By noon, as I walked home on foot, I found my house already surrounded by police.

"It's him! He's the one who stole Uncle Gates' dragon-patterned jade pendant!"

Before I could even process what was happening, Henry jumped out of a police car and rushed over to grab me.

"Him? He stole a national treasure? Just look at him—clearly up to no good!"

"I heard it was an imperial dragon jade from the Tang Dynasty—priceless! This kid’s got some nerve!"

"Scumbag. People like him should just drop dead!"

The whispers and pointing from the crowd made me realize—something was very wrong.

Panicked, I spotted the collector in the crowd. Tears in my eyes, I kowtowed desperately, begging him to prove my innocence.

But the man, who had been all smiles before, now scowled and yanked my sleeve, snarling:

"Shameless thief! You even stole a national treasure I was about to donate to the museum! After I kindly let you into my home—you’re utterly heartless!"

With Henry and the collector both accusing me, and a jade bracelet mysteriously appearing in my bag, every word of defense I had turned to dust.

My family and fiancée were dragged down with me—their wealth and reputations ruined, treated like vermin.

And me? Before I could even be imprisoned, I was hacked to death by extremist antique collectors, left without even a whole corpse.

The blood and pain of that past life clung to my heart like a scar, feeding an endless well of hatred.

This time, I made sure to stay in full view of surveillance cameras—video proof and blood tests as my double-layered shield.

Let’s see who dares frame me now!

After the blood draw, I dozed off on a hospital bench. Though the seat was hard and cold, I slept soundly.

When I woke, the nurse announced my blood alcohol level was below the drunk-driving threshold, and the police let me go.

I checked my phone—12 PM sharp.

Perfect. I’d dodged the exact timeframe of Henry’s setup.

To be extra safe, I shamelessly claimed my car was still impounded and begged the officer to drop me home.

The moment I got off the police motorcycle, officers swarmed my apartment building.

Henry charged at me, tears and snot streaming as he clutched my hands:

"Jason! We agreed this morning was just a visit—why did you steal?!"

I gaped in shock, the officer beside me equally stunned.

I’d been at the hospital all night and morning—how was he still pinning this on me?

Frowning, I said, "Last night, I was pulled over for suspected drunk driving, so I—"

Henry cut me off, his face twisting dramatically:

"Drunk driving? My God, Jason, what else have you done? Being drunk isn’t an excuse to steal a national treasure!"

A wave of onlookers gathered, whipped into a frenzy by his words. My explanations drowned in the uproar.

Within minutes, I was shoved and pinched black-and-blue by unseen hands in the crowd.

Police nearby finally noticed the chaos and dispersed the mob.

Gasping for air, I glared at Henry and shouted:

"I didn’t drink, and I sure as hell didn’t steal anything! Where’s your proof?!"

My "good friend’s" face darkened briefly before he forced a look of concern, turning to the officers:

"Officers, you heard him—my friend’s still drunk out of his mind! He didn’t mean to steal, please go easy on him!"

Just as Henry tried dragging me into a squad car, the officer who’d driven me home wrenched his grip away.

In a flash, the traffic officer stepped in front of me, shielding me.

"This gentleman has been at the hospital since last night. I just brought him back."

"You’re accusing him of theft—where’s your evidence?"

Faced with the officer’s skepticism, Henry didn’t hesitate to snap back:

"Who are you? I’m assisting with an investigation here. Unrelated personnel, stay out of it."

"He’s a traffic officer," I said slowly, watching Henry’s face pale as I continued:

"From last night’s suspected drunk driving until now—I’ve been under his watch the entire time!"

The bombshell revelation sent shockwaves through the crowd.

The police immediately verified the plainclothes officer’s credentials, then turned to Henry with stern expressions.

Why was he accusing someone with a rock-solid alibi?

Henry clearly hadn’t expected this move. His lips flapped soundlessly, momentarily speechless.

Then, the collector strode over, jabbing a finger at my face with icy disdain:

"I can prove he’s the thief!"

Seeing this man—who’d indirectly caused my gruesome death—again, fury surged through me.

In my past life, at least I’d actually stepped into his house.

If he accused me then, I could’ve chalked it up to senility or mistaken identity.

But this time? We’ve never even met! How could he possibly ID me as the thief?!

Gritting my teeth, I shot back:

"Old man, you can eat nonsense, but you can’t spew it! We’ve never met—why frame me?"

I stared him down, searching for cracks in his expression.

The collector suddenly grabbed my left arm, triumph in his voice:

"I have a habit—whenever guests visit, I coat all cabinet doors with a special ink mixture."

"This shade is my own formula. I’d recognize it anywhere!"

With a yank, he pulled up my sleeve—

A dark brown stain glared back at everyone.

The crowd gasped. Even I was stunned silent.

This made no sense.

This time, I’d never entered his house. I’d checked my clothes thoroughly before coming home. How—?

"Petty theft is one thing, but today you stole national treasures AND bribed someone to lie? Disgusting!"**

Henry seized the moment to smear me further, malice dripping from his eyes.

Then, he pulled a laptop from his bag, declaring he had surveillance footage as evidence.

The video showed a white-clad man entering the mansion with Henry at 9:30 AM—

Same build, same outfit, even identical hair color to mine.

The crowd erupted:

"That’s obviously him!"

"The face is blurry, but who else could it be? This bastard’s got nerves of steel—not even hiding from cameras!"

"Kids these days! Lock him up for ten years at least!"

A tidal wave of curses crashed over me.

Then—a vicious kick from behind—pain so sharp I nearly blacked out.

Gasping through the agony, I roared:

"I HAVE FOOTAGE TOO!"

Locking eyes with the traffic officer, he retrieved his bodycam from the motorcycle:

"My credentials are verified—no forgery here."

"Mr. Lynn was under recorded surveillance from hospital discharge until now. Blood tests and timestamps prove his alibi."

Two conflicting videos. Two irreconcilable truths.

Now, even the police and collector looked lost.

Officers began contacting traffic HQ and the hospital to verify my timeline.

The collector muttered, "The ink doesn’t lie... I couldn’t have mistaken it..."