The Player's Victim Act

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As the taxi crossed L Bridge, the evening breeze carried the river's briny scent pressing against the car window.

The wind was strong enough to make the car window tremble slightly.

I had just finished my fifth round of chemotherapy; the fingertips still throbbed from the needle punctures, a subtle, clustered pain, like tiny needles gently pricking.

Instinctively, I opened the short video app on my mobile phone.

Pinned atop the homepage was a video thumbnailMark Collins's face, the one I had been looking at for five years.

In those five years, his features had barely changed, but in his eyes was something I had never been able to understand.

He wore the dark grey wool sweater I gave him last birthdaythe one I hunted through three department stores to find. He said he loved it back then.

But at this moment, his eyes were red-rimmed, clutching a blurry photo of us, taken when we first fell in love, with the plane trees by the school gate in the background.

In the video's background was our bridal chamber, where the cross-stitch I had spent half a year embroidering hung on the wallit read, "Holding your hand, growing old together."

"Today marks three months since my wife Nicole Xavier left me," his voice choked, his Adam's apple bobbing violently, each word seeming wrung from deep within his throat, "She was only thirty when she passedshe hadn't even worn her new spring dress."

I stared at the screen title "Memoirs of the Deceased Wife," and an upheaval roiled fiercely in my stomach.

Chemotherapy had already left my stomach fragile, and this sudden, absurd scene made me want to gag.

The video was halfway through when Mark Collins began to tell our "love story."

He said that back then I defied my parents' wishes and insisted on marrying him, a man with nothing but empty hands; that even after I fell ill, I still pushed myself to cook and wash clothes for him, never letting him worry. He said that in my final moments, I held his hand weakly and said, "Don't grieve for me; live well."

The comment section was already flooded with tears, filled with phrases like "Good man," "Heartbreaking," and "Fairy-tale love." Some even said they wanted to learn from himto remain faithful and devoted to their partners.

I opened the tipping records; within half an hour, special gift effects never stopped. The backend showed earnings climbing at a speed clearly visible to the naked eye.

The taxi driver glanced at me through the rearview mirror and handed me a packet of tissues. "Ms., why the tears? That man is indeed touching. Did he remind you of your own story?"

I slammed my mobile phone hard against my leg; my knuckles turned white from the force. My voice trembled uncontrollably: "Driver, make a U-turn. Back to the hospital we just left."

"Not going home anymore?" The driver paused for a moment, then asked with a puzzled tone.

"There's been a death at home; I can't go back." I closed my eyes, a sharp bitterness rising in my nosenot sadness, but nausea.

When I opened the door, Mark Collins was bowing deeply before his mobile phone.

The living room lights were dimmed to a warm yellow, deliberately creating an atmosphere of sorrow. Two fill lights stood on a rack before him, casting light precisely on his face, emphasizing his reddened eyes and weary expression.

"Thank you to the 'Warmhearted Lady' for the expensive gift," he shed a few tears into the cameratears that came quickly and vanished just as fast"I will keep this money aside, and someday, I'll use it for Nicole Xavier... to do something meaningful for her."

"Saving up to buy me a burial plot?" I stood at the doorway, my voice soft yet dropping like a stone into a still lake.

Mark Collins spun around sharply; the sorrow on his face froze instantly as his mobile phone crashed onto the sofa.

The screen was still lit, and the live chat instantly exploded with comments.

"Am I seeing this right? Isn't this the deceased wife herself?"

"What's going on? Has she come back to life?"

"She was just crying so painfully moments agois this some kind of script?"

"Could this be a couple teaming up to scam tips? That's disgusting!"

"Why have you come back?" Mark Collins hurriedly reached out to press the phone's power button. As he stood up too abruptly, he knocked over the chair behind him, which crashed to the ground with a loud clang.

I kicked aside the slippers scattered by my feet and took slow, unsteady steps toward him. The weakness from chemotherapy made each step shaky, yet I forced myself to straighten my back: "Was I not supposed to come back? Am I disturbing you while you're raising funeral money for your deceased wife?"

His eyes darted away, avoiding my gaze; he reached out to touch my arm, his voice trembling with urgency: "Nicole, please listenI just... I just missed you so much, that's why..."

"Just what?" I suddenly shook off his hand with such force that I even startled myself. "You just feel like I'm about to die, so why not make use of this uselessness, and turn my 'death' into profit?"

Mark Collins's face flushed instantly, as if I had hit a nerve, and his tone hardened. "I have no choice! How much have you spent on chemotherapy? The family savings have long been exhausted! I've borrowed money everywhere; relatives and friends are avoiding me. If I didn't do this, how else could I raise money to pay for your treatment?"

"So you're holding a funeral for me ahead of time, using my pain as a selling point?" I pointed at his still-lit mobile phone; the comments on the screen kept scrolling frantically. "How do you plan to spend the money these people tipped? Will it really be used on me?"

He turned his face away, his voice lowered, tinged with a trace of guilt: "The doctor said you have at most three months left. I have to make plans for the future." If you're gone, I can't live in memories forever; I have to have some money in hand to get by."

"What about my future?" I laughed until tears came, the hair loss from chemotherapy leaving short strands clinging to my sweaty temples, itching unbearably. "Mark Collins, when did you find out about my medical condition?"

His shoulders stiffened, and he remained silent for a long moment, his fingers unconsciously picking at the sofa's armrest.

"Was it during the last check-up, when you secretly took my medical records?" I stepped forward, locking my gaze tightly on him. "Or was it even earlier, when you noticed I was coughing up blood but pretended not to see, just waiting for my condition to worsen so you could carry out your 'plan'?"

"It was two months ago!" he suddenly shouted, as if all the emotions he had suppressed finally burst out. "Dr. Clark told me you had late-stage lung cancer, with at most three months left to live. I nearly fainted!"

"And your first reaction wasn't to take me to a better doctor, or find a way to gather money for treatment, but to scheme how to profit from my death?" I looked at him, my heart sinking deeper and deeper, as if plunging into an ice cellar.

"I have no means!" He collapsed on the sofa, clutching his hair, his voice edged with despair. "Your father severed ties with you long ago, saying you married a poor boy like me by your own choice and didn't care whether you lived or died. The chemotherapy fees were all scraped together by borrowing here and there. If I don't do this, what else can I do? Just sit back and watch you die, ending up with nothing?"