Clara's jaw dropped. "Are you kidding me? Spencer might not know the full story, but she does. What's her plan? Take your kidney and magically save her life? Really?" Her voice cut through the air, sharp and furious.
I fought the urge to laugh.
'She doesn't want my kidney,' I thought, 'She wants to use public pity to push me over the edge. She can't find a donor and can't stand that I walked away with Spencer's money. There's no way she'd let me enjoy any of it.'

I raised a hand to signal Clara to chill, then leaned back to watch the show.
The once-mighty CEO of SaunCorp, a man who used to rule the boardroom, had apparently switched careers to social media influencer.
Every night, without fail, he'd go live with his beloved Fiona. Same time, same scripted sob story, always hammering the same points.
They claimed I'd promised to donate my kidney but bailed after demanding a fortune, leaving Fiona's surgery on hold and her life supposedly dangling by a thread.
"Maya, I'm begging you. For the sake of our childhood friendship, please save me."
Then Spencer chimed in, "Maya, come out. I won't hold it against you for running off before. I'll even give you more money if you agree to donate your kidney to Fiona."

The smear campaign worked like a charm. My neighbors avoided me like the plague. Kids who used to smile at me were dragged away by their parents, their eyes wide with fear, as if I were some walking disease.
Whatever. I popped the candies I'd bought for the kids into my mouth and strolled away, indifferent. Their malice didn't faze me, and I didn't bother with masks or disguises when I went out.
Sometimes, people "accidentally" bumped into me or outright shoved me. I just brushed myself off and kept walking, ignoring their petty attempts to break me.
Clara, though, wasn't so calm. She noticed the bruises and was furious. Her voice cracked when she asked me about it, but I just shrugged.

"When I die, I'm coming back to haunt every one of them," I said with a dark laugh. "No one's getting away."
But the mob wasn't done. Thanks to their online theatrics, my address got leaked.
One afternoon, I noticed a group of angry-looking men loitering near my building. Something about the way they moved set my nerves on edge, so I turned to leave, but their leader stepped in front of me.
"You selfish little rat!" he shouted. "My wife died because of people like you! Get her!"
Before I could even explain, they lunged. Punches and kicks rained down as I crumpled to the ground, curling up to protect my head. They didn't care about the security cameras; they didn't care about anything but their rage.
By the time Clara found me and called the cops, I was barely conscious, and the men were still shouting about justice like they were heroes in some twisted movie.
I was rushed to the ER in bad shape—fractured ribs, a busted leg, a face barely recognizable, and a concussion that made everything feel like a blur.
Worse? My illness had hit the point of no return.
The cops grilled the attackers all night. Their excuse? They were "inspired" by Spencer and Fiona's livestreams.
The ringleader? A guy who lost his wife because her kidney donor bailed last second. He took all that anger out on me.
Legally, Spencer and Fiona's hands were clean.
Through the haze, I caught Clara. She wiped at her tears, then grabbed my medical records and stormed out, her face set like stone.