In the Hands of Monsters

I'm undressed and bound to a testing table when my family comes to pick me up.

A thick, sharp needle pierces into my neck. A drug is administered into my blood, and the pain almost makes me lose consciousness.

Behind me, I can feel a man's cold hands stroking my skin amorously. Before me, several people are staring at me. They point at me and treat me like an educational instrument.

I tremble in fear and curl up on the testing table in pain.

Three years ago, my brother sent me to Mykorra's war zone to stand up for Yvette Sanders. Those were the three most insulting and torturous years of my life. They burned away my hope for kinship but not my desire for survival.

As the hands roam lower on my body, I bite my lip so hard that I almost draw blood. As the hands start to go overboard, someone knocks on the door.

"Wendy Sanders, your brother is here for you."

I looked up in confusion, wondering if I'd misheard it.

It wasn't until I was actually sent back to Sundale City and saw that familiar figure in the airport that my numb heart started throbbing painfully.

Three years ago, Yvette Sanders had made her grand return as the actual daughter of the Sanders family. As for me, the fake daughter who had occupied her place for 20 years, I'd naturally come crashing down from the heights where I'd once been.

Although my family had promised that they would treat me the same as before even though I wasn't their biological daughter, I'd still ended up in Mykorra's war zone three months later.

When I'd accidentally hurt Yvette while setting her bones, they had criticized my medical skills and sent me there to "improve" myself.

From then, I'd become the lowest of the low in the war zone—a test subject for experimental drugs.

I'd been left with countless illnesses from the drug testing, and my skin was marked with numerous needle marks and scars. Even my kneecaps and hand bones had been dislocated and reattached.

And since I'd been one of the few women in the military camp, I'd often been taken advantage of under the guise of drug testing, enduring endless humiliation.

If Connor Sanders had said he was taking me home three years ago, I would have been moved to tears, whining and clinging to him.

But now, it took everything in me to keep myself from running away when I saw him in person.

I sat as far away from him as possible and softly said, "Thanks for picking me up, Mr. Sanders."

Connor frowned. "I'm your brother. It's only been three years, yet you can't even bring yourself to call me "Conny" anymore?"

I was stunned.

I'd been calling him "Conny" for over 20 years. He was my brother who would stay by my side when I was sick and would tirelessly prepare me gifts for my birthdays.

However, he was also