Behind me, the students' shrill screams pierced the air, mixed with repeated sounds of retching.

Everyone was slumped across the floor, staring at me in shock. The second-floor lab had exploded.

Owen's face was deathly pale, panic flickering in his eyes.

Heavy footsteps suddenly sounded from the stairwell. It was my wife, Bertha Cobb.

It was summer break. Most students had already gone home, and only Owen's group was still working in the lab, so the explosion hadn't endangered anyone else.

Bertha immediately rushed over to Owen's side, her eyes filled with alarm. "Owen, are you okay? Are you hurt?"

In a daze, Owen shook his head.

"Call the police! Get an ambulance!" I shouted.

Only then did some of the students snap out of their shock. Trembling, they reached for their phones, only to realize they had left them outside the third-floor lab.

Phones weren't allowed inside the chemistry labs, precisely to prevent accidents.

Seeing the blood and flesh scattered across the floor, the students ran out screaming, leaving just the three of us adults at the scene.

"No! We can't call the police!" Owen exclaimed. He'd suddenly snapped to his senses, shaking his head violently, his face pale.

"Owen Rountree, your data caused this explosion! Why wouldn't we call the police or the ambulance?" I roared, fury burning across my face.

Before he could say anything, Bertha jumped in first.

"What are you implying, Robert?" she snapped, standing in front of Owen. "You're the professor! You should be the one taking the main responsibility for this accident!"

I watched as she stood on the opposite side of me—just like she had in my previous life. When all eight students died in that explosion, she had stood in front of Owen, demanding I shoulder the primary blame.

Then, when I told the media that I shared responsibility for the tragedy, she and Owen immediately pinned all the fault on me. Unable to defend myself right away, I was nailed to the cross of shame.

Under the relentless condemnation of reporters, I was cyberbullied. The police also interrogated me based on my own admission.

With eight students dead, the incident drew massive public attention.

Even though the university didn't want to lose someone like me, who was a world science competition champion, they had no choice but to fire me.

Because of this catastrophic event, the parents of the eight students tied me up and set me on fire. While I was on my last breath and in agony, they strapped a bomb to me, blowing me to pieces.

My daughter, Leah Callahan, was ostracized and bullied by her classmates because of me. She eventually dropped out of school and died of depression.

Meanwhile, the true culprit, Owen, took my place and became the youngest professor in the university.

My wife, Bertha, completely ignored our daughter, obsessed only with her first love, Owen. A week had passed before our neighbors noticed the stench of Leah's dead body.

Thinking of it now, I felt as though my heart were bleeding. How could Bertha treat Leah, the daughter I cherished so much, that way?

The two of them leaned against each other. Bertha was still trying to persuade, even threaten, me.

"This was just a minor accident. Only one person died. You're the youngest professor—the university won't do anything to you. At most, they'll make you pay some compensation.

"But Owen's different. He'll be fired. The student's dead anyway. Are you really going to divorce me because of this?"

I suddenly calmed down, staring at the woman in front of me who treated human life like trash.

How blind had I been to ever fall for someone like her?

In my previous life, I'd even foolishly agreed to share the blame with Owen, even though I wasn't responsible in the slightest.

I wiped the blood off my face and held out my hand.

"Look at this. This is that student's blood and flesh. He was 25 years old. He'd already been accepted into a PhD program and had a bright future ahead of him. And you're calling this a 'minor accident'? Who on earth would call this a minor accident?"

I raised my hand and slapped her hard across the face. Screaming, she collapsed to the floor, her cheek swelling.

Seeing how furious I was getting, Owen froze for a second before he pointed at me indignantly.

"Bertha is your wife, and you're actually treating her this way over some outsider? I never should've ever let you marry her!"

My eyes burned red, rage boiling inside me, and I kicked him hard.

"Owen Rountree, don't you dare act all self-righteous! This accident happened because of your academic fraud—your fabricated data killed a student! And you want to pin it on me? Not a chance in hell!

"If I hadn't stopped you in time, it wouldn't have just been one death. All eight of them would've died!"

Both of them lay sprawled on the floor, while I stood there, clenching my fists and gritting my teeth

"Mom! I want to go home! Someone died on campus!"

Right in the middle of our standoff, Logan called his parents in a panic while staring in terror at what was left of Devin Jenkins—now just chunks of unrecognizable flesh.

Owen spun around. When he saw Logan on the phone, he quickly snatched it away and powered it off.

"Logan, you're my most valued student," Owen said, glaring at him with a twisted expression. "This accident was Professor Callahan's fault, not ours."

He added, "I'll make sure you get into the PhD program. I'm your advisor. Only I have that authority."

Logan's eyes flickered as he slowly lifted his head to look up at Owen.

My breath caught in my throat.

"Really?" Logan asked.

"Really. I promise!" Owen exclaimed, looking at Logan with delight, his chest heaving. "I'll even cover all your PhD expenses!"

Promise after promise poured out, and Logan nodded.

I suddenly felt my throat close up, and the corner of my mouth twitched uncontrollably. Looking at Logan, a feeling I couldn't name welled up inside me.

"Robert, since you refuse to take partial responsibility, don't blame me when everything gets pinned on you!" Bertha hissed, clutching her face.

"Logan! Logan, what happened? What do you mean someone died?"

Logan's parents, Mr. and Mrs. McMahon, came rushing in, screaming his name. They lived nearby and had driven over immediately after receiving his call.

When Mrs. McMahon saw the mangled limbs on the floor, she was so horrified that she fell into her husband's arms.

Mr. McMahon's face darkened as he looked around. "Why hasn't anyone called the police yet?"

"Mr. McMahon, it was Professor Callahan's fault. He gave the students the wrong data, and that's what caused the explosion," Owen explained quickly while pointing at me.

"It wasn't me. It was Owen's group!"

I couldn't allow myself to be wrongly accused just like that. This time, I definitely wasn't going to take the fall again.

Just as Owen continued to shift the blame, a loud "click" drew everyone's attention.

A female student, Kaley Homby, was taking photos with her phone. When she realized we had noticed her, she bit her lip in fright.

Owen's eyes lit up with joy when he saw her.

At that moment, the campus security team arrived. They snapped to attention the instant they saw the body parts strewn across the floor.

"Sir, the explosion was caused by an experiment that Owen Rountree's lab group was running," I said before Owen could speak.

Owen, however, remained calm, with not a trace of panic on his face.

"He's framing me. My students can vouch for me. He was the one who gave them the data and insisted they run it. I even tried to stop him, but he threatened to get me fired," he said, putting on an innocent expression.

Then he looked straight at the two students. "Right, Logan? Kaley?"

I watched helplessly as both students nodded.