I burned my painting right in front of the students and university staff.

Thunderous applause filled the hall.

Everyone thought it was some kind of performance.

But my senior in the graduate program panicked. He rushed forward and grabbed my wrist, his voice tight.

“Connor, have you gone mad? This is your only shot to prove yourself!”

I shook him off, cold.

A chance? That was his chance, right?

During my past life, he stole the painting I poured my heart and soul into and entered it in the competition ahead of me.

The composition, the colors, even my original technique… He copied all of it.

He won the Gold Award for the National Youth Art Competition, signed with a top gallery, and basked in glory.

Meanwhile, I was branded a shameless plagiarist.

The insults and curses overwhelmed me completely.

"Get out of the art scene already!"

“A plagiarist like you should just die!”

His fans stormed my studio, smashed my tools, and broke my right hand.

With my world in ruins, I jumped off the studio roof.

Opening my eyes again, I realized I had returned to the day my senior accused me of plagiarism.

"Connor! What are you still staring at?!"

The door to the studio flew open. My best friend Hayden Tucker burst in, his phone raised high.

I was jolted awake, and my eyes fluttered open. The familiar easel and the unfinished graduation project on it came into view.

I had regressed.

Time wound back to the day Bonnie Lane accused me of plagiarism.

"Go look at the university message board! That scheming Bonnie is at it again," Hayden hissed.

My eyes glanced at Hayden's phone screen.

At the top was a pinned post. The title was, "To All Art Lovers. When My Inspiration is Stolen by Someone Close, What Should I Do?"

He didn't give any names. He simply told a story about a hardworking senior whose work had been shamelessly copied by a so-called genius junior.

Even without being named, everyone knew that genius junior was me.

During the art exams, I was the living legend of our year. When I first enrolled, people already called me a genius.

Bonnie had even attached a comparison photo. One image showed his so-called competition piece. The other was the archived copy of my graduation work that I had submitted to the university database only yesterday.

The composition, the colors, the brushwork, even the "stippling" that I had first proposed in my thesis… Every detail was exactly the same.

Not just similar; they were perfectly identical!

The comments under the post were already blowing up.

"I always had a weird feeling about Connor Stewart. He thinks he's better than everyone else, but he's just a plagiarist."

"They call him the art exam prodigy, right? Please! He probably cut some shady deal with his teachers from prep school."

"Bonnie's just too kind. Even after all this, he still won't spill the beans. If it were me, I'd report that plagiarist until he was expelled!"

"Poor Bonnie. People like that are a disgrace to the art scene and should be thrown out!"

The familiar words pierced straight through my heart.

In my last life, this post was the beginning of my fall into the endless pit of the abyss. I was condemned by everyone and investigated by the university.

My supervisor, Ian Bradley, once looked at me with appreciation. In the end, there was only disappointment in his eyes.

And with me as a stepping stone, Bonnie climbed higher.

He used my painting to win the National Youth Art Gold Award, signed with a top gallery, and enjoyed all the glory that came with it.

I, publicly condemned for plagiarism, ended up leaping off the studio's rooftop.

Staring at Bonnie's innocent-looking face on the screen, my hands slowly curled into fists.

Hayden saw the change in my expression and began to pace, filled with panic.

"Connor, say something! We should go to the professor right now. Show him your drafts, your notes, all of the evidence. We can't let Bonnie treat you like this!"

Evidence?

In my previous life, I had taken out every piece of evidence.

From the notes of my very first idea, to every composition sketch, to detailed analyses of my techniques.

Alas, it was useless.

Bonnie could always produce evidence that came earlier.

He could even explain my creative ideas more smoothly and in more detail than I could.

"Connor!" Hayden shook me nervously.

I raised my head and gave him a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, Hayden."

In this life, I would get to the bottom of this.

No matter what!

Hayden and I walked to the university's art gallery.

From a distance, I saw Bonnie standing in front of the painting, surrounded by Ian and several other faculty members.

He was passionately explaining his so-called creative vision.

"So, I used stippling here to capture the moment when light and shadow merge again, symbolizing hope within despair…"

Every word from his mouth was exactly what I had written in my artist's statement.

The surrounding staff nodded in agreement, their eyes full of approval.

"Not only does Bonnie have talent, but he also has dedication."

"Yes. The thought put in this piece is already beyond most people his age."

My appearance shattered that harmony. I suddenly became the center of attention, and people started murmuring.

"He still has the nerve to show up?"

"Look at his eyes! There is not a hint of remorse."

When Bonnie saw me, he immediately stopped talking. One could see the shock and pain on his face.

"Connor, you're here."

He stepped toward me, his tone heavy.

"I know you're very talented, and you've always wanted a breakthrough with your graduation project, but you can't just copy my work. If you had told me earlier, I could have helped you."

His words sounded sincere, casting himself as a betrayed yet gracious victim.

Ian's eyes were full of disappointment.

"Connor, you may be gifted, but that doesn't mean you can stop working hard and take shortcuts. What's the meaning of this? Have you lost yourself in all the compliments you're given? I remember you said your dream was to hold your own solo exhibition. Are you planning to show a plagiarized painting there?"

He gave me a frustrated look.

"So many prodigies end up wasting their talent because they stop putting in the work. Do you want to become just another cautionary tale of a wasted genius?"

I looked at Bonnie. He stared back at me, the smugness in his eyes completely at odds with his earlier painful expression.

I ignored both of them.

In my previous life, I would have been furious. I would have argued and broken down, desperately trying to prove my innocence.

But this time, I refused to do the same; I wouldn't try to defend myself cluelessly.

Hayden wanted to speak for me, but I grabbed his arm and shook my head.

We left the gallery. Hayden agonized beside me, but I calmed him down. I told him I was fine and made him go back first.

When I returned to the studio, I went over everything again. Suspicion bubbled in me.

I locked every door and window, pulled down the thick curtains, and even used a roll of tape to seal every gap.

Then, I turned to the easel and started to paint.

I worked quickly. Two hours later, the new piece was finished.

I didn't leave the studio at all; I stayed there the entire time to make sure Bonnie had no chance to sneak in and take photos.

Early the next morning, I picked up my phone.

At four in the morning, Bonnie had posted a new update on his feed.

It was a sketch identical to my newest work. The core elements, the way the technique was used, the style itself…

All of it was unmistakably mine.

The caption read, "Pulled an all-nighter painting. It feels like I'm about to drop dead, but I'm satisfied with the result. Good night, world."

Below it was a long list of likes and similar comments.

"You worked so hard!"

"Even geniuses have to grind!"

My frown grew deeper. If no one had gotten into the studio, then what was going on?

Had he installed security cameras here?

I bought a professional signal detector online and swept through every inch of the studio. I even searched the power outlets as well.

In the end, there was nothing.

To be safe, I packed up my painting tools and took a cab to a paid studio far from the university.

I chose a completely enclosed room and made sure there was absolutely no way any surveillance equipment could have been installed in advance.

This time, I painted a still life titled "Fragmented Statue."

I deliberately used unconventional colors and lighting. These were ideas I had only come up with recently and had never mentioned to anyone.

When I finished, I didn't take the painting with me. I locked it in a storage cabinet.

That night, in a private group chat full of well-known painters and industry veterans, Bonnie posted a more polished painting on the same theme, pretending to ask for advice.

The painting was "Fragmented Statue."

The timestamp on his post was thirty minutes earlier than the time I finished my own piece!

The veterans in the group praised him, calling his concept bold and his technique superb.

However, a few sharp-eyed members recognized my signature style and began to whisper in the thread.

"This style looks a bit like Connor's from university, doesn't it?"

"It does, but Bonnie's version is much more refined, and the concept feels more mature. I bet Connor's copying him again. He already has a history."

"Young people these days are always looking for shortcuts."

My bafflement only deepened. How exactly was Bonnie stealing from me?

I sat alone in the empty studio and went over everything from the beginning.

Physical isolation didn't work. Signal screening didn't work. That ruled out almost every conventional method of theft.

I remembered the interviews Bonnie gave after he won the gold prize in my previous life.

He spoke smoothly and with poise, but whenever reporters asked about the details of his creative process or his emotional journey, his responses were hollow and superficial.

It was like listening to a bad actor reciting lines that did not belong to him.

Back then, I thought he simply wasn't good at expressing himself.

Now, it seemed more likely that he didn't know what to say in the first place.

He only had the final result. He never went through the process.

Suddenly, an idea that seemed ridiculous at first surfaced in my mind.

I messaged Hayden, told him my theory, and then began my move.

I sat in front of the easel without taking out a single brush or laying down a single canvas. I simply closed my eyes and began to paint in my mind.

I envisioned a black cat crouched on a windowsill. Behind it hung a sky heavy with storm clouds, a fork of lightning tearing through clouds in the distance. The entire composition was dark and strained, filled with tension.

In my mind, I added a sharp, vivid emerald green to the cat's eyes.

The next morning, Hayden burst into my studio, his face full of rage.

"Connor! You have to see this. Bonnie is just unbelievable!"

He slammed his phone on my desk.

On the screen was Bonnie's latest post, uploaded at dawn today.

It was a flawless oil sketch of a black cat crouched on a windowsill, its eyes gleaming with a shade of emerald green I knew better than anyone.

His lighthearted and proud caption read, "Couldn't sleep last night. A little flash of inspiration. I really love that green in the cat's eyes. Does it look like an emerald to you?"

I stared at the painting.

In that moment, every last trace of doubt in my mind vanished.

So that was it!

When Hayden saw I was still smiling, he started to stomp in frustration.

"Connor, why are you smiling? He's copying you again! This time, he's directly copying what's inside your head! This is witchcraft! What are we even supposed to do?"

I shook my head. "No, Hayden."

He wasn't just stealing ideas from my mind.

It was something even more straightforward!

I laughed.

"If he can do that, then it's perfect!"

Since Bonnie liked copying so much, I'd make sure that this time, he kept copying to the very end!