As the news broadcast reported a random serial killing near my residential complex, I knew—I had been reborn once again.

In my first life, my husband insisted on going out in the middle of a snowstorm to buy weapons for self-defense. I locked every door and window, waiting at home, anxiety clawing at my chest. I never imagined the killer could pick locks. Before I could even react, a blade plunged into me, and I died on the couch.

In my second life, I didn't hesitate. I hid in a concealed storage room, holding my breath.

But the door was still pulled open. A man wearing a rabbit mask stared straight at me.

"Found you," he said.

In my third life, I ran to the police station. I rushed inside and told the officer on duty that the killings weren't random—that the murderer was coming for me.

They looked at me like I'd lost my mind. Then my husband arrived in a hurry and took me away. But the moment we reached our front door, a heavy hammer smashed into the back of my head.

Through the blinding pain, I forced my eyes open, but I never saw who killed me.

Now, staring at the grave expression on the news anchor's face, agony surged through every inch of my body.

Rebirth isn't a reset. The damage accumulates—and sooner or later, it will torture me to death.

Without hesitation, I walked into the kitchen and set a pot of oil to heat.

And I waited… for the moment the lock began to turn.

The oil began to smoke.

My palms were slick with sweat as I carried the pot, trembling, toward the door.

The lock clicked—

I raised my hand, ready to throw.

A force I couldn't break seized my wrist.

"Cindy, it's me!" my husband shouted.

I froze, startled.

Luckily, with the heavy snowfall, he was bundled in thick layers and unharmed. He took the pot from my hands, grimacing.

"You told me before that hot oil could be used as a weapon—I thought you were joking. Didn't expect you to actually mean it!"

I had no mind for small talk. My gaze locked onto the backpack he had brought home.

Inside it… was a hammer.

My mind went blank. My lips trembled.

That was it—the very weapon that had killed me in my last life.

In that life, I had begged the police to let me stay overnight at the station. It was my husband who came to persuade me to go home.

"Baby, you're overthinking things. We can't interfere with their work."

But following him had led me to my death—struck down by a hammer just one step away from our front door.

Now the weapon lay bare before me.

And my husband… was the prime suspect.

But why? We'd been married for five years, living a life that was warm and sweet. The New Year was approaching, and we'd even planned to invite both our parents to celebrate together.

He had no reason to kill me.

"What's wrong? Did the news scare you?"

Seeing something off in my expression, he reached out and gently touched my pale face, concern filling his eyes.

Could someone like him really have the nerve to swing a hammer at my head, again and again?

I forced a smile.

Glancing at the large bag of tools he'd bought, I asked, "Why did you get a hammer?"

He let out a casual laugh and crouched down to unpack the bag for me.

"Everything else was sold out today, so I tried my luck at a hardware store. The owner highly recommended this—said one swing wouldn't just hurt, it'd cripple you if it didn't kill you."

His offhand tone made my body tremble uncontrollably.

I took a step back, forcing another weak smile.

"Honey… tonight, I want to sleep alone."

He paused.

"Aren't you scared?"

I squeezed out an awkward smile. "What's there to be scared of? I have some urgent work to handle. I'll sleep in the study."

We occasionally slept in separate rooms anyway.

He looked at me for a long moment, then smiled and nodded.

The moment I entered the study, I locked the door with a sharp click. Then I dragged every table and chair I could find and piled them against the entrance.

When I finished, I collapsed to the floor, drenched in cold sweat.

I couldn't call the police—without concrete evidence, they wouldn't take the case.

I couldn't leave either—the snow outside had already piled up to my calves.

And if I tried to leave rashly… what if I provoked him?

Holding my breath, I listened to the sounds from the living room.

He was no different from usual—washing up, scrolling through videos, then returning to the bedroom.

Until three in the morning, everything remained eerily calm.

Drowsiness began to creep in.

Then, in the next instant, the sound of the front door opening tore through the silence.

Every hair on my body stood on end.

Someone had entered the living room.

Footsteps moved past the kitchen, past the guest room… and stopped between the master bedroom and the study.

I covered my mouth, tears threatening to spill from sheer terror.

Whoever it was knew the layout of my home intimately. This wasn't their first time here.

So this wasn't a random killing.

The only one who wanted me dead… could only be my husband.

I glanced at the pile of clutter blocking the door, feeling a fragile sense of security.

Immediately, I dialed the police, lowering my voice to a whisper.

"Is this the police? The serial killer is in my house!"

The person on the other end was stunned and began preparing to dispatch officers to the address I gave.

I took a deep breath.

"The killer is my husband. His name is—"

My words were cut off by the sound of a door opening.

I looked up in horror—only to realize it wasn't the study door.

It was the master bedroom next door.

The next second, my husband's scream split the night.

I shot to my feet in shock.

How could this be? The killer… wasn't my husband?!

From the other side of the wall came the heavy thud of something hitting the floor.

Reason told me that if I went out now, I might still be able to help my husband fight the attacker.

But the trauma of being killed three times before rooted me to the spot, leaving me unable to move.

The officer on the other end of the line kept calling out to me.

"Hello? Are you still there? Police are on their way—don't do anything rash!"

My hands shook as I braced myself against the wall.

The sounds outside faded into silence.

I had no idea who had won. I didn't know who was alive.

Only when the wail of sirens filled the entire building did I finally manage to move my stiff limbs and clear away the barricade.

The sight that greeted me was my husband lying in a pool of blood. He had already lost consciousness.

Tears burst from my eyes as I screamed, my voice breaking, "Please, save him!"

I rode in the ambulance with a policewoman.

Seeing how violently I was trembling, the nurse tried to reassure me.

"Ms. Parker, don't worry. Your husband's vital signs are stable for now."

The policewoman stood nearby for a moment before saying, "It doesn't look like there was a struggle. He only has one stab wound."

When he was attacked, my husband had deliberately avoided a fatal blow.

I nodded, wiping the cold tears from my face as my voice choked. "Thank goodness he's a doctor… he knew how to protect himself. Otherwise… he might not have survived…"

Looking at his pale lips, guilt flooded my chest.

At such a dangerous moment, my cowardice had made me stand by and do nothing. I wanted nothing more than to slap myself. If he really died, I would carry that regret for the rest of my life.

After surgery, he still hadn't regained consciousness, but the steady rhythm on the monitor brought me some relief. I gave a brief statement to the police.

They urgently pulled surveillance footage from the hallways and elevators, but found no suspicious individuals.

"The suspect is only about 170 centimeters tall," the lead officer said, showing me a photo. "Although that doesn't match the footprints in your living room, we can't rule out that he wore your husband's shoes left by the door."

I nodded. I had mostly calmed down by then.

"The suspect was extremely cautious. He only left half footprints—we can't determine depth or weight. So far, all the victims have been women around your age. That's likely why your husband survived."

Thinking back to my previous lives, I bit my lip and hesitated before asking, "Officer… is this really a random series of killings?"

His expression turned serious instantly. "Do you have any leads to share?"

After a moment's thought, I only mentioned how the attacker had clearly headed toward the master bedroom this time.

He noted it down and nodded.

"We'll need to wait until your husband wakes up before taking a full statement."

After all, I hadn't faced the attacker directly. There was little more I could provide.

Once the police left, exhaustion overwhelmed me.

I rested my head by my husband's bedside and drifted off for a while.

But when I woke up, the bed was empty.

My heart lurched violently. I rushed to the door, ready to go look for him.

But outside, all the lights had gone out.

Only the faint green glow of the emergency exit sign illuminated the silent corridor.

Holding my breath, I turned to go back inside and call the police.

The moment I turned—

A man, holding a long knife, his face hidden beneath a mask, stood less than a meter behind me—silent, pressed close to my back.

It was him.

The killer had found me.

In an instant, my scalp prickled. My throat felt clogged, as if something had sealed it shut—I couldn't even scream.

For some reason, he didn't rush forward to stab me.

Instead, he stood there, staring at me through the mask.

I turned and ran—faster than I ever had in my life.

The motion-sensor lights in the corridor flickered on one by one as I sprinted past. Behind me, hurried footsteps clung close, relentless as a shadow.

I ran, crying uncontrollably, tears streaming down my face. A thought struck me so hard it nearly shattered my sanity.

Why was it that the moment my husband disappeared, the killer appeared?

The injury… had it all been an act?

The one who wanted me dead… must be my husband!

Choking on sobs, I cursed him in my heart, calling him a monster—but my feet never slowed.

My heart pounded wildly under the strain of my desperate sprint.

Then I saw the elevator.

Hope flared in my eyes.

As long as I could get down to the first floor… to the security post—

Gritting my teeth, I darted into the elevator and slammed the button for the first floor.

Then, just before the doors closed, I slipped back out.

I ducked behind a fire hose cabinet in the emergency stairwell.

My husband was a doctor at this hospital. He knew the layout far better than I did.

I couldn't outrun him. I could only hide.

Holding my breath, I didn't dare move, peering from the corner at the figure chasing me.

He scanned the area. When he saw the elevator descending to the first floor, he slammed his fist against the wall in frustration.

Blood flung from the long knife in his hand, splattering so close it nearly reached the stairwell where I hid.

My eyes reddened instantly, my body trembling in terror.

At this hour, there should have been staff on duty at the nurses' station.

Now… I feared the worst.

He glanced out the window toward the ground floor, then jabbed the elevator button impatiently.

The next second, he turned—and walked straight toward where I was hiding.

I nearly slapped myself.

Under pressure, people really do make stupid mistakes.

If the elevator wouldn't come back up, of course, he'd take the stairs.

Just as I braced myself to grab the fire extinguisher and smash him with it—end it all in one blow—

The masked face suddenly pressed up against the glass window of the stairwell door, staring at me with chilling malice.

Even without words, I understood him perfectly.

'Found… you.'

My heart nearly burst from my chest. Instinctively, I raised the fire extinguisher, ready to strike—

But suddenly, a pair of arms appeared behind him, locking tightly around his neck.

My husband's pale face emerged from behind the attacker as he shouted hoarsely, "Cindy, run! Call the police!"

For a moment, I could only stare in disbelief.

My husband?!

With a furious roar, he dragged the killer to the ground, the two of them grappling violently.

A chill ran down my spine, my mind thrown into chaos.

My husband was 183 centimeters tall.

Even with the mask on, the attacker was noticeably shorter—just as the captain had said, around 170.

He was the wanted criminal from the news.