and it quickly gained followers who kept pushing me to release more work. Every year, I'd publish a new piece, though no one knew it was me—not even Luke.
• Two years ago, I accidentally posted a new piece from my main account instead of my art alias.
• Overnight, I was trending. But I didn't care for fame, so I didn't explain or try to clear up the confusion, letting fans speculate.
• There was a lot of debate online—some people claimed I was "S," while others said I was just riding the wave of popularity.
• I didn't clarify anything, and within two weeks, the whole thing blew over.
• Now, two years later, Anna had unearthed all the paintings I hadn't publicly released.
• I always made a habit of hiding my signature within the artwork, and some of my longtime fans instantly recognized my style, mistaking Anna as the artist behind it all.
• The incident from two years ago, when I posted from the wrong account, was brought up again. Some people were busy insulting me, while others were praising her.
• Anna, under the title of "genius artist," gained a reputation for being both talented and kind-hearted.
• The whole situation was quickly shared online, and soon the internet was flooded with people accusing me of impersonating S.
• Even the charity work I'd done under the name S was now being credited to Anna.
• Luke watched all this unfold, a complex expression appearing in his eyes. Even though he didn't know that I was S, he was still familiar with my painting style.
• "Anna, did you really paint all these?" he asked.
• Anna's eyes welled up with tears. "Luke, who else could it be if not me? Haven't you always complimented my work before?"
• "I just thought the style looked different from what you usually do."
• "No artist sticks to just one style. I can paint in lots of ways. Luke, you'll get to know me better."
• As she spoke, her fingers slowly slid down his chest. She was getting bolder and bolder.
• Luke didn't want anyone to notice, so he immediately pushed her hand away. "The auction's about to start. Let's go."
• I was forced to follow them into the auction hall, where many art collectors and enthusiasts had gathered.
• A lot of them had come specifically because of the online buzz about S, including industry peers and fans, which made the place absolutely packed.
• As Luke made his way through the crowd, someone brushed past him.
• "Sorry," the man muttered. His voice was raspy, like it had been scarred by years of smoking. His hunched posture made it hard to see his face clearly.
• The moment he lifted his head, though, I saw his bloodshot, menacing eyes.
• Boom!
• It felt like a hammer slammed into my chest.
• It was him! The one who killed me—he was right here!