My Life Was Their Truman Show

I starved myself on nearly expired bread for a whole month to save money and buy medicine for my sick mom.

Before I collapsed, I sent her a message: Mom, I got the medicine. I'm so tired. Going to sleep for a bit.

That sleep became permanent.

Only after death did I discover that my entire life had been an all-surveillance "Truman Show."

My billionaire parents sat in their massive control room watching me suffer from stomach cramps.

Mom held her wine glass, frowning as she critiqued: "Poor physical constitution. Deduct 10 points."

Dad recorded coldly: "Willpower is acceptable, but doesn't know how to utilize resources. Deduct 20 points."

They were selecting the sole heir to the family fortune.

And I, for "dying too easily," was judged: Failed.

My corpse still lay on the cold floor of my rental apartment, curled in a fetal position.

My phone screen glowed with that unread text message.

"Mom, I got the medicine. I'm so tired. Going to sleep for a bit."

My soul floated in midair as I stared at that emaciated body.

My stomach still twitched faintlythe final memory before starving to death.

One month.

To scrape together money for that astronomically expensive imported medicine for my mom's "stomach cancer diagnosis," I'd cut my only meat dish.

I ate only two nearly expired pieces of bread each day.

Even my water came from the office cooler.

I thought my sacrifice would move heaven itself and bring my mother's recovery.

Instead, I moved myself to death.

When I opened my eyes again, I'd been reborn.

I floated into an extremely luxurious semicircular hall.

Hundreds of high-definition screens covered the walls.

The largest one in the center displayed my corpse.

I tried to scream, but no sound came out.

Two people sat on the leather sofa.

The man wore an expensive suit, the woman dripped with jewels.

They were my "poverty-stricken," "terminally ill" parents.

At that moment, Mom swirled a glass of blood-red wine in her hand.

She looked at my pale face on the screen, her brow deeply furrowed.

No tears, no sorrow. Only disgust.

"Poor physical constitution. Died after just one month of hunger. [Heir Selection Test - Physical Constitution Dimension] deduct 10 points."

She took a sip of wine, her tone like she was critiquing defective merchandise.

Dad held a diamond-encrusted pen, making a mark on a thick evaluation form.

"Willpower is acceptable, but doesn't know how to utilize resources."

"Clearly attractive enough, yet didn't know to leverage her looks for money. Foolish."

"[Heir Selection Test - Resource Utilization Dimension] deduct 20 points."

I floated above their heads, trembling all over.

These were the parents I'd risked my life to save?

These were the parents I'd starved for, going without even sanitary pads to support?

"Enough, stop watching. Bad luck."

Mom set down her wine glass and pressed the remote.

The screen went dark.

My corpse disappeared into blackness.

"Notify the logistics department to collect the body. Clean it up properly. Don't let the media find out."

Dad closed the folder and casually tossed it into the trash.

"This one's a write-off. Initiate Plan B."

"Bring Rachel back from abroad. Hopefully she's smarter than this idiot."

I stared at the folder in the trash.

The cover read: "Heir Selection Test: Subject 001Morgan."

Below it, a red summary line:

[Assessment Result: Failed. Total deductions 30 points, zero bonus points. Disposal method: Destroy.]

So I was just a test subject.

The star of a reality show called "Heir Selection."

The "destitute home" was a set.

The "terminal cancer" was a script.

The "devoted relationship" was an act.

My twenty years of life had been an absolute joke.

A young woman in business attire walked in.

It was Natalie, my "distant cousin."

She used to come to my place with such a superior air to "bring warmth," tossing me a few old clothes.

Now she stood respectfully before my parents.

"Morgan's funeral arrangements..."

"Don't mention her again!"

Mom cut her off sharply.

"A defective productwhy bring her up?"

"Just find any crematorium, burn her, scatter the ashes in the ocean. Save the space."

Natalie bowed her head. "Yes."

"Oh, that Julian performed well."

Dad suddenly spoke.

"He did an excellent job inducing Morgan to save money for medicine. Give him a two hundred thousand dollar bonus."

My eyes flew wide open.

Julian. My boyfriend.

The man who always held me gently, saying "Morgan, your mother's illness comes first. We can endure hardship."

The man who watched me eat bread while secretly eating fried chicken in the bathroom.

He was an actor too.

An "NPC" they'd hired specifically to drain my last drop of blood.

"Julian asked if he could participate in Rachel's test?"

Natalie asked carefully.

Mom gave a contemptuous laugh.

"That kind of pretty boy who only knows how to deceive idiots? Only someone as brainless as Morgan would fall for him."

"Tell him to get lost."

"The White family heir doesn't need such low-level emotional tests."

I stared at them intently.

Hatred surged through my chest like molten lava.

Why?

Just because you're rich, you can toy with my life at will?

Just because I'm your daughter, I deserve to be your guinea pig for heir selection?

I hate them. I hate them so much!

If I could do it all again, I would never be that obedient daughter waiting to be slaughtered.

I would return every bit of suffering from these twenty years to thema thousand, ten thousand times over!

A violent tearing sensation came from deep within my soul.

Everything went black.

When I opened my eyes again, I heard familiar coughing.

"Cough, cough... Morgan, my stomach condition seems to be getting worse..."

Moldy peeling walls, dim lighting.

The air reeked of cheap ointment and old wood.

I sat at the paint-chipped wooden table.

Half a piece of cold, hard bread sat before me.

My phone vibrated.

A message from Julian.

"Morgan, I heard from the doctor that if your mom doesn't get that imported medicine, she probably won't make it past next month."

"I know that medicine is expensivefifty thousand dollars."

"We'll save together. I'll quit smoking, you skip a few lunches. We can scrape it together."

Looking at these familiar words.

I laughed. Laughed until tears streamed down my face.

I'm back. I'm really back.

Back to the day I decided to begin my "hellish economizing."

In my previous life, this message became my death warrant.

I looked at that half piece of bread, nausea churning in my stomach.

Not from hunger. From disgust.

I grabbed the bread and hurled it into the trash.

"Morgan? What's wrong?"

From the shabby bedroom came that woman's weak voice.

That was my "good mother," Betty.

The chairwoman of White Group.

Right now she was lying on that creaking wooden plank bed, playing the role of a dying peasant woman.

I stood up and walked to the door.

Through the crack, I saw her quickly stuffing something into her mouth when she thought I wasn't looking.

A piece of imported chocolate.

When she noticed me coming in, she moved lightning-fast to shove the chocolate under her pillow.

Then switched to an expression of agony.

"Morgan, I'm fine... just hurts terribly..."

"Don't worry about me. Better if I just die, stop being a burden to you..."

Such great acting. You deserve an Oscar.

In my previous life, seeing this scene broke my heart.

I would kneel by the bed, crying and swearing to save her, then immediately go sell my blood.

But now I leaned against the doorframe, watching her performance with zero expression.

"Mom, if it hurts that much, don't hold it in."

Betty froze.

Seemingly unprepared for my calm reaction.

"Morgan, the medicine is too expensive... we can't afford it..."

"Can't afford it?"

I curved my lips, my eyes ice-cold.

"If we can't afford medicine, we'll find another way."

"Mom, didn't you always teach me that people need to know how to utilize resources?"

A flash of confusion crossed Betty's eyes.

This was her critique as an "examiner"something I shouldn't know about.

But I didn't give her time to think.

"If you're going to die anyway, why care about dignity?"

"Mom, just wait."

"I'm going to get you money."

I turned and left.

Behind me came Betty's slightly panicked voice: "Morgan, where are you going? Don't do anything rash!"

Anything rash? Ridiculous.

I just wanted to make this "Truman Show" a bit more exciting.

I walked out of that suffocating rental apartment.

The sunlight outside stung my eyes.

I felt my pockets.

Fifteen dollars total.

That was everything I owned.

In my previous life, I used those fifteen dollars to buy ten pieces of bread that lasted me a week.

This life, I walked straight into a lottery shop.

Not to buy lottery tickets, but to borrow a charging cable and mooch some WiFi.

I opened my phone and downloaded a streaming app.

Registered an account.

Name: [Terminal Mother and Devoted Daughter's Final 30 Days].

The description dripped with pathos:

"Destitute home, mother with terminal stomach cancer, no money for medicine."

"To save my mother, I'll do whatever it takes."

"Please follow and witness a life's miracle."

I knew my phone was monitored.

My every move transmitted in real-time to that massive control room.

Right now, my billionaire parents were probably frowning at their screens.

"What's she trying to do?"

"Online begging? Too lowbrow. [Heir Selection Test - Strategic Sophistication Dimension] deduct 5 points."

The clear commentary from my previous life floating in the control room hadn't disappeared with my rebirth.

I turned on the camera, pointing it at my facepale and gaunt from chronic malnutrition.

I had to admit, this pitiful appearance was natural clickbait.

I didn't speak. Just quietly let tears fall.

Tears dropped one by one onto the screen.

That sense of despair, helplessness, brokennessI portrayed it vividly.

After all, I was someone who'd truly died once.

This despair didn't need acting.

Soon, viewers entered the stream.

"Poor girl."

"Oh my god, that complexion. She's clearly been starving for a long time."

"Terminal stomach cancer? Real or fake?"

"Probably a scammer."

Doubts followed quickly.

I wiped my tears, my voice hoarse.

"I know everyone doesn't believe me."

"That's okay."

"I'll take you to see my mother right now."

"See where we live, see her writhing in pain on the bed."

"If I'm lying about anything, may I get hit by a car when I leave."

I held up my phone and walked back step by step.

Passing a barbecue restaurant.

That tempting aroma drilled into my nostrils.

I stopped, my throat moving.

The viewer count began to skyrocket.

"She wants to eat."

"She must be starving."

"Send her money! Let her eat!"

Someone sent a gift.

I watched the special effects, the corner of my mouth curving imperceptibly.

Facing the camera, I shook my head.

"No, I can't eat."

"This money is to save my mother's life."

"I can still endure."

With that, I resolutely turned and walked away.

My retreating figure looked determined yet desolate.

The stream exploded.

"This is torture!"

"That willpower!"

"Following! We have to help her!"

In the control room.

Dad's pen paused.

"Using online public opinion to gain sympathy?"

"The method is lowbrow, but the effect is decent."

"This maneuver, [Heir Selection Test - Resource Acquisition Efficiency Dimension] barely earns 5 points."

Bonus points?

Dad, you're too naive.

I'm not seeking sympathy.

I'm putting you in an impossible position.

Back at the rental.

I violently pushed open the door.

Shoved the camera right into Betty's face.

She was sitting cross-legged, holding that half-eaten chocolate.

Seeing me enter with my phone, she froze completely.

"Mom!"

I let out a piercing wail and rushed over.

"Are you delirious from hunger?"

"That's trash you picked upyou can't eat that!"

I snatched the chocolate from her hand and threw it hard on the floor.

Then embraced her, sobbing hysterically.

"It's all my fault for being useless! Making you so hungry you're eating garbage!"

"Mom! I've failed you!"

Betty was stunned.

She looked at the imported chocolate on the floor, then at my streaming phone.

Her expression instantly became uglier than if she'd eaten excrement.

The stream erupted.

"What's that black thing?"

"Looks like chocolate?"

"Picked from trash? That's horrible!"

"Her mom's so hungry she's lost her mind!"

"Send money fast! Don't let them starve to death!"

Gift effects filled the screen.

I buried myself in Betty's arms, my whole body shaking with sobs.

Only I knew I was actually laughing.

Mom, how did that "garbage" imported chocolate taste?

Are you satisfied?