It's Never Too Late for Revenge

My call to the Office of Personnel Management was answered quickly.

"Hello, this is the Office of Personnel Management. How may I help you?"

With a hand pressed to my chest to calm my racing heart, I replied in a shaky voice, "I'd like to file a report."

The operator's tone immediately sobered at my words. "A report? Sir, please inform us of the situation and personnel involved in detail."

I took a deep breath. "I'd like to report a new cadet you admitted just this year named Jennifer Gentry. Her father is a morally corrupt person who had an affair with his own sister-in-law and even defaulted on a massive debt."

The operator was stunned. "Are your claims true? This entire conversation will be documented and kept on record, so please bear responsibility for your claims."

I replied firmly, "They're true. I swear on my honor."

How could they possibly be false?

I'd been internally preparing for this reveal for 15 years, after all. I'd imagined this scene countless times, rehearsing every word time and again.

"Alright, sir. I'll report this to my supervisor right now. He'll speak directly with you shortly, so please wait a moment."

After acknowledging the operator's words, I heard the sounds of serious conversation coming from the other end of the receiver.

"What? Jennifer Gentry was reported?"

"Yes, sir. I double-checked."

"Surely not. Jennifer is among the top performers from this batch of new cadets..."

"The person who made the report is still on the line."

"Alright. I'll speak with him."

I picked at the wall's surface in my nervousness. That was the one problem with cheap houses—pick at a flake in the plaster and a whole chunk of it would come off.

When I held my palm face up, a thick layer of plaster flakes landed on it, much like the gloomy, dusty life I'd led for the past 15 years.

Someone picked up the call again. "Hello, sir. May I inquire as to your identity?"

The corners of my mouth tugged into a smile. "I'm the original spouse of Jennifer's mother, the very man whom she cheated on back then."

After a few seconds of stunned silence from the other end, the man continued, "Alright. Please go ahead."

I clenched my fists, then allowed my own voice to drag me back through memories I'd long sealed away.

"15 years ago, my father fell severely ill..."

We were just an ordinary family, so Mom and I were left shell-shocked by the astronomical surgery costs.

We borrowed money from everyone we knew, yet the amount was still like a drop in the bucket compared to what we needed.

During that period of time, it felt like Mom and I shed an entire lifetime's worth of tears. It was also then that I learned how true it was that when someone reached the limits of their grief, they would no longer be capable of tears.

In the end, Mom and I would numbly keep vigil outside Dad's hospital room every day.

Upon getting up after another sleepless night to see Mom hitting her own head and calling herself useless, I finally made up my mind.

Behind everyone's backs, I found a covert channel through which I made contact with an intermediary involved in the underground organ trade.

I was still young back then. After sizing me up like merchandise for a good while, the intermediary eventually offered me 300,000 dollars for one of my kidneys.

It just so happened to be the exact amount we needed for Dad's surgery.

I shakily lay down on the operating table.

I would never forget the process of having my kidney removed. Conditions at the illegal clinic were terrible, and they only used the cheapest of anesthetics. My nails dug into my palms so hard that they bled from the pain of having one of my kidneys removed.

I stumbled out of the clinic, hunched over and in tears, only to rush straight to the hospital without even pausing to catch my breath.

And yet, when the time came to pay the hospital bills, the bank card that I always kept close to me kept getting denied.

When I frantically questioned the bank teller, I was told that the funds that arrived that morning had been withdrawn in a single transaction almost immediately afterward by the cardholder herself—my wife, Isabella Marten.

My eyes widened in disbelief.

Back at the hospital, I desperately dialed Isabella's number.

After countless calls, someone finally picked up on the other end.

However, the person in question was not Isabella but her brother-in-law, Phil Gentry.