At dawn, before my parents had woken up, I went out for a jog to clear my head. When I returned and finished a light breakfast with them, I excused myself and went back to my room, intending to get a few more hours of sleep.

I had just drifted off when someone shook me awake.

"Maya, is this what you meant by going out to cool off? Eight men in one night—damn it! You fucking slut!"

That voice. That tone. My eyes snapped open. Hearing those exact words again, spoken in the same raw fury, felt like crashing into a wall.

"Wha... what do you mean?" I managed to say. My voice trembled without my realizing it.

Sean stood at the foot of my bed, his face contorted with rage. This wasn't the gentle, patient man I had married. This was a storm—cold and merciless.

"You're seriously asking me what I mean? Look at this!" he shouted, his voice shaking. He threw his phone onto the bed. "Your video is all over the internet—I can't even show my face to anyone now!"

I reached for the phone with shaking fingers. The screen lit up.

It was the same video. My flushed face. My body moving to music in a hotel room surrounded by men.

My skin instantly turned cold, the blood draining from my limbs as a familiar sense of dread swallowed me whole. The nightmare had repeated itself.

Beneath the video, the comments were just as vicious as I remembered.

[Whose daughter is this? Whose wife? If she were mine, I'd strangle her.]

[What a whore. Those men clearly aren't picky.]

[Ugh, look at that tongue. I'd rather have her lick a toilet—wait, no, that'd dirty the toilet.]

[I heard her parents are teachers? Unbelievable. Don't let your kids near them—who knows what they teach at home.]

My full name. Our home address. My parents' workplace. All laid bare in the comments section like some public bulletin board. The doxing was happening again and everything was unraveling.

Then, came the private messages.

[How much to sleep with you?]

[Didn't think you were this wild. Wanna meet next time?]

[Babe, stairwell or copy room—your pick.]

[I've got a buck and ten bros. What do you say?]

Each line was filthier than the last. I felt my stomach turn as nausea rose in my throat. My hands shook as I gripped the edge of the blanket, fighting the urge to scream.

None of it made sense.

I had been at home. I hadn't left my parents' apartment since yesterday. How could this happen again?

Desperate, I turned toward the door. I needed my parents to see this, to speak for me. But the apartment was silent. They must've gone out for groceries like they always did on weekends.

"I didn't do this," I said weakly, eyes pleading. "Sean, I was here all night."

He stared at me like he was looking at a stranger. "I'm done listening to your bullshit," he growled.

I dialed the police with trembling fingers. They arrived quickly and just like before, took us to the hotel for investigation.

The same pattern unfolded.

Surveillance footage showed me checking into the hotel just after midnight. Then, one by one, the men arrived. And each time, I opened the door. Sometimes I flung myself into their arms, sometimes I leaned seductively against the frame as if I'd been waiting. There wasn't the slightest indication that I was forced.

The footage stretched until nearly dawn. At 5 a.m., I walked out of the hotel alone, hair tousled, makeup smudged, exhaustion etched into my expression.

"The surveillance and video files show no signs of editing," one of the officers confirmed calmly.

I heard Sean suck in a sharp breath beside me.

When I turned, his fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned bone-white. His jaw trembled. His eyes, bloodshot and burning, locked onto mine.

"Maya," he said, his voice cracking. "It's all there. What more do you want me to believe? That this is some kind of deepfake? You're not just cheating—you've dumped a bucket of shit over my head!"

His words sliced into me like a blade. But I forced myself to breathe, to think. I couldn't panic. If I lost control now, I'd have no way to claw myself out of this.

My gaze dropped to my arm. There, near the bend of my elbow, was a faint red bump—just a mosquito bite.

A sudden thought struck me.

"Look!" I cried out, lifting my arm. "There's nothing on my body! Not a single bruise or mark! If I'd really been with that many men like the video shows, how could I look like this?"

As I spoke, I rolled up my sleeves and pant legs, revealing as much of my skin as I could. My voice trembled slightly, but I kept going, desperate to prove my innocence.

In my previous life, after that night at the hotel, I hadn't been able to recognize my own body. Hickeys and bruises bloomed across my skin like damning proof. Used condoms filled the trash can, each one allegedly carrying traces of my DNA. I had even started to question myself—had I really done it?

That thought had haunted me. Maybe someone drugged me, manipulated me... but even that didn't change the consequences. My reputation had still been destroyed.

But this time—it was different.

This time, I never set foot in that hotel. Even if there were videos, even if the surveillance footage claimed I was there, I hadn't gone anywhere. My body was clean. Unmarked. That, at least, I could cling to.

Sean stared at my exposed skin, his brow furrowing slightly. His eyes flicked over my arms, my calves—unblemished, pale, untouched.

But the people around us weren't so easily swayed.

Their gazes didn't soften. If anything, they became more vicious—smirking, scoffing.

Just as I opened my mouth to suggest a physical examination by a female officer, someone in the crowd jeered.

"Did she have so much fun she forgot everything? In the video, she literally told the men not to leave any marks, or she'd report them."

"Yeah, probably planned it all from the start. Pretend to be some poor, innocent girl later. Didn't expect the whole thing would get leaked online. What a joke."

"She's clearly playing both roles—acting like a slut on camera, then crying innocence now. Look at the tattoo on her ankle and the red mole on her arm. It's exactly the same as in the video."

My thoughts collapsed in a thunderous crash. I hadn't even examined the video closely. I'd been too shocked that it had returned—exactly as it had in my past life.

But now they were saying it was different?

In my previous life, the footage showed me wild and feverish, with bruises and love bites covering my body. I had no strength to fight back then. Everything pointed to guilt and I had no defense.

Now, I was staring at a clean body... and yet the world still refused to believe me.

I turned to Sean, silently begging him to think. To question. To even hesitate.

But he wouldn't look at me. His face twisted with a mixture of rage and revulsion as he turned away, jaw tight.

DNA doesn't lie. Even if the video was faked, no one could forge that. And I knew I hadn't been there. There was no way anything of mine could be in that hotel room.

Then came the final blow.

"Mrs. Johnson," one of the officers said, his tone neutral, unfeeling. "Our lab just tested the biological evidence found in the hotel room. We identified your DNA, along with samples from multiple male individuals."

I couldn't breathe.

"And," he added, "we've traced the source of the original video upload. It came from your phone."

A sharp, broken laugh tore from Sean's throat. His shoulders heaved with fury.

All around me, eyes locked on—wide and glinting. Shock. Disgust. Cruel satisfaction. Like vultures circling the carcass of a truth they already believed.

And just like that, I was back there again. Right in the center of the same nightmare. Same humiliation. Same hopelessness.

Before I could react, a palm whipped across my cheek with brutal force.

The impact knocked me to the ground.

"You filthy whore!" a woman shrieked. "Seducing my husband and filming that trash? I'm going to beat you to death today!"

She lunged for me again, but the officers managed to hold her back.

"Why are you stopping me? Aren't you the police? She did something this disgusting—shouldn't she be arrested?"

"I swear, your days are numbered! The other wives are already on their way. You like messing around in bed, huh? Let's see if you're still smiling when we're done with you!"

I pushed myself up, barely able to find my voice.

"I didn't do it," I whispered, then tried louder. "It wasn't me! I was at my parents' apartment all night. They can vouch for me!"

But everyone only believed what they thought was true. My weak explanations just sounded like excuses.

"Her parents will definitely be covering for her," someone muttered. "It's obvious they're just as shameless."

The crowd thickened, drawn in by the spectacle.

"I know that woman," a new voice called out. "I saw her come home early this morning. She was wobbling all over the place, barely able to climb the stairs. I thought, 'Wow, young people really need to work on their stamina.' But now I get it—guess she just had too much sex."

"Her parents are both teachers. Who would've thought they'd raise a daughter like this? Maybe the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

I looked up. The voice belonged to Laila Madison—my mother's colleague. She'd always held a grudge over a failed promotion, but I never imagined she'd seize the chance to publicly humiliate me to get back at my mother.

I clenched my fists. "That's not true. I was just out jogging this morning. My legs were sore, so I—"

"Ha! Shameless little slut," she sneered. "First you claim you were sleeping at home, now you're saying you went jogging? You can't even keep your lies straight!"

"So disgusting," another woman chimed in. "It's one thing to act like a wild animal, but you've got the nerve to call the police about it? What's wrong with you? Are you mentally ill?"

"You like attention, huh? Then today, we'll give you a real show. Let everyone see what kind of filthy trash you really are."

A group of furious women surged through the crowd. They yanked at my clothes, grabbing fistfuls of fabric and hair while hurling punches and slurs. Their anger wasn't just righteous—it was feral.

The police struggled to restore order. After several agonizing minutes, they finally pulled the attackers off me. My clothes were torn, my hair disheveled and my face stung with cuts and bruises.

One officer stepped forward. "Whatever your motive was, you've already caused serious public disturbance. You need to apologize to the families involved and help calm things down."

My heart dropped. So that was it? No further investigation, no justice? Just bow my head and take the fall?

But if I apologized now, it would be no different from throwing myself off a cliff.

I pushed my hair behind my ears, straightened my torn blouse and looked the officer dead in the eye. "That person in the video isn't me. I will not apologize."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed.

"Officer, this isn't just online bullying anymore—it's real-world assault. If you write this off as some stunt I pulled, then the true culprit walks away scot-free."

"Do you have any idea what an apology would cost me? Even if it kills me, I won't tolerate this kind of injustice."

He studied me, his expression unreadable. Then his voice dropped into something heavier, colder.

"We've reviewed the video and all available surveillance. No signs of editing. The DNA test results are official—there's no chance they were faked."

He paused.

"If the person in the video isn't you, then who is?"

That was the question haunting me. In my previous life, I never found out. I'd died still carrying that confusion.

Now, even with a second chance, I had no more clarity. My mind swirled with half-formed thoughts, but none sharp enough to cut through the fog.

My silence emboldened the crowd again.

"The evidence is there and she's still playing the victim?"

"Lock her up! Maybe jail will finally teach her something."

"She dared to mess with eight men—what's next? A whole army?"

"Someone test her for STDs before she infects the whole city."

"Her poor husband. He'll never live this down. She's ruined his name."

Their scorn wrapped around me like chains. No matter how many times I said it wasn't me, it only made me sound more guilty.

The officer glanced at the growing crowd and sighed, then gestured for his colleagues. "Take her in. We'll handle the rest at the station."

Just like before.

In my previous life, I'd been dragged away the same way—charged with disturbing the peace and distributing obscene material. Fifteen days locked away like a criminal. By the time I got out, my parents were already gone—died miserably at home, their bodies left untouched for days.

And I didn't even have time to mourn before the real punishment came. The enraged families of the men from the video found me, beat me senseless. I died without even understanding who had framed me.

Now, even with this second life, was I doomed to relive it all?

No. I refused.

If I couldn't find the person who destroyed me, then what was the point of coming back?

As I stumbled toward the waiting police vehicle, the weight of two lives crushed down on me. I kept replaying every moment, every detail, from both timelines.

And then—something clicked.

I stopped walking. My eyes widened, the haze in my mind evaporating in an instant.

I spun around, lifted my head and shouted toward the crowd with everything I had:

"I know who the person in the video is!"