A week before the college entrance examination, I was hospitalized with a raging fever brought on by extreme stress.

But on the day of the exam, just as I lay weak and pale in my hospital bed, a group of armed officers barged into the ward and arrested me—accusing me of stealing the national test papers.

Because of the leak, the entire college entrance examination was suspended. Chaos followed. Thousands of students who had prepared for years saw their futures crumble in an instant—and I became their scapegoat.

Hatred flooded in from all directions.

Strangers on the internet dug up my home address. My classmates turned on me. Even my parents hesitated, uncertain whether to believe me.

Despite witness statements from nurses and my family, the police insisted I could’ve left the hospital undetected to commit the crime. The so-called "evidence" they had—grainy footage, a vague figure, convenient timestamps—was deemed ironclad.

I was convicted.

My life fell apart.

Protesters surrounded our home. Furious candidates, blinded by resentment, hurled rocks and filth through our windows. My house was destroyed, my name dragged through the mud. In the chaos, my parents were beaten to death by the violent mob. Not long after, the house was set ablaze.

And when I was finally released from prison years later, before I could even take a breath of freedom, I was stabbed to death in broad daylight by a group of frenzied exam-takers seeking vengeance.

That was how I died—disgraced, abandoned, and broken.

But fate gave me one more chance.

When I opened my eyes, I found myself back in the week before the exam. Right before everything went wrong.

This time, I wouldn’t wait for disaster to find me.

To guarantee a solid alibi, I deliberately caused a disturbance and got myself detained in the local detention center for seven full days.

——

If I was locked up the entire time, no one could pin the test paper leak on me again. No flimsy theories. No accusations. No doubts.

I went over every detail from my past life, every mistake, every unanswered question. I still didn’t know who had framed me or how they had done it—but I was determined not to let history repeat itself.

When the exam day finally arrived, I waited in silence inside the detention center, confident that the worst was behind me.

Until the heavy footsteps came.

The steel door swung open.

Seven or eight armed officers filed in, their eyes hard and hostile. My stomach turned cold.

"There she is," said the man in front, pointing at me. It was Detective Harris—the same officer who had arrested me in the hospital in my previous life.

Before I could speak, they rushed forward and slapped the cuffs on my wrists.

“Wait—what’s going on?” I shouted. “I’m still in detention! I’m not even supposed to be released until tomorrow!”

No one answered.

They dragged me out of the cell.

And just like that, my nightmare began all over again.

Seeing that I was emotional and resisting arrest with all my strength, Detective Harris remained calm, his expression unreadable. After a long, heavy silence, he finally opened his mouth.

"You stole the test paper."

His voice was steady, but every word struck like a hammer.

"We are formally arresting you."

My mind went blank. I stood frozen, unable to believe what I was hearing.

"Impossible!" I blurted out, my voice shaking. "I’ve been in the detention center this entire time—how could I have possibly stolen the test paper?"

I stared at him, breathless. "When exactly was the test paper stolen?"

Thinking of the tragedy from my previous life—my ruined future, my parents' deaths, my own unjust end—I forced myself to meet his eyes, pouring every ounce of strength into my words.

But instead of answering, the officers around me exchanged uneasy glances. Doubt flickered in some of their expressions.

Finally, Detective Harris said flatly, "The test paper was stolen three days ago."

Silence fell.

Three days ago—I was still behind bars.

Unlike last time, Detective Harris’s tone now held a trace of hesitation. He wasn’t as certain. But he quickly covered it up with a cold, dismissive glare.

"We have sufficient evidence," he added, as if trying to convince himself as much as the others.

They forced me into the police car and headed toward the school.

The leak of the college entrance exam was a national catastrophe—an earth-shaking scandal. Just like in my previous life, the moment the theft was confirmed, all testing centers were shut down without warning.

Students who had prepared tirelessly for years were suddenly told it was over.

No exam. No future. No justice.

I’d expected this. I’d prepared for it. But hearing it again—this time from the officers’ conversation in the car—still sent a chill down my spine.

No matter how I struggled, it seemed I couldn't escape the fate of my previous life.

When we arrived at the school, chaos had already erupted.

Hundreds of candidates were crowding the playground, yelling at teachers and school officials, demanding answers. Some sat on the ground, sobbing in disbelief. Despair hung in the air like smoke after a fire.

As soon as I stepped out of the car, escorted by Detective Harris and several others, the students noticed me.

Their eyes lit up—not with recognition, but with rage.

"That’s her!" someone screamed. "She’s the one who ruined everything!"

Before the officers could react, the crowd surged toward me like a wave.

Textbooks, notebooks, pens—anything they could throw—rained down on my head. One particularly heavy book struck me, splitting the skin above my eyebrow. Blood blurred my vision.

"Beat her!"

"Because of her, our futures are ruined!"

"I studied for three years, sacrificed everything—now it’s all for nothing!"

A girl wearing thick glasses stood frozen, staring at me with pure hatred. Then she collapsed to the ground, hugging her knees, crying uncontrollably.

Some of the stronger students broke through the officers’ barricade. Fists and feet came flying. I tried to shield myself, but the blows kept coming—vicious, relentless.

Even the teachers watched with dark, disapproving eyes. No one stepped forward. No one helped me.

"I didn’t do it!" I screamed, tears mingling with blood as I collapsed to the pavement. "I swear, I didn’t steal the exam papers!"

But my voice was drowned beneath a torrent of shouts and curses. My truth was too small, too fragile—crushed beneath the weight of anger, panic, and blame.

My parents arrived shortly after, breathless and frantic.

I thought they’d defend me.

Instead, my father slapped me across the face the moment he saw me.

"How many times have I told you to stay grounded?!" he shouted, face red with rage. "Even if you fail the exam, we can accept that. But cheating—this is disgraceful!"

My mother collapsed onto a nearby chair, crying bitterly. Her eyes brimmed with disappointment.

I shook my head again and again. "Dad, Mom, please believe me! I didn’t steal the papers—I really didn’t!"

But no one listened.

In the principal’s office, the atmosphere was thick with judgment. The principal sipped his tea, his face dark with displeasure.

"A few days ago, she was detained for causing trouble," he said to Detective Harris, not even glancing at me. "Honestly, it’s no surprise someone like her would do something like this."

His words cut deeper than any blow.

And once again, I found myself trapped in the nightmare I thought I had escaped.

I forced my trembling body to stay upright, swallowing back the panic bubbling in my chest.

Turning to the principal, I begged, my voice cracking, “Principal, you said I was detained… then how could I possibly have had the time or opportunity to steal the test papers?”

The principal shook his head slowly, his expression unreadable.

“I can’t say how you did it,” he replied, “but we have solid evidence that you did.”

He turned the computer screen toward me and clicked play.

On the grainy surveillance footage, a figure crept into the test paper storage room, moving lightly on their toes. The person rifled through the cabinets, pulled out a sealed packet, and turned to leave.

Just before slipping out the door, the figure paused and looked directly at the surveillance camera—smirking.

That single glance was caught clearly on camera.

And the face staring back?

Was mine.

Detective Harris turned to my parents. “This is your daughter, Bridgette Harrell, correct?”

My father’s face turned deathly pale. His lips parted, but no words came. He couldn’t deny it. The image on the screen left no room for doubt.

The principal paused the video and zoomed in.

“Look,” he said, pointing. “The teardrop mole under the corner of her eye. It’s identical.”

He glanced at my mother. “Not to mention the matching height, clothes, posture—everything.”

My mother crumpled to her knees in front of him.

“Please, Principal,” she sobbed. “She’s only a child. Please… show some mercy. Let her go.”

The principal sneered. “Mercy?” His voice sharpened. “Do you have any idea the chaos this incident has caused? Entire exam halls shut down. Millions of students affected. Futures destroyed.”

Detective Harris chimed in grimly. “The theft of national college entrance exam papers is no minor crime. In ancient times, this would’ve been punishable by death.”

He looked down at me. “This isn’t just a school matter anymore. It’s going to the provincial authorities. And higher.”

At his words, my mother collapsed completely, her cries turning hoarse.

My father stormed over and, without warning, kicked me hard in the stomach.

I gasped, doubling over in pain.

“You’ve humiliated us!” he spat, chest heaving. “I should never have raised such a disgrace!”

He turned away, trembling with rage. “From this moment on, I have no daughter.”

Outside the principal’s office, the mob of furious students had grown louder.

“Beat her to death!”

“Because of her, we lost our shot at college!”

“I worked for three years—every single day—for this! And now it’s over!”

I pressed my palms to the floor, blood still trickling from my forehead, and forced myself to raise my head.

“It wasn’t me!” I cried. “First—on the day the test paper was stolen, I was locked in the detention center! And second—if I really wanted to steal the test papers, why would I walk in with no disguise, knowing there were surveillance cameras everywhere?!”

The room went still.

Even the enraged principal paused, stunned by the logic in my words.

For a moment, uncertainty rippled across the room.

But the principal quickly masked it with a scoff. He leaned back, lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, and muttered, “Who knows what trick you pulled?”

He didn’t want to hear the truth. He just wanted a scapegoat—someone to deliver to the public so they could bury the scandal and move on.

Detective Harris, who had remained silent, kept staring at the video, his brows furrowed in deep thought.

He replayed the clip several times, as if trying to spot something—anything—that didn’t add up.

But the video was flawless.

No glitches. No visible cuts. No sign of tampering.

It was me. And yet—it wasn’t.

After a long silence, Detective Harris finally said, “I admit, I’m curious too.”

He looked up at me. “How did you do it?”

“You were in the detention center. Yet somehow, you managed to steal the test paper from the school.”

He turned toward the principal.

“You said this school wasn’t supposed to receive the examination papers until the day of the test, correct?”

The principal hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. But… this year, due to special arrangements, a batch of the exam papers was delivered early.”

Detective Harris nodded slowly.

“That’s the real issue,” he said. “To protect the integrity of the test, the papers were stored in a sealed, guarded room. Teachers and staff rotated day and night to prevent any unauthorized access.”