My Landlord’s Hidden Camera in Our Bathroom - Chapter 17: Chapter 17
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By the third night, I was pouring gasoline on an already raging fire.
Dressed sharply, I faced the mirror, delivering my final confession—to myself and to Tristan Langley, watching silently from the other side of the glass.
"I killed Vincent Lowell. He was a monster who tried to rape me, so I strangled him."
"His body must be with you. I don't know how you pulled it off, and honestly, I don't care anymore."
"There was a time I thought about killing you too—just to bury this secret forever."
"But I couldn't do it. Because somewhere along the way, I fell hopelessly, recklessly in love with you."
"If I'd never met you, I might've turned myself in ages ago."
"If I'd never met you, I wouldn't have fought so hard to stay alive, dragging out this moment for as long as I did."
"Tristan Langley, I love you. If there's a next life, I'd choose you in a heartbeat—to grow old with you, to stand by your side until death takes us."
"Now, I'm turning myself in. As one last gift for loving me, I'll keep the full truth hidden."
"I'll tell them I dumped the body in the river long ago."
"My only request? Don't you dare forget me."
My voice cracked, dissolving into ragged sobs as the last words left my lips.
Fifteen minutes later, the wail of police sirens sliced through the night.
My plan had worked.
I hadn't been the one to call them.
But I knew exactly who had.
A year later, after months of burning the midnight oil, I passed the adult college entrance exams and got into a top university in New York.
Through it all, one painting never left my side.
A nude portrait of me—painted by Tristan Langley himself. The only thing he left behind.
After my acceptance letter arrived, I went to an art exhibit with friends to celebrate.
That's when I saw it.
A woman's body, cleaved in two by a mirror.
Still alive, her dagger gripped tight, fingers stretching toward the sun.
Behind her, a shattered shadow loomed.
Between her and the shadow sprawled the grotesque corpse of a man, frozen in silent agony.
The painting blazed with bold, visceral strokes—colors so intense they seemed to burn with an unspoken, feverish passion.
It had taken the art world by storm, clinching an international award, its title etched in elegant English script.
Title: Look for Hope in the Dark—officially translated as Seeking Light in Darkness.
Critics and scholars worldwide hailed it as Tristan Langley's raw confession, a window into his tormented soul thrashing in the abyss.
But then my gaze snagged on a tiny footnote.
Artist: Tristan Langley
Original Title: Lost Mirror
That was the truth.
The judges, so moved by the piece, had rewritten the title to match what they saw—a desperate reach for light.
The crowd around me nodded in approval, praising the experts' poetic touch.
Only I knew better.
Lost Mirror wasn't about hope.
It was a shattered reflection. A broken life. A crime scene in fragments.
Dressed sharply, I faced the mirror, delivering my final confession—to myself and to Tristan Langley, watching silently from the other side of the glass.
"I killed Vincent Lowell. He was a monster who tried to rape me, so I strangled him."
"His body must be with you. I don't know how you pulled it off, and honestly, I don't care anymore."
"There was a time I thought about killing you too—just to bury this secret forever."
"But I couldn't do it. Because somewhere along the way, I fell hopelessly, recklessly in love with you."
"If I'd never met you, I might've turned myself in ages ago."
"If I'd never met you, I wouldn't have fought so hard to stay alive, dragging out this moment for as long as I did."
"Tristan Langley, I love you. If there's a next life, I'd choose you in a heartbeat—to grow old with you, to stand by your side until death takes us."
"Now, I'm turning myself in. As one last gift for loving me, I'll keep the full truth hidden."
"I'll tell them I dumped the body in the river long ago."
"My only request? Don't you dare forget me."
My voice cracked, dissolving into ragged sobs as the last words left my lips.
Fifteen minutes later, the wail of police sirens sliced through the night.
My plan had worked.
I hadn't been the one to call them.
But I knew exactly who had.
A year later, after months of burning the midnight oil, I passed the adult college entrance exams and got into a top university in New York.
Through it all, one painting never left my side.
A nude portrait of me—painted by Tristan Langley himself. The only thing he left behind.
After my acceptance letter arrived, I went to an art exhibit with friends to celebrate.
That's when I saw it.
A woman's body, cleaved in two by a mirror.
Still alive, her dagger gripped tight, fingers stretching toward the sun.
Behind her, a shattered shadow loomed.
Between her and the shadow sprawled the grotesque corpse of a man, frozen in silent agony.
The painting blazed with bold, visceral strokes—colors so intense they seemed to burn with an unspoken, feverish passion.
It had taken the art world by storm, clinching an international award, its title etched in elegant English script.
Title: Look for Hope in the Dark—officially translated as Seeking Light in Darkness.
Critics and scholars worldwide hailed it as Tristan Langley's raw confession, a window into his tormented soul thrashing in the abyss.
But then my gaze snagged on a tiny footnote.
Artist: Tristan Langley
Original Title: Lost Mirror
That was the truth.
The judges, so moved by the piece, had rewritten the title to match what they saw—a desperate reach for light.
The crowd around me nodded in approval, praising the experts' poetic touch.
Only I knew better.
Lost Mirror wasn't about hope.
It was a shattered reflection. A broken life. A crime scene in fragments.
End of My Landlord’s Hidden Camera in Our Bathroom Chapter 17. Continue reading Chapter 18 or return to My Landlord’s Hidden Camera in Our Bathroom book page.