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.”

"The arrival of this batch of examination papers was highly confidential," the principal said grimly. "Aside from a select few, no one else even knew it was here."

"In other words," Detective Harris added, "this wasn’t something one person could have pulled off alone."

His analysis made sense—and it gave me a sliver of hope.

I looked him straight in the eye. “Detective Harris, I won’t deny it—the person in that surveillance footage looks exactly like me. But what's equally true is this: on the day the test paper was stolen, I was locked in the detention center.”

“You have what you think is ironclad evidence,” I continued, voice steady, “but so do I. I don’t even need to provide it myself. The detention center can verify my alibi.”

Detective Harris fell silent.

The room grew tense. No one spoke.

Then one of the officers beside me spoke softly, almost reluctantly. “If it were just the video, maybe we’d still have doubts. But we found physical traces—shoe prints—at the scene. And they match the exact pair you’re wearing now.”

All eyes dropped to my feet.

Snow boots.

The same ones I’d worn when I turned myself in. The police had called in trace specialists, matched the unique wear pattern of my soles to the prints found at the crime scene—and it was a perfect match.

My heart sank.

If I hadn’t had an alibi—if I hadn't been in detention that day—they would have arrested me without hesitation. No questions. No second chances.

“You disgrace!” my father suddenly shouted, stepping forward.

He slapped me hard across the face. Blood welled in my mouth.

“What more do you have to say?” he yelled, trembling with rage. “Do you know how many people’s futures you’ve ruined?!”

His voice cracked as he continued the same speech he had given countless times before.

“We’ve been poor since you were a child! We barely had enough to eat or wear. Your mother and I gave everything just to raise you. We placed all our hopes on you!”

“I taught you that even if we have nothing, we must have dignity—that we must walk upright in this world.”

“But now?” He pointed at me, face twisted in fury. “You’ve shamed this family. Completely.”

He raised his hand again, ready to strike me, but Detective Harris stepped in and held him back.

Still seething, my father spat, “And your grandmother—how good she was to you. Is this how you repay her?”

I stood still, eyes closed, blood on my face, lips tight.

My silence was mistaken for guilt. Everyone thought I had given up—accepted the charges without a word.

Detective Harris sighed heavily. “Take her away. We can’t risk the students outside breaking in. If they lose control, no one here will be able to stop it.”

A uniformed officer took my arm and turned me toward the door.

Behind me, my father shouted one last curse. “Lock this ungrateful brat up for life! It’s the only thing she deserves.”

I bit my lip until it bled, fists clenched.

Memories from two lifetimes rushed through my mind—my unjust death, the mob, my parents’ destruction.

I knew one thing:

This was my last chance.

If I couldn’t clear my name now, I would be crushed all over again—by the same lies, the same fate.

“Wait!”

My voice rang out suddenly, raw and loud.

Everyone froze.

Detective Harris turned. His brows furrowed, but he raised a hand to stop his men.

“What else do you want to say?” he asked tiredly. “All the evidence points to you. The only thing we haven’t figured out yet is how you managed to leave the detention center to commit the theft. And frankly…”

His tone darkened. “We’re already preparing to investigate whether someone at the detention center helped you escape.”

I flinched.

He was right—if they went down that road, innocent people could be dragged into this mess with me. People who had nothing to do with this.

This wasn’t just about proving I was innocent anymore.

It was about protecting everyone else, too.

Seconds passed. No one spoke. Impatience filled the air.

The officers began to move again, ready to drag me out.

But just before they touched me—I slowly opened my eyes.

He looked around the room with a calm, almost smug smile and announced,

“So that’s it.”

“I know who really stole the test paper.”