Neon lights cast mottled shadows on the iron gate of the underground garage, just like that rainy night twelve years ago—when my mother left me at the orphanage door, raindrops dripping from the edge of her umbrella. "Tess, get in the car." Kyle's voice was low, as if seeping up from beneath the earth. He always appeared at this hour, his leather jacket smelling of smoke, knuckles bruised and unhealed, yet his gaze burning hot enough to melt through my final defenses. I shouldn't have trusted him. But when my father’s fist came crashing toward my skull for the third time, it was Kyle who kicked the door open and fired a shot that shattered the chandelier above the living room. Glass rained down like an avalanche, and he yanked me into the car, slamming the accelerator to the floor. "You can't run away," Mother Grace suddenly said from the corner of the rearview mirror, wearing that beige dress I remembered from childhood photos, cradling an old teddy bear—the only thing she'd ever left me. The car screeched to a halt. "She's back," I whispered. Kyle didn’t speak. He only pressed the gun into my palm. We returned to that house. A steaming bowl of soup sat on the dining table. Grace smiled, wiping her hands: "My darling, I've waited so long for this day." Father sat at the head of the table, grinning cruelly. "You little bastard—let's see who saves you now." By the time the shouting erupted, I’d backed myself onto the balcony. Wind filled my throat; below was the same concrete where, ten years earlier, I’d broken my leg. "Jump!" Father roared. "Jump like your mother threw you away!" I closed my eyes— "Don't jump." Kyle’s voice cut through the wind. "You weren't the one left behind. You're the one who walked away." I opened my eyes. He was kneeling by the railing, blood streaming from his forehead. And then the doorbell rang again. Lana stood at the doorway, holding a birth certificate. On the cover were the words: "Tess, not biologically related." She smiled. "Sister, welcome home."

Carl Quincy, once the most feared hitman, now lives quietly with his wife Tina and daughter Charlotte, running a small diner. But when a violent cartel targets Charlotte, their peaceful life shatters. One brutal night, Carl's past resurfaces. And he's forced to become the man he swore he'd never be again...

Under the chandelier at the birthday party, Molly wore a sequined little dress, carrying a strawberry cake toward the corner. Laughter filled the air, and the champagne tower shimmered with dreamlike sparkles. Suddenly, the front door crashed open. A drenched man stood in the doorway, rainwater dripping from his trench coat onto the carpet. He stared fixedly at Molly, voice hoarse: "You're... Molly?" Silence fell over the room. The little girl looked up, her eyes utterly calm. "You've got the wrong place, Uncle. Mom didn't invite you." The man staggered, nearly losing his balance. "I'm your father... I've been looking for you for three years! After that car accident, they told me you were dead—said both of you died!" "Shut up." Her mother approached in high heels, elegantly linking arms with her well-dressed new boyfriend. "Sir, we've already called the police. Please leave immediately." The man roared, "Lin Wan! Can you say that to your child's face?! I'm her real father! The DNA will prove it!" The mother sneered, "What kind of homeless fraudster chasing compensation are you? My daughter was conceived through IVF—the father's information is confidential. Who do you think you are?" Gasps rippled through the crowd. At that moment, another door on the opposite side of the hall slowly opened. A man in gold-rimmed glasses stepped in, holding a document, followed by two people who looked like lawyers. "I regret interrupting this spectacle," he said, his gaze settling on Molly's face as he spoke softly, "but according to the Supreme Court's final ruling three months ago—I am Molly's biological father." Dead silence. He removed his glasses, eyes glistening. "Your mother illegally obtained my sperm sample. The artificial insemination was carried out overseas. This child... is truly mine." The mother's face paled. "Impossible! That file was destroyed long ago!" "But the surveillance footage wasn't," the man replied calmly. "Every moment you stole the sample from the fertility clinic is preserved in the official records." Molly looked down at the cake in her hands, watching the cream drip slowly onto the floor. Then she spoke, her voice childlike yet clear: "So... do I have two dads now?" No one answered. Only the thunder cracked outside, as if heaven and earth themselves were asking— Blood or nurture, lies or truth, which one truly earns the name of father?

Under the cold fluorescent lights of a bridal shop, her nails dug into his arm as she rasped, "Let me go!" He merely chuckled lowly and hoisted her over his shoulder. "You can't escape today." Outside the door stood a man with purple hair, silent as a shadow that had waited a thousand years. She glared at him, mistaking him for a rival lover—but he only sighed softly, "You still haven't recognized me." Three days later, beneath a sunset melting into a golden sea, he knelt on one knee at the edge of a cliff, a ring resting in his palm. She sobbed, shaking her head. "Don't do this—we can never be!" Her phone suddenly vibrated. An anonymous message flashed: [That ring is your future husband's last possession.] In a movie theater, he snapped handcuffs onto her wrists, whispering against her ear, "This is our first date." She thrashed and screamed, "You're sick!" The screen flickered to life, revealing footage of her every day—her waking, her showering—watched and recorded without exception. On her wedding day, church bells rang. Amidst cheers from guests, a gunshot shattered the air. She lay pinned in a pool of blood, looking up as a blonde woman approached, holding an antique oil lamp. The flame illuminated a hauntingly familiar face—the fiancé who had died in a car crash ten years ago. "You thought he was dead?" the woman sneered, igniting the wick. "But he never belonged to you. That accident… you were the one who hit him." Memories tore open like a collapsing sky. She realized—she was the mad one all along. And he? He had never existed outside her delusion.

I Kissed a CEO, and He Liked It The champagne tower shimmered coldly beneath the crystal chandeliers. When Alice stepped into the ballroom in ten-centimeter heels, every man’s gaze shifted—just slightly. She wore a black dress, a pearl necklace resting on her collarbone like a drop of poison suspended mid-fall. Jack approached with a wine glass in hand, his tie loosened by one button, eyes flickering over the pearls at her chest. He smirked, “All the female guests tonight have good taste.” Alice didn’t answer. Instead, she slowly traced a finger across his lapel, leaving behind a faint red mark—the color of her lipstick. “You’ve mistaken me,” she whispered. “I’m not a guest.” Before the words faded, a waiter stumbled into her, spilling red wine all over her skirt. Silk clung to her thigh. The crowd tittered. Someone murmured, “Who is she? Pretending to be high society and now completely humiliated.” But she smiled. At exactly 10:07 p.m., surveillance footage showed her entering the CEO’s private elevator. No access card swipe. Yet the door opened for her. Three days later, HR received a complaint: the Finance Director claimed he’d seen a woman’s photo hidden in Jack’s desk drawer. On the back was written: *Gabrielle Taylor, height 178cm, full measurements listed, marital status: married, husband’s surname unknown.* But Alice had never used that name. What truly sent chills down the spine was another security clip retrieved from the archives: that night, before stepping into the elevator, she’d paused in front of the grand hall mirror, adjusting her skirt. The camera zoomed in. She spoke silently to her reflection. No one could make out the words. Until I magnified it three hundred times, frame by frame. She said: “Darling, I’ve found you.” And the “you” she addressed was a charity gala photo on the wall behind Jack—a woman in pearls, arm-in-arm with him, smiling gently in the corner of the image. His wife. The one who died in a car crash five years ago. At her funeral, Jack wept against the coffin until his voice broke. Now, his new lover stood before him in the same dress, wearing the same pearls, drawing him slowly—step by step—back into hell. My phone vibrated. An anonymous message appeared: [Did you know? The real Gabrielle didn’t die in a car accident.] [You were the one who pushed her into the cremation furnace.]

After witnessing his father’s murder as a child, Ethan Cross conceals his prodigious card skills to honor his father’s dying promise: “Never gamble.” But he never abandons his secret quest to hunt down his father’s killer. Rescued years later by Claudia, the owner of Paradise Casino, Ethan goes undercover as a bartender there—lying low while chasing clues. That is, until a ruthless gambler storms the casino, and Ethan realizes this man may hold the key to unlocking his father’s murder.