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 imed 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.N?vel(D)ra/ma.Org exclusive ? material.


    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 designpetition, 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 ept the award.


    Privately, I''d created a social media ount, 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 identally posted a new piece from my main ount instead of my art alias.


    Overnight, I was trending. But I didn''t care for fame, so I didn''t exin or try to clear up the confusion, letting fans specte.


    There was a lot of debate online-some people imed I was "S," while others said I was just riding the wave of poprity.


    I didn''t rify anything, and within two weeks, the whole thing blew over.


    Now, two yearster, 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 ount, 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 inte was flooded with people using 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, aplex 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 alwaysplimented 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 hade specifically because of the online buzz about S, including industry peers and fans, which made the ce 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 mmed into my chest.


    It was him! The one who killed me he was right here!