It was my mother.

I saw her alone—standing there like a defiant figure, unyielding, blocking the plane with her body in full view of everyone.

She refused to let the aircraft take off.

Even when four or five airport security guards came forward, attempting to drag her away, she resisted with all her strength—scratching, biting, kicking. She fought like a wild animal, desperate and out of control.

Watching this, my whole body trembled uncontrollably.

A deep fear welled up inside me.

Because I knew—obstructing a plane at an airport is a serious offense. It’s illegal.

But my mother didn’t care.

She was so desperate to make sure I boarded that flight, even if it meant breaking the law.

So desperate… to send me off to Canada… to die with my organs cut out?

“Look, your mom is even willing to go to jail just so you can go on this trip,” my sister said, gesturing toward the scene.

“Don’t disappoint her, brother.”

“Be good. Hurry up and get on the plane.”

She spoke gently, but there was an unsettling undertone in her words.

Still, I didn’t move. I stood rooted to the ground.

Because I already knew what was waiting for me if I got on that plane.

I remembered it too vividly:

The moment I disembarked, I would be handed over to a so-called “tour group” that was really a front for human traffickers.

I would be abused, beaten, humiliated, and stripped of all dignity.

And once they drained every ounce of value from me, I would be slaughtered like cattle—my organs harvested.

I didn’t even get the mercy of closing my eyes before I died.

No matter what, I would never board that plane again.

I would never step into that nightmare a second time.

“Sister… please, bring Mom back,” I said softly, pressing a hand to my forehead. “I’m not feeling well. I don’t want to go today. I think I need to go to the hospital for a check-up.”

I pretended to have a headache.

In the past, if I did so much, the whole family would panic and fuss over me. They’d never force me to do anything if I felt unwell.

But this time, my sister responded differently. She looked anxious, but her concern felt strange—calculated.

“Brother, don’t worry. I’ll tell the tour group. You can see a doctor once you arrive. The hospitals there are good too—they’ll take care of you.”

“Just get on the plane first, okay?”

As she spoke, she reached out to grab my arm, trying to pull me forward.

But I didn’t budge.

I stared at her, confused.

She had never been like this before.

Whenever I felt sick, she’d drop everything and take me to the hospital right away.

She’d book all the tests, sit with me for hours, and make sure I was fine.

But now…

“Sister,” I said, my voice trembling. “I don’t want to get on that plane.”

Smack!

She slapped me hard across the face. The impact made me stagger.

Her eyes blazed with anger.

“Do you have any idea how much that ticket cost?” she shouted.

“You think just saying ‘I don’t want to go’ is enough?”

“I made thousands of dumplings to earn the money for this trip!”

“Do you think you deserve our kindness? Do you think you deserve Mom and Dad’s sacrifices?”

I raised a hand to my cheek and felt the burning mark of her slap.

And in that moment, I wanted to scream.

Do you think you deserve me?

You tricked me into that flight.

You handed me over to criminals.

You let them torture me.

You let me die.

“Sister… I have a scholarship,” I said, forcing a bitter smile as I took out my bank card.

“I can reimburse the plane ticket with this.”

As the provincial champion, the local government awarded me a 10,000-dollar scholarship.

The money had just been deposited into this card—it was my pride, my honor, my lifeline.

But when my sister saw it, her face twisted with disgust.

“That’s nothing compared to what our family gave you!” she spat.

She yanked off her gloves and thrust her hands into my face. They were covered in raw, red blisters, some broken and oozing.

“Look at these! I got these from making zongzi non-stop, day and night. For you! I worked until my hands bled to earn this trip for you!”

“If you don’t get on that plane, all my effort—all my suffering—will be for nothing!”

“Be good, stop being selfish. Get on the plane right now, or it’ll be too late!”

She was using guilt as a weapon—moral blackmail—to force me into submission.

In my previous life, I had been deeply moved when I first saw her injured hands.

She worked at a pie shop.

Her job was hard, and the pay was low.

She and my brother-in-law only brought home a few thousand dollars a month.

And back then, I believed her.

I had believed her love was real.

But now I know.

I saw through the act.

Because that trip didn’t lead to a vacation.

It led to hell.

At that time, I swore to myself:

One day, I will repay my sister well. I’d let her and her husband live the most comfortable life imaginable.

I wanted to give them the world.

But when I finally managed to steal a phone and dial her number, what I heard on the other end shattered me.

It wasn’t a concern.

It wasn’t relief.

It was her voice—cold, vicious, like a demon whispering from the depths.

“Who told you to become the provincial top scorer?”

“Ryan, be obedient and die quietly.”

“Just listen and die.”

That was the moment everything inside me broke.

In this life, I swore—I would never let my sister control me again.

“Sister,” I said, pointing behind her. “Mom’s over there. She looks like she’s trying to get your attention.”

She instinctively turned around.

And I bolted.

I ran as fast as I could, toward the airport exit, heart pounding in my chest.

I had only one thought:

I must escape this place.

“Ryan, get back here! Board the plane!”

My sister’s voice echoed from behind me as she tried to catch up.

But I was faster. I was still young, a high school student with a healthy, athletic body.

She had no chance of keeping up.

After a few minutes, I burst out of the airport terminal.

I looked back—there was no sign of her.

Relieved, I flagged down a taxi parked by the curb and climbed in.

I thought I was safe.

But the moment I shut the door, a harsh voice exploded beside me—

“Who gave you permission to leave the airport?!”

Startled, I turned—and my blood ran cold.

Sitting right next to me was my father.

Behind me, in the back seat, sat my brother-in-law, Daniel Reed.

Both were glaring at me with eyes full of disappointment and anger.

“Ryan Carter, why didn’t you get on the plane?” my father growled.

“Dad…?” I was stunned. I hadn’t expected to see either of them here.

“Your sister called us,” he continued. “She said you were throwing a tantrum and refusing to go on the trip. We had no choice but to come and make sure you followed through.”

“You’re going to Canada,” he said, his face dark and determined. “This whole trip was planned by the family for you. You don’t get to say no.”

“If Daniel hadn’t found this taxi in time, we wouldn’t have caught you,” he added, stepping on the gas.

The car roared forward, tires screeching.

“Exactly,” my brother-in-law said with a chilling smirk. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Ryan. People would kill for this kind of trip.”

“Trip?” I clenched my jaw. “You mean a one-way ticket to death!”

Both of them went silent for a moment.

Then, my father forced a strained smile.

“What nonsense are you spouting, huh? How could your family ever let you die?”

I didn’t even bother replying.

Instead, I acted—

While the car was still moving, I threw the door open and leapt out.

Even if I had to die from the fall, I’d rather that than be betrayed again—than be sent like livestock to slaughter by people who were supposed to love me.

They tried to chase after me, but I’d already rolled down a steep hillside.

Bang!

My body hit the ground hard. I tumbled down, again and again, until I finally came to a stop.

It hurt.

It hurts everywhere.

My arms, my legs, my side—I was scraped, bruised, and bleeding.

But at least I was free.

They didn’t chase me anymore.

Groaning in pain, I gritted my teeth and dragged myself up.

I grabbed a nearby tree branch and used it as a makeshift crutch.

Limping, I began the long walk home.

Not for rest.

Not for shelter.

But for justice.

---

My home was in Oakridge—a small place, barely a few hundred people.

It was five miles away.

By the time I arrived, the sky had already darkened.

But my house stood out in the night. It was brightly lit, covered in white cloth.

A huge mourning hall had been set up in the yard.

There were candles, incense, and paper offerings—

And at the center, a framed photo.

My photo.

I stared at it, stunned.

They had already held my funeral.

I limped forward, half laughing.

“Wonderful. They buried me before I even died.”

Inside, I could hear voices crying loudly.

“My son, you died such a terrible death!”

“If only you had agreed to go on the trip—none of this would have happened!”

“My son… the top scorer in the province, gone just like that!”

My father, my mother, and my sister were all dressed in mourning white, crying bitterly in front of my funeral altar.

Around them stood a crowd of relatives and villagers, including the village chief.

They had all come to pay their respects.

When they saw me walk through the gate—alive and breathing—everyone froze.

Their faces drained of color.

“You didn’t expect this, did you?” I sneered coldly. “That I’d still be alive.”

My sister rushed forward in a panic.

“Ryan! Please, let us explain,” she stammered. “Your brother-in-law went out to search for you. We couldn’t find you, so we assumed the worst… That’s why we held a funeral.”

My expression twisted with disbelief.

“It’s only been a day—and you already held a funeral? You couldn’t wait, could you? You were eager to bury me.”

I turned toward the village chief.

“Chef Carter, I’d like to report something: my own family wanted me dead.”

George Landon, the chief of Oakridge, was a stern, upright man, known for his integrity.

He looked troubled.

“Indeed, something doesn’t feel right. Everything happened too quickly.”

“It hasn’t even been a full day,” one of the villagers chimed in. “It’s only been a few hours!”

“Exactly. And he’s the provincial top scorer. Wouldn’t you search harder before declaring him dead?”

More murmurs erupted from the crowd. Doubts were growing.

The village chief’s brows furrowed. “This is suspicious…”

Suddenly, a voice cut through the noise.

“I know exactly why they did it.”

The speaker was a middle-aged man pushing through the crowd. Someone whispered his name.

“It’s Victor Holmes—the village’s biggest taxpayer.”

He was well-known. He owned several real businesses and carried weight in village affairs.

Victor held up his phone.

“Let me show you what this little monster did—what made his parents and sister want him dead.”

He tapped the screen and played a video.

The villagers crowded around to watch. As the footage played, their faces shifted—from confusion to disbelief to burning rage.

When the video ended, the entire crowd turned on me like a mob.

“You shouldn’t be alive!” someone shouted.

Even the village chief, George, flung his cane to the ground and glared at me with fury in his eyes.

I turned toward the screen—and what I saw made my blood run cold.

The video showed a boy who looked exactly like me doing something vile to a young girl.

My eyes widened. My voice cracked.

“I didn’t do that! It’s not me! I was framed!” I shouted.

But no one believed me.

“Beast!”

“Scum!”

“You’re a disgrace to the county!”

Someone hurled a rock at me. It struck my shoulder hard. Pain shot through me.

I scanned the crowd for anyone—anyone—who might believe me.

My sister sat collapsed on the ground, eyes empty.

My brother-in-law stood behind me, a knife pressed against my back.

The villagers stared at me with disgust, as if I were no longer human.

I had never felt so utterly alone.

Victor stepped forward, his lips curled in a mocking smile.

“Admit it, Ryan,” he whispered low enough that only I could hear.

“You’re done this time. My son, Jeremy Holmes, deserved to be the top scorer. But you stole that from him. You think I’d let that slide?”

My heart dropped.

So this was the reason.

Jealousy.

Cold, calculated jealousy.

And the arrogance of power.

I stared at him, my voice steady despite the chaos around me.

“The video is fake. You had someone create it. You used someone who looks like me to ruin me.”

A flicker of surprise flashed across his face—then quickly vanished.

“You’re sharper than I thought,” he said smoothly. “Not just some naive village boy after all.”

He stepped back, calm and smug.

“But it’s far too late for that now, isn’t it?”