Chapter 89: Fiona's Struggle — and Acceptance
There was no denying it—
William's clean, pale complexion and Greek-statue-perfect features made him an exceptional prophet.
At this moment, Sophia felt as though William himself was glowing.
Was this really what an evil god's chosen vessel was supposed to look like?
No—this was clearly a righteous god.
"Very well," William said calmly.
"You will not regret the choice you made today.
From now on, live your life as you always have.
Do not let anyone discover that you have regained your sight.
Exchange contact information with me.
When I need you, I will reach out."
"I obey, my Lord," Sophia replied, lowering her head once more, utterly devout.
To be honest, William did feel physical attraction toward Sophia.
But what kind of prophet sleeps with a believer the moment they convert?
That would instantly expose him as a cult leader.
And William had no intention of building a cult.
Even though such things were disturbingly common in America, he found them beneath him.
Take Ethel—the girl Kevin and Veronica adopted.
Her devotion was the result of long-term isolation and conditioning.
William had neither the time nor the patience to replicate that kind of environment.
He had no interest in playing house like her deranged husband.
"Adapt to your new life," William said in a suitably mystical tone.
"Await my call."
And with that, he left Sophia's apartment.
---
After William departed, Sophia remained seated on the floor.
She stared around her home again and again.
On the surface, she appeared calm.
But inside, her world was in turmoil.
Everything she had believed in—
every worldview she had built over the years—
had collapsed completely in a single night.
"Oh… Kind Father…" she whispered softly.
"Thank you…"
Gradually, Sophia lost control of her emotions and broke down in tears.
More than twenty years of living in darkness had forced her to experience the world's cruelty toward the weak in the most brutal way possible.
And now—
William's arrival felt like salvation.
Like a sudden beam of light piercing the darkness of her life.
---
Meanwhile, at South Side Hospital.
Because Frank was officially classified as a victim, the police arranged for him to be hospitalized.
Naturally, the bill went straight to the taxpayers.
Even if Frank woke up, there was no way he could pay for it himself.
Bang!
The hospital room door was shoved open violently.
Fiona stormed in, fury written all over her face.
She didn't care whether Frank was alive or dead—
she immediately started hammering his chest with both fists.
"Holy mother of—! Cough, cough! What the hell—!?"
Frank was jolted awake by the pain. After cursing incoherently, his anger only flared further when he saw Fiona.
"What the hell, Fiona?!"
"Frank! Why did you sell the house?!"
Fiona ignored his shouting and fired back with her own accusation.
"It was my house! I can do whatever I want with it—sell it if I damn well please!
And you—what kind of ungrateful brat treats her father like this?!"
Frank rubbed his chest, finally realizing he was lying in a hospital bed.
And suddenly, something else hit him.
"The bag! My bag! Fiona—did you see my bag?!"
He sounded genuinely panicked.
"The bag? What bag? Fuck—stop changing the subject!
You sold the house, fine, whatever—but where's the money?! Give it to me!"
At this point, Fiona had accepted reality.
The house was gone.
She no longer entertained any fantasy of getting it back.
All she wanted now was the money Frank had made from selling it.
At least that would buy her family some time—
time to survive, time to find a better-paying job.
Seventeen hundred dollars a month wasn't pocket change.
And who knew when that blonde bitch landlord might decide to raise the rent again.
"Fuck! My bag!" Frank clutched his head, desperately searching his fragmented memory.
"Fuck the bag! Tell me where the money is, Frank!
Do you want all five of us living on the streets?!"
But Frank seemed deaf to her words, muttering only about the bag.
"Frank!"
Fiona snapped.
She punched him hard.
"Jesus Christ! What's so bad about living on the streets?
You kids need to learn to fend for yourselves!
Children who rely on their parents are useless!"
Then he frowned.
"And why five?"
Fiona froze.
"Liam… Monica took Liam."
For a moment, her voice cracked.
"Good for him," Frank said casually.
"Fuck you, Frank!
Tell me—where is the money?!"
Her eyes were bloodshot as she glared at him.
Frank couldn't meet her gaze.
If there was one person in the world he felt even a shred of guilt toward—
it was Fiona.
After Monica left, nine-year-old Fiona had raised five kids.
She'd also taken care of Frank himself—
a perpetually drunk, useless wreck.
She had given everything to this family.
To the point of obsession.
"I don't know," Frank finally said.
"I passed out. The money was in the bag—but the bag's gone."
"The bag?"
"Yeah. A brown leather bag."
With that, Frank slowly sat up, holding his head.
Fiona didn't waste another second.
She turned and left the room, heading straight for the police station to ask Tony whether Frank's bag had been taken as evidence.
But just outside the ward, she ran into Tony—who had come after hearing Frank had woken up.
"Hey, Fiona. What are you doing here?"
The moment he saw her, Tony's stern expression melted completely.
Truth be told, Fiona was absolutely a heartbreaker when it came to Tony.
She knew he liked her.
She never outright rejected him—
just kept him at arm's length, dangling.
High-level emotional fishing.
And Tony?
He basked in it, completely unaware that he'd long surpassed the turtle and evolved into something even sadder.
"I came to check on Frank," Fiona said.
"By the way, Tony—Frank mentioned a bag. It had the cash from selling the house.
Was it taken as evidence?"
She looked at him hopefully.
"A bag? What bag?" Tony frowned.
"There wasn't any bag at the scene.
Wait—Frank sold your house?"
Clearly, Tony hadn't known.
"Yeah. Sold it to some rich blonde bitch."
Her voice fell.
"So… what are you going to do now?
Do you need help?"
Tony looked at her with genuine concern.
"No," Fiona said quietly.
"I'll take care of them."
Then, firmly:
"So—no bag found at the scene?"
"No. If we find anything, I'll let you know."
"Okay. Thanks."
Fiona nodded and walked away, hollow and defeated.
She had accepted it.
Tony watched her lonely figure disappear down the corridor.
How badly he wanted to run after her—
to comfort her.
But he didn't have the courage.
And as Fiona stepped out of the hospital—
She didn't notice that, not far away, William stood in the shadows, watching her retreating back.
"…Why did Fiona come to the hospital?"