I had appeared before Death again, frustrated beyond words. Nothing—absolutely nothing—ever seemed to go my way. I had planned everything meticulously. I had endured countless lifetimes, reincarnated again and again as punishment handed down by Death herself. And yet, even now, when I thought I had finally carved out a path to freedom—a shot at living my dream—it was all snatched away from me in one bloody moment.
I tried to recall who stabbed me and what I had done to deserve it. The memories came rushing back like a violent flood.
It all began after I spoke to the attorney—the very one who had gotten me imprisoned under false charges. He had waited for me in his car on the day of my release, lurking like a ghost from my past. Just beyond the gates of the juvenile detention center, another car was parked—not too far away. I'd noticed it then, but brushed it off. I thought maybe it was a parent waiting to pick up his kid. It didn't concern me, so I paid no attention.
After excusing myself from the attorney, determined to sever all ties with that part of my past, I went about my day, hopeful. That man… that stranger from the other car had been tailing me. Quietly and relentlessly, leaving no trace, no clue. I didn't notice a thing.
I was overjoyed—I had finally located the hidden fortune left by Aerion. The money and diamonds were real, tangible. And I had been smart about it. I split them into three parts. One portion was meant for Francis's mother—she had raised a boy with dreams and scars. Another for my real mother, the one whose pain weighed heavily on my conscience. And the final part? It was for Rihanat—my long-time fiancée, the only woman who ever truly knew me, if I ever got to see her again.
Everything felt like it was finally falling into place.
Until I was stabbed.
Three times. It was fast and brutal, without a single word spoken.
The man stood over me, seething. His face twisted in a mixture of anguish and rage. Then it hit me—the look in his eyes, the pain he carried. It all made sense.
He was the father of the girl who died in the hit-and-run—the very case I took the fall for. He had been watching me, stalking my every move, waiting patiently for my release. All this time, he believed I was the one who ended his daughter's life. And for that, he wanted life for life—my life.
I lay on the ground, pain burning through my abdomen, clutching the handle of the very knife he used while I seekd for answers.
"Who are you?" I asked, gasping for air, blood filling my throat. "Did those punks send you?"
He looked startled by the question, his brows knitting together in confusion. For a moment, I thought maybe the attorney had betrayed me again—despite my warning to him, despite our last conversation in his car where I made it clear our paths should never cross again. I had sworn to take that secret—the real perpetrator's identity—to my grave. And it was the choice ı had made.
The man laughed bitterly, almost in disbelief. His face contorted into a mockery of amusement.
"What?" he spat. "You fucking kidding me?"
His voice shook with rage.
"I've waited all these years—burned through every moment in hell—just thinking about killing you. And now you stand there, bleeding out, asking me if I'm some errand boy for punks?"
He stepped closer, the knife still in hand.
"Even in her last moments," he growled, "my little girl didn't get to die in peace. And you… you walked away with just five years. Five fucking years. Because you were a minor."
Tears poured down his face, but they didn't soften his voice. They only made it darker.
"You killed her—and you got to live. What kind of justice is that? She had plans. A life ahead of her. She was kind, beautiful, and you cut that short. And now—now you just walk free like nothing happened?"
His pain cut deeper than the knife in my stomach. I remembered now. His voice. His wailing in the courtroom when the sentence was passed. I remembered how I never uttered a word—not even a single apology. He believed my silence was arrogance. He had no idea I took the fall to protect someone else.
My heart ached, not just from the wounds, but from guilt.
"I'm sorry," I muttered. "I'm so sorry."
He froze.
"What?" he asked sharply, thinking I was mocking him.
"I mean it… I didn't kill your daughter. I only took the fall."
His eyes widened with fury and confusion. He didn't believe me. Why would he? I didn't have proof. I never met the real killer—only dealt with his attorney.
"I'm not mocking you," I gasped. "It wasn't me."
He gripped the knife tighter, knuckles white, and screamed, "Then who?!"
But before I could answer, the sound of tires screeching echoed from behind us. A car. Somewhere on the nearby street.
He panicked. The sound had spooked him. He turned, fled into the shadows, leaving me drowning in my own blood.
That's when I heard footsteps—someone running toward me.
It was Shizzle.
I blinked, disoriented. Of all people, why him? I never gave him my location or any personal details. Yet there he was.
"You alright?" he asked, crouching beside me, face tight with concern. "Who did this to you?"
His voice trembled, or maybe it was just my ears ringing.
"You're not going to die, are you?" he asked, almost too concerned.
"If you can get me to a hospital… I might make it," I whispered.
He sighed in relief. Or so I thought.
Then I saw it.
The shift in his eyes.
The cruel smirk curling at the corner of his lips.
"You scared me for a second," he said, voice dropping an octave. "I thought someone else got to you first."
His next words chilled me to the core.
"I should be the one killing you."
I stared at him, baffled. "What… what are you talking about? We had no beef, Shizzle. Even when you turned on me in the workshop, I forgave you. I protected you!"
He scoffed.
"That's right. You protected me. And I hated every second of it. You think you're some fucking saint?"
He raised the knife.
"I laid low. Tiptoed around you. But now I get to do this my way."
I struggled to sit up, to defend myself. "You don't have to do this. I'll pay you—double what they offered."
He laughed again, mocking this time.
"You think I believe you have money?"
"I do… it's right there," I said, gesturing to the bag behind me. "Take it."
He stepped closer.
"They said they'd pay me. They promised I'd walk free if I took you out."
Then—he stabbed me.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Far worse than the first man.
I couldn't scream. I couldn't move. My body betrayed me. My vision blurred.
And then… silence.
Except for one thing.
My phone.
It rang.
My mother's name lit up on the screen—my real mother, not Francis's.
I couldn't answer. I couldn't even cry out.
And Francis's mother? She never got to see her son again.
The weight of regret crushed me more than the pain ever could.
I was gone.
And then I returned.
To her.
To Death.
She sat on her throne—elegant, mocking, cruel.
"You never fall short of my expectations," she said with a smile that made my skin crawl.
I walked toward her, every step a memory of failure. I sat in the chair opposite hers.
"I could have avoided dying," I said bitterly. "If only I remembered the dead girl's family. It should've been obvious."
Death cocked her head, amused.
"I knew you'd forget," she said. "You selfish brat. You didn't stop to think about the pain that family went through. You were too busy dreaming of diamonds and freedom."
"I didn't kill her," I replied. "But he thought I did. And I don't blame him."
She narrowed her eyes. "Excuses."
"I'm not here to whine," I snapped. "I just want to go back. I need to retrieve the rest of the money."
Death raised an eyebrow. "You care about money that much?"
"It's not about the money," I replied. "It's about purpose. I divided it for people who matter. It can still change lives—if I can get to it."
I explained how I hid the three parts in post office boxes. One was lost now—left in the street, likely stolen or confiscated after my death. But the other two? They were safe. Waiting.
"Just send me back," I said. "You can see it in my eyes. I'm ready."
She grinned. "You want it that badly?"
I didn't flinch. "Do it."
She raised her hand, aimed the gun at my head.
The shot rang out.
Darkness followed.
But it wasn't the end.
It never is.
I didn't ask where I'd end up next. I didn't care. I'd live that life—whoever it is—because I had work to do.
Because I wasn't done yet.