Pain Transfer System

I was born with pain transference. My specialty is weaponized empathy. Whatever pain someone fakes in my presence, they feel for real.

When a two-faced girl pretended I pushed her and cried about how much it hurt, the next second, she was screaming as if every bone in her body had shattered.

When a con artist threw herself in front of my car, wailing that her back was broken, her vertebrae instantly dislocated, paralyzing her on the asphalt.

Over time, people learned to treat me with a healthy dose of fear. No one dared to fake an illness or play the victim in my vicinity.

Until, for the sake of a family merger, I was engaged to a brilliant, aloof maestro of surgery.

At our engagement party, his "little sister" from med school clutched her stomach, her face slick with cold sweat as she cried. In front of the city's medical elite, she clung to my fianc's sleeve and whimpered:

"Julian, my stomach cancer it's flaring up. It hurts so much, please, save me."

The elegant ballroom fell silent. My fianc removed his gloves.

"Seraphina, Monica is in critical condition. The engagement party will have to wait."

"A doctor's duty comes first. I can't just stand by while a patient suffers."

The champagne flute in my hand paused mid-air.

"I just did a full-body scan on you. Turns out, you're telling the truth. In that case, you can just drop dead."

"Your cancer cells have just metastasized. The pain has been magnified tenfold. You're going to die in agony."

For the sake of a dynastic union, I was engaged to Dr. Julian Barclay, a brilliant and aloof surgical prodigy. He was the youngest chief surgeon in the medical community, his future limitless. Our two families were titans, and the engagement party was a lavish affair. Everyone who was anyone in the city was there.

I stood in the center of the grand hall, wearing a couture gown, my arm linked with Julians. Everyone said we were a match made in heaven.

Just as we were about to exchange engagement rings, the doors were thrown open. A frail girl in a white dress stumbled in.

It was Monica, Julians junior from medical school.

Her face was as white as her dress. Clutching her stomach, she rushed towards us. In front of hundreds of guests, she grabbed Julians sleeve, tears instantly streaming down her face, her skin glistening with a cold sweat.

"Julian, my stomach cancer it's flaring up. It hurts so much, please, save me."

The entire hall fell silent. Every eye was fixed on the three of us.

I looked at Monica's pathetic, damsel-in-distress act and sneered inwardly.

Stomach cancer? Just yesterday, I saw her post a picture on Instagram of herself devouring a spicy hot pot. Today, she was having a terminal cancer flare-up?

Julian's cool, indifferent expression shattered. He didn't hesitate to pull his arm from mine, turning to support Monica. "Monica, what happened? Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

Monica sagged into his arms, breathing weakly. "Julian, I know today is a big day for you. I didn't want to bother you. But it hurts so much, I feel like I'm going to die. I just wanted to see you one last time."

Her speech was so heartfelt, so moving, that a few of the guests actually started dabbing their eyes.

Julian's own eyes reddened. He pulled the engagement ring, the one meant for me, from his finger and tossed it unceremoniously onto a nearby table.

"Seraphina, Monica is in critical condition. The engagement party will have to wait. A doctor's duty comes first. I can't just stand by while a patient suffers."

He didn't even offer me an apology before sweeping Monica into his arms, ready to leave. I paused, my champagne flute held steady. I watched Monica, nestled in his embrace, shoot me a triumphant, provocative smirk.

Fine. You want to play games?

I swirled the champagne in my glass and spoke, my voice calm and deliberate.

"I just did a full-body scan on you. Turns out, you're telling the truth. In that case, you can just drop dead. Your cancer cells have just metastasized. The pain has been magnified tenfold. You're going to die in agony."

Julian stopped in his tracks and glared at me. "Seraphina, what the hell are you talking about? Monica is already so sick, and you're cursing her? How can you be so vicious?"

The moment he finished speaking, a bloodcurdling shriek ripped from Monica's throat.

"AAAAAHHH!"

The sound was so piercing it seemed to shatter the crystal chandeliers. Monica thrashed out of Julian's arms, crashing to the floor. She curled into a ball, clutching her stomach like a boiled shrimp, her white dress instantly soaked with sweat. She writhed on the ground, her head banging against the marble.

"It hurts! It hurts so much! Somebody help me! My stomach is exploding! My insides are on fire!"

She screamed, clawing at her own belly, her nails digging bloody furrows into her skin.

Julian was horrified. He dropped to his knees, trying to restrain her. "Monica! What's wrong?"

Lost to the pain, Monica bit down hard on his wrist. Julian grunted in pain but refused to let her go. He looked up at me, his eyes blazing with fury. "Seraphina! What did you do to her?"

I stood my ground, looking down on them. "What could I do? Didn't she say she has terminal stomach cancer? This is what a flare-up looks like. Surely a great doctor like you would know that."

The guests began to whisper.

"That girl's screams... they don't sound fake."

"Could she really have terminal cancer?"

"How tragic."

Julian no longer had time to argue with me. Monica's eyes were rolling back in her head, foam flecked her lips, and her breathing grew ragged.

"Monica, hang on! I'm taking you to the hospital right now!"

Ignoring the bite on his wrist, he scooped her up and ran for the door. At the threshold, he turned back, his gaze pinning me. "Seraphina, if anything happens to Monica, I will make you pay."

I just smiled coldly and drained my champagne. "Let's be clear, Julian. You're the one who publicly abandoned me for another woman. As of now, our engagement is void. You're not breaking it off. I am."

Julian froze for a second, then snarled, "Fine! I wouldn't want a cold-blooded woman like you anyway!"

And with that, he was gone.

Dead silence filled the ballroom. Everyone stared at me.

I set down my glass, walked onto the stage, and took the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, my apologies, but the engagement party is canceled. Please, eat, drink, and enjoy the rest of the evening. It's all on my tab."

Then, I gathered the skirt of my gown and walked out, leaving a sea of stunned faces behind me.

I knew with absolute certainty: Monica was a dead woman. My power of pain transference had never once failed. If she dared to fake terminal cancer, I would make her experience it for real.

Magnified by ten.

Julian rushed Monica to his own hospital, City Central, straight into the emergency room. Her screams echoed through the entire ER. He pulled some strings and ordered an emergency full-body CT scan. He stood in the control room, his eyes glued to the monitor.

When the images appeared, the attending physician gasped. "Dr. Barclay... this... this is impossible!"

Julian shoved the doctor aside. On the screen was a massive, irregularly bordered tumor in her stomach. But that wasn't all. Her liver, lungs, even her bones were riddled with metastatic lesions.

It was real. Stage-four stomach cancer, spread throughout her entire body. Incurable.

Julian's legs gave out, and he nearly collapsed. "How can this be? She had a full physical just last month at this very hospital. All her markers were normal!"

The physician sighed. "The images don't lie. With this level of metastasis, she has three months to live, at most."

From the ER, Monica's screams continued unabated. They gave her painkiller after painkiller, but even the highest dose of morphine couldn't touch the pain. She had ripped the bedsheets to shreds.

Julian burst into her room, grabbing her hand. "Monica, don't be afraid. I'm the best surgeon there is. I will save you!"

Ignoring the other doctor's advice, he scheduled an emergency surgery. He was going to open her up and cut the tumor out himself.

The operating light flickered on. Julian scrubbed in, scalpel in hand. The moment he made the first incision, he despaired. Her abdominal cavity was filled with cancerous fluid and nodules. Her stomach was a necrotic, pulpy mess. There was nothing to cut, nowhere to start.

His celebrated surgical skill was a joke.

Julian's hands began to tremble, and the scalpel clattered to the floor. He leaned against the operating table, buried his face in his hands, and broke down sobbing.

Meanwhile, I had returned to the Vance family estate.

The moment I walked in, a teacup flew past my head, shattering at my feet. My father was on the sofa, his face crimson with rage.

"You insolent girl! Do you have any idea what you've done? Calling off the engagement in front of all those people! What about the Barclay family's dignity? What about our family's dignity?"

I looked at him coldly. "Julian abandoned me for another woman. Did you want me to get on my knees and beg him to stay?"

My father slammed his hand on the table and shot to his feet. "She was a patient! Julian is a doctor! Saving lives is his duty! Not only did you show no understanding, you said those vicious things! You will go to the hospital right now, apologize to Julian, and apologize to that girl!"

I stood my ground. "No."

He pointed a trembling finger at me. "If you don't go, you are no longer my daughter!"

When I still didn't move, he clutched his chest, his body swaying. "You... you're trying to kill me! Oh, my heart... I think I'm having a heart attack!" He collapsed onto the sofa, gasping for air.

My mother rushed to his side, then turned to me. "Seraphina! Are you trying to give your father a heart attack?"

I looked at my father's clumsy performance and sneered. He got a full physical twice a year; his heart was as strong as an ox. And now he was pulling this stunt to make me back down.

I walked over to the sofa. "A heart attack, is it? It's very painful. Are you sure you want one?"

My father faltered for a second, then cried out even louder. "You ungrateful child! You really are giving me a heart attack!"

I nodded. "Alright. As you wish."

Instantly, the color drained from my father's face. His eyes flew open, his hands clawing at his chest. His lips, once ruddy, turned a sickening shade of blue. He gasped, but no sound came out, only a rattling in his throat. He tumbled off the sofa, his body convulsing on the floor.

My mother was stunned. "Honey? Honey, what's wrong? Don't scare me!"

My father's eyes had rolled back. He was unconscious.

I calmly took out my phone and dialed 911. "Yes, Vance Estate. We have a case of acute myocardial infarction. Bring a defibrillator. Hurry."

Fifteen minutes later, the ambulance arrived. The paramedics performed CPR on the spot. "No heartbeat! Charging! Clear!"

Thump!

My father's body arched off the floor. It took three shocks to get a faint, thready pulse. The paramedics, sweating, loaded him onto a gurney. "Family needs to come now! We could lose him any second!"

My mother followed, crying. As she left, she shot me a look of pure terror. She had suddenly remembered my terrifying "gift," my "crow's beak" that had followed me since childhood.

The house fell silent. The maids hid in corners, not daring to breathe.

I sat on the sofa and poured myself a cup of tea.

Faking an illness?

In my presence, no one gets away with it.