?Chapter 1052:


    Wade had been like a father to him. But what had he ever done for Joelle and Adrian to deserve their generosity?


    He wanted to stand on his own feet, no matter how difficult the road. He wanted to carve his own path, even if it was lined with hardship.


    “Aren’t you supposed to be brilliant? Why don’t you take a guess?” Rnd crossed his arms, his voiceced with defiance.


    Amanda’s gaze swept over him before settling on his hands. By all logic, someone his age shouldn’t have hands that bore such rough, calloused skin.


    And despite what he imed, there was no way he was twenty-eight. The difference between a man in histe twenties and someone barely out of his teens was undeniable.


    She estimated him to be, at most, twenty. And in her experience, those under twenty carried the heaviest burdens—their struggles often silent, their battles unseen.


    “Let me see your hands,” she said.


    “Why?”


    Amanda’s lips curled into a slight smile. “I can read palms.”


    Rnd hesitated before reluctantly extending his hands. Amanda traced the bloodshot lines across his palms, and for a brief moment, a pang of something unfamiliar struck her chest.


    Why were so many young people carrying such weight on their shoulders?


    The longer she worked in this field, the more she felt the quiet tragedy of it all.


    “Well? What do you see?” Rnd’s tone was skeptical.


    Amanda met his gaze and smiled. “I see that you’re destined to be rich.”


    “Yeah, right!” Rnd scoffed, unimpressed. A psychologist? She was nothing more than a con artist.


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    He pushed himself up from the sofa. “I’m not paying you a cent. If that’s a problem, go ahead—call the cops. See if I care.”


    Leaving the clinic, Rnd was genuinely worried that Amanda would catch up and ask for money.


    He feared dragging Joelle into any trouble, so instead of heading home, he made a beeline for the factory.


    His colleagues said that the man whose finger had been crushed yesterday had applied forpensation, but his finger couldn’t be reattached. A collective sigh passed through the crowd.


    Rnd nced down at his own hands, smeared with blood. Yet, strangely, he felt nothing—no sting, no pain, just a numbing emptiness.


    Amanda’s parting words echoed in his mind. Maybe she was right—he was destined to be rich.


    As the sun dipped below the horizon, Rnd stood on the rooftop, his untouched boxed meal sitting beside him. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, but the appetite never came. A cigarette dangled between his fingers, its curling smoke rising like ghosts in the evening air. He inhaled deeply, hoping to chase away the shadows lurking in his mind.


    But nicotine was losing its magic. The bitterness no longer soothed him; the act of smoking felt empty, a ritual without meaning. With a sigh, he stubbed out the cigarette, picked up his meal, and forced down a few bites.


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