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His lips moved soundlessly, like a fish gasping for air, as he scrambled for an explanation.
Watching from the sidelines, I finally let out a low, incredulous laugh. I couldn't hold it back.
I know Connor better than anyone.
The man is hollow, a shell with no real substance.
He didn't recognize the first layer as a depiction of Persephone's abduction.
He missed the metaphor entirely—that was my accusation against him.
He just saw a surface-level narrative of 'love.'
Now try to talk your way out of that.
But my satisfaction was short-lived.,
I watched as Connor's panic slowly receded, replaced by a calculated calm.
Then, incredibly, silent tears began to stream from his eyes.
He began to speak, his voice a low, choked whisper that carried through the stunned silence.
"Actually... this statue isn't as simple as it seems. I've titled it... 'Life.'"
His let out a shaky sob, perfectly timed.
"The first layer represents my muse, my strength, Amelia Lowe. She is the source of my inspiration."
"As for the second layer—" he pointed at the exposed statue with my face, his tone turning somber.
"It represents the setbacks and shadows in my life. The hardship."
"This statue is a constant reminder to myself... not to stay humble. He—"
He paused, his gaze seeming to look through the statue, searching for a ghost.
"He was once my friend. I truly considered him as a worthy rival at first."
Connor sighed, the sound heavy with a profound, manufactured loneliness.
"Who would have thought jealousy would consume him, leading him down such a dark path?"
"I even called him before the competition, urging him to return to the right path."
"But he responded withonly venom and curses."
I felt my spectral teeth grinding. The second layer was titled 'True Self.'
It was me, stripped bare of all his lies, finally revealed.
But Connor's performance—the tears, the trembling voice—was masterful.
The crowd's skepticism melted into a wave of sympathetic murmurs.
"Oh my god, Connor... to show such compassion to the man who wronged you..."
"Vincent probably got scared and ran away to another country, didn't he? What a coward!"
As the online fury boiled over, a digital witch hunt began.
People were scrambling to find me, to drag my name through the mud once more.
A grim smile touched my lips. I'm right here in front of you.
Can't you see?
But then, a ripple of confusion spread through the online chatter. Someone had noticed something strange.
"Hey, everyone! Look at this anonymous account! It’s been posting an autobiography for the past ten days... an autobiography... It seems related to Vincent!"
Those who clicked the link were met with a chilling chronicle， ten days of posts detailing my stolen work, the isolation, the betrayal. And finally, a suicide note.
"Oh my god, the things written here... Connor was the one plagiarizing?"
"There's even a suicide note here... it says Connor killed him!"
"Wait, if Vincent is already dead, then who did Connor call today?"
The chaotic whispers were suddenly cut short by the sound of the main doors bursting open.
"Police! Nobody move!"
A commanding voice echoed through the hall.
"We received a call reporting a homicide. The caller identified himself as... Vincent Lowe!"
The atmosphere in the venue grew extremely tense. The audience looked around, bewildered and terrified. The situation had spiraled completely out of control.
"Wait, Vincent called the police? How is that possible?"
"Wait, is Vincent dead or not? What is happening"
Connor, pale but with a glint of desperate fury in his eyes, realized the trap was closing. Even without understanding the full picture, he knew he had to act
He clenched his jaw, making a split-second decision to seize the narrative one last time.
