Knowing that I had 70,000 dollars a month for living expenses, my girlfriend’s childhood friend, Ethan Cole, suddenly began imitating everything about me.

I had an American-style fringe, so he permed his black hair to match.

I liked tattoos, so he stole photos of mine and visited 20 tattoo parlors until someone could replicate them exactly.

I wore luxury brands. He skipped classes, juggled five jobs a day, and somehow scraped together enough to buy the same outfits.

At first, I thought he was just a pathetic copycat. But a month later, I was diagnosed with a terminal illness—and died within days.

On my deathbed, the people I loved most didn't even come to see me. Instead, they gently patted my roommate's head, calling him by my name.

I was devastated. Confused. What had happened?

As my soul lingered after death, I drifted toward Ethan—only to see him living in my room, hugging my girlfriend. I heard him sneer:

“Thank you, Sophie. If you hadn’t funded me, I wouldn’t have been able to mimic him, use the system, and steal his luck. Now everything that belonged to Julian is mine.”

That’s when it all became clear: the real problem was his system.

Then—suddenly—I woke up.

I had returned to the very day Ethan first tried to copy my hairstyle.

——

A camera click echoed in the room. Ethan, caught in the act of taking a secret photo, quickly hid his phone.

My friend Liam leaned over and whispered, “Julian, want me to check his phone? I’ve seen him pointing it at you lately like some kind of stalker. I can’t take it anymore.”

I shook my head. “Don’t worry about it.”

In my last life, I’d gotten angry and demanded he show me the photos. But his phone had been wiped clean, and I was the one accused of bullying a classmate.

That evening, Ethan walked in—with his black hair now styled into the exact same American fringe as mine. The same curl, length, even the color—it was identical.

After that, people started mistaking him for me just from behind.

Remembering his system, I messaged my personal stylist:

“Sis, I’m done with the American fringe. Design me something hard to copy. The more unique, the better. Bonus if you nail it.”

She was fired up. A minute later, she sent a photo—seven or eight stylists all brainstorming my new look.

Smiling, I turned off my phone and said to Liam, “Come with me to get my hair done. Call Noah Grant, too. My treat.”

Liam grinned. “Sure. But Noah and I are buying dinner afterward. Fair’s fair.”

Just as I was about to respond, Ethan’s shrill voice rang out from behind us.

“Where are you guys eating? Why didn’t you invite me? We’re dormmates—why are you leaving me out? Julian, do you look down on me just because I’m poor?”

His voice was loud enough to draw the entire class’s attention. Sensing the stares, he quickly put on a hurt expression and added:

“I know you’re all from rich local families, and I’m just from a small town… but I really want to be friends. Why can’t you give me a chance?”

His version of “being friends” meant mooching off us at restaurants, always making excuses not to pay, playing the victim whenever we pushed back.

This time, I had proof—ready to expose him once and for all.

But before I could say a word, my girlfriend Sophie Lane—also our student representative—stormed over with a scowl.

“Julian! How many times have I told you? I hate overbearing guys. Can you stop picking on others just because your family has a bit of money?!”

“Ethan may not come from a rich family like yours,” Sophie said coldly, “but at least he worked his way up from a small town to get into this university. He’s better than you spoiled brats born with a silver spoon in your mouth. Don’t you see how hard he’s worked?”

Listening to her repeatedly harp on about “money” and watching her bend over backwards to defend Ethan, I felt nothing but disgust.

If it weren’t for my family’s support, she’d still stuck in that rundown trailer park, probably pressured into marrying someone twice her age just to help her family scrape by.

If I hadn’t persuaded my parents to give her extra living expenses, if I hadn’t constantly bought her luxury goods and helped her build this false image of being a refined young lady from a wealthy background—where would she be now?

Yet here she was—ungrateful, repulsed by the very money that changed her life. And worst of all, she used that money to help Ethan, knowing full well he was trying to replace me.

The memory of her clinging to Ethan in my past life made my stomach churn.

Without hesitation, I opened my phone and sent a message to my father:

"Starting today, stop all support for Sophie. She and Ethan can work their part-time jobs together to build their future."

While I was still tapping on my phone, Sophie grew more agitated.

“Julian, are you even listening? Don’t you think you’ve done something wrong?”

She crossed her arms and snapped, “I, Sophie, can’t be with a domineering, unreasonable guy like you. If you still have a conscience, you should apologize to Ethan—and compensate him. Otherwise, I—”

“What? What will you do?” I asked, my voice calm.

Thinking I was flustered, she raised her voice dramatically, “If you don’t apologize, I’ll break up with you!”

In the past, the mere threat of a breakup would’ve terrified me. After all, she once saved me from drowning, and I’d always treated her with devotion out of gratitude.

But not anymore.

Not after I died, a strange, lonely death—betrayed by the very people I cherished.

“Then break up,” I said.

I looked up from my phone, locking eyes with her.

“But since you hate that I use money to pressure others, you must really look down on my wealth. In that case, return everything I’ve spent on you. All of it. Every dollar. The total is 42,000. Transfer it to me now.”

Her expression shifted. At first, startled by the breakup, she relaxed when I brought up money—thinking I was just throwing a tantrum.

After all, I’d always been generous. She believed there was no way I’d seriously ask for it back.

With a fake air of confidence, she said, “Fine. I’ll pay you back. I don’t need your money.”

But Ethan’s face darkened. The man who copied me using my own money couldn’t stand the idea of giving any of it back.

“No! Julian, what kind of man are you? Asking a girl to return money spent during a relationship?” he barked. “Besides, didn’t Sophie spend anything on you? Maybe she gave more than you think. Are you trying to take advantage of her now?”

Sophie looked uneasy. She knew how much she spent on me, and it wasn’t much—but she still pretended to be generous.

“It’s fine, Ethan,” she said, putting on a noble act. “Julian is my boyfriend. If he wants the money, I’ll give it to him. I’m not that petty.”

She winked at me, clearly hoping I’d drop the subject.

In the past, I would’ve let it go—for her so-called “dignity.”

But not anymore.

I opened my gallery and pulled up photos of the gifts she’d given me.

“You gave me a single rose in May 2023. A silver earring in August—which you wore yourself. And a handmade ceramic bowl in October.”

I looked up at her, voice steady.

“That’s everything you gave me in our three-year relationship. Combined, they’re probably worth less than 70 dollars.”

The color drained from her face.

I tilted my head slightly. “Sophie, should I list every transaction in front of our classmates? Or would you prefer I forward the receipts to the class group chat, so everyone can decide whether or not you're a gold digger?”

Sophie’s eyes froze for a moment as she studied my expression.

She realized I was serious this time. But even so, she refused to apologize in front of everyone.

Her tone turned cold as she gritted her teeth.

“Fine. It’s just 300,000. I’ll transfer it.”

She pulled out her phone and tapped the screen a few times, pretending to complete the transaction.

“I’ve sent it. Don’t ever talk to me again!”

Despite her performance, no transfer notification came through.

Ethan, unaware she was faking it, reached over excitedly to check her phone so he could withdraw the money.

But after scanning for a while, confusion crept over his face.

“Wait… Sophie, I don’t see any transfer record. Which app did you use? Which bank? Tell me—I’ll get the money out.”

I nearly laughed out loud. Sophie’s face flushed crimson. She snapped at him in a panic:

“Shut up!”

She tried to drag him away, but I stepped forward and blocked them.

“If you really wanted to transfer the money, just do it honestly. Why the show? I haven’t received anything. So what are you trying to pull here?”

“You look down on my money, but still enjoy eating soft rice? Hypocrisy much?”

Just to be clear, I held up my phone and opened all the major payment apps, showing everyone there were no incoming transfers.

Sophie hadn’t expected me to completely strip her dignity like this in public. Her expression stiffened.

Then she forced a smile.

“It’s probably a network delay. The money didn’t go through. I’ll send it again.”

This time, the payment notification chimed loudly.

[You have received 42,000 dollars]

She looked like she’d just swallowed poison, but still tried to keep her pride:

“See? I don’t care about your money. I can buy whatever I want with or without you.”

I smiled as I checked the balance.

“Good. The money’s in. Now we’re done. Clean break. From now on, we have nothing to do with each other.”

I turned to leave with Liam.

But Sophie grabbed my arm.

“Wait! You haven’t apologized to Ethan yet! You still owe him an explanation for isolating him!”

Her voice rang out in front of the whole class.

Ah, right—Ethan hadn’t finished smearing my name yet.

Thankfully, I used to dine in private rooms at my family’s restaurant, and there were always surveillance cameras running.

I made a quick call and soon after, posted a video clip to the class group chat. It showed all four of us dining together—no one left out.

“If you’re wondering whether we excluded him, just check the video in the group.”

With that, I walked out with my roommates.

By the time we arrived at the salon, the class group chat was already exploding:

[Seriously? He’s been crying poor this whole time while freeloading off others? Gross.]

[Forget Julian Reed—if I saw someone like Ethan coming, I’d cross the street.]

Ethan, seeing the backlash, sent a crying emoji and claimed I faked the video out of spite.

But no one was buying it.

His act had collapsed.

He started spamming my phone with messages, begging me to explain and “clear things up.”

Not long after, Sophie messaged me too:

[Julian, I’m so disappointed in you. Just a little misunderstanding, and you had to slander Ethan like that?]

[He’s emotionally devastated. You need to apologize, return the 300,000, and transfer 100,000 more as compensation—or I’ll never forgive you. We’re over for good.]

Her righteous tone while asking for money was so ridiculous, I actually laughed.

Did she really think I was her personal ATM?

That’s when a memory suddenly resurfaced.

In my previous life, after Ethan started changing his hairstyle, hiring a personal trainer, and buying luxury brands, people had asked him how he could afford it all.

He always answered smugly, “From part-time work.”

I believed him—until I overheard him and Sophie whispering about how they’d milked me dry.

How he mocked me for being born lucky, all while sucking me dry without guilt.

Thinking about it again now ruined my good mood.

I typed a final reply and hit send:

“Get lost.”