I was a renowned gynecologist, widely recognized for my flawless delivery record spanning ten years. Until that day, I was accused of malpractice during surgery, resulting in a double fatality, claiming both mother and unborn child. But the truth was, the patient was already dead when I arrived. With all the evidence – witness testimonies, physical evidence, and surveillance footage – stacked against me, I was utterly defenseless. Overnight, my reputation was ruined, and I was sentenced to death. My parents, unable to bear the immense pressure, jumped to their deaths three days after my execution. When I opened my eyes again, I was back in my car, rushing to the hospital. Up ahead, traffic officers were directing vehicles at the intersection. I gritted my teeth and slammed my arm into the steering wheel. I heard a sharp *snap*, and clearly felt my right arm… fracture. Rather than waiting for death, I chose self-mutilation. One arm, for a chance at life. In the moment of my execution, only one thought consumed me: ‘Innocent.’ My name is Eliza, thirty-four years old, Chief of Gynecology at the hospital, and a candidate for Deputy Director. For ten consecutive years, I had a perfect delivery record. Even my fiancé was the hospital’s top surgeon, universally acclaimed. Everyone said I was blessed with a good life. Career, love, future – everything was top-tier. I, too, believed my life was exceptionally lucky. Yet, at that very moment, my perfect life ended. But I hadn’t made a surgical error, because the patient was already dead when I arrived. No one believed me. Witness testimonies, physical evidence, surveillance footage – it was all there. The investigation team claimed I had administered an overdose of anesthetic. My fingerprints were on the syringe, and the cameras captured me entering the operating room. Even my fiancé, Marcus, testified in court, accusing me of violating protocols: “Eliza was frantic, snatching up every surgery she could, all to secure that Deputy Director position.” “She was in a terrible state that day, I warned her, but she wouldn’t listen… She said once this surgery was done, the promotion would be hers.” “I never thought something like this would happen… I thought she was at least a doctor with a conscience…” I desperately tried to refute him, but his accusations sounded so genuine. Everyone believed him, praised him for putting justice above personal ties, and called me a monster. It wasn’t until after my death that I learned the truth. That surgery, it turns out, was performed by his junior colleague, Sophia. The patient was Sophia’s, the anesthetic was administered by her, and the surgical error was hers. Marcus, to protect her, hastily called me in, intending for me to take the fall for her. He had tampered with the surveillance footage, and he had swapped the syringe to one with my fingerprints. Everything was a setup, an elaborate trap! All to make me a scapegoat for his beloved Sophia. The day my death sentence was handed down, my parents were surrounded by reporters and the victim’s family outside the courthouse. They were unable to bear the immense pressure. Three days after my execution, they jumped to their deaths. My soul could only watch helplessly, unable to do anything. I was filled with hatred, with injustice; I couldn’t rest in peace. As extreme rage consumed me, I suddenly opened my eyes. The dim streetlights shone into the car window. I grabbed my phone: March 29th, 2026, 9:22 PM. I had been reborn. Reborn to thirty minutes before I was to drive to the hospital for the surgery.
I sat in the driver’s seat, my heart hammering against my ribs, threatening to burst from my chest. Suddenly, my phone vibrated. Marcus’s name flashed across the screen. “Eliza, where are you?” “The patient is about to deliver, and the family specifically asked for you, saying they came for your reputation.” “Pre-op preparations are all done, just waiting for you to get on stage!” His voice was hurried, completely unlike the usually calm and elegant top surgeon. I knew why. At this point in the original timeline, the patient was already dead. Dead by the hands of his beloved Sophia, and he was rushing me there to take the blame. “On the road, traffic.” My voice was so calm it sounded unfamiliar even to myself. “Hurry up and get here!” “At this crucial point, as soon as this surgery is done, your Deputy Director nomination is secure.” “Then, my parents won’t object to us getting married anymore. Hurry, you need to be fast!” He lowered his voice, as if offering a bribe. In my previous life, I was deceived by those very words, rushing into the operating room like an idiot, and then falling headfirst into the trap he’d dug for me. I hung up and checked the time, 9:26 PM. Twenty-six minutes remained until the fateful surgery of my past life. I sat in the driver’s seat, my fingers trembling uncontrollably. The scenes from my death in the previous life replayed in my mind. The needle piercing my vein. My parents plummeting from the rooftop. Marcus accusing me in court, saying I was frantic for surgeries to get a promotion. If I stepped into that operating room before 9:52 PM, all the evidence would condemn me. No! Not this time. I absolutely would not repeat the same mistakes. But what could I do now? I couldn’t go to the hospital. I couldn’t enter that operating room. I couldn’t touch that surgery. Because they had meticulously planned every step. The moment I arrived, I would walk right into their trap. The evidence would automatically converge, leaving me no room to fight back. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. I needed an airtight alibi at 9:52 PM. What kind of alibi would be ironclad? One that could prevent their false accusations? One that would turn all his arrangements into a joke? I looked up and saw traffic officers directing cars at the intersection ahead. Suddenly, an idea formed in my mind. I would injure myself. I would be sent to the emergency room. I would be lying on someone else’s operating table. Only then, at 9:52 PM, would I be fully documented in the ER by doctors, nurses, and surveillance, instead of being framed in the operating room. One arm, for one life – this was the only way out. Without a moment’s hesitation, I gritted my teeth and violently slammed my right arm into the steering wheel.
I heard a sharp *snap*, and clearly felt the bone break. Excruciating pain instantly exploded, and cold sweat immediately drenched me. My vision blurred, and I nearly passed out. Enduring the sharp pain, I used my left hand to press the horn twice. My arm was broken; I was a patient. There was no way I could be performing surgery! The traffic officer ahead immediately noticed the anomaly and hurried over to tap on my car window. “What’s wrong? Do you need help?” I was in too much pain to speak, my face pale, my forehead covered in sweat. I pointed to my right arm with my left hand. The officer’s expression changed immediately when he saw the unnatural angle of my arm: “A broken arm? How did this happen?” I didn’t answer, just shook my head in agony. Without another word, the officer spoke into his walkie-talkie: “Injured person at the intersection, right arm broken, needs immediate medical attention!” Soon, an ambulance arrived, and I was loaded onto a stretcher. Red and blue lights flashed as it sped toward the hospital with sirens blaring. I lay on the stretcher, drenched in cold sweat, my right arm burning with pain. But the enormous weight on my heart had finally lifted. At 9:52 PM, I would be entering the ER. No matter how perfect their setup, they couldn’t make me be in two places at once. Ten minutes later, I was taken into the treatment room. Doctors and nurses surrounded me, cutting open my sleeve. X-rays, anesthetic, reduction. People came and went in the treatment room. I was shaking from the pain, but my consciousness remained clear. I glanced at the clock on the wall: 9:49 PM. Only three minutes remained until the patient’s fabricated time of death in Marcus’s timeline. In my previous life, I would have been entering the operating room at this exact moment, captured by surveillance video. Coupled with the physical evidence bearing my fingerprints, intentionally placed by Marcus, I would have been utterly defenseless. But in this life, I was in the treatment room. Two traffic officers, three medical personnel, and seven surveillance cameras would all serve as my alibi. “Sign here.” The nurse handed me the admission consent form. I caught a glimpse of the wall clock with my peripheral vision: 9:52 PM. It was precisely the time Marcus had fabricated as the patient’s death in my past life. I signed my name, clicked submit, and the time froze at 9:52 PM. It was done! At the exact time of the patient’s death, I was in the treatment room. With surveillance footage, medical records, and full documentation from the medical staff. Marcus couldn’t talk his way out of this; he couldn’t make me appear in two places at once. Just as I was about to breathe a sigh of relief, my phone rang. It was Marcus. I glanced at it, but didn’t answer. He must be frantic now, right? His beloved Sophia’s malpractice had resulted in a double fatality, and he wanted me to take the blame, but couldn’t find me. Serves him right! I simply turned off my phone. By the time the reduction was done and the cast was applied, it was past ten o’clock. I leaned back on the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling. In my previous life, at this time, I would have already been taken away by the police, and the news would have broken. “Women’s Hospital Chief Doctor Eliza’s Malpractice Leads to Patient’s Death!” But in this life, I never entered the operating room. I was alive, and I was innocent. My parents wouldn’t die either. I closed my eyes, wondering what was happening in the operating room. But I could guess that Marcus hadn’t been idle. He must have changed his plan, intending to shift the blame for the operating room malpractice and patient’s death onto me. Sure enough, a moment later, hurried footsteps echoed in the hallway. The door burst open, and a police officer in uniform entered first. “Eliza?” He flashed his badge and said: “We’re from the Criminal Investigations Unit.” “Someone just reported a medical accident at the hospital, resulting in a patient’s death, and you are suspected of violating protocols.” “Please cooperate with the investigation and come with us.”
Hearing that, all the surrounding nurses froze. I, however, remained exceptionally calm, because I had already been through this once. Only this time, I hadn’t gone into the hospital’s operating room; I had a solid alibi. “Medical accident?” I feigned confusion, asking, “What medical accident?” “An hour ago, at 9:52 PM, a surgery you performed resulted in the patient’s death on the operating table.” “The cause of death was an anesthetic overdose, leading directly to cardiac arrest.” The detective stated in a cold voice: “Surgeon Marcus identified you as the one who performed this surgery, and the syringe used to inject the anesthetic also has your fingerprints on it.” I listened quietly. Every detail was exactly the same as in my previous life. If this were my past life, I would have already collapsed by now. I would have frantically tried to explain. But now, I just looked up, calmly meeting his gaze: “You said, what was the patient’s time of death?” The detective paused: “The surgical record shows 9:52 PM.” 9:52 PM? I almost laughed out loud. 9:52 PM was when I signed the admission consent form. The detective said no more, raising a hand to signal the people behind him to step forward: “Take her back to the station for interrogation.” Just then, a nurse suddenly reached out to stop them: “Wait a minute.” He slapped the patient’s medical record onto the table, pointed to the signature time on it, and asked: “This patient broke her right arm at 9:26 PM and was undergoing fracture reduction in the treatment room at 9:52 PM.” “X-rays, surveillance, medical staff signatures, it’s all here.” “Now you tell me, how could she simultaneously be in the operating room causing someone’s death?” The detective was about to speak when someone suddenly rushed in from outside the door – Marcus. He grabbed my wrist, looking utterly distraught: “Eliza, the patient is dead! Don’t you know that?” “You need to cooperate with the investigation right now and explain everything clearly, and you might get a lighter sentence!” His words, on the surface, seemed to be for my good, but in reality, every word was cementing my status as a murderer. I sneered and retorted, “The patient’s death has nothing to do with me. I never even entered the operating room.” Marcus’s face changed, and his grip on my hand tightened further: “Eliza, don’t talk nonsense in front of the police.” “And all the evidence points to you now. If you confess, the judge will consider a reduced sentence…” Saying this, he turned his head to the detective, his tone earnest: “Officer, she might just be confused right now… I’m advising her, I’m advising her to confess… Will confessing lead to a reduced sentence?” Reduced sentence? He wished for my immediate execution. Taking a deep breath, I was about to produce the evidence to shut him up. But Sophia followed closely behind, bringing the patient’s family with her: “Eliza, I know you wanted to snatch this surgery to prove yourself… but how could you…” “How could you gamble with the lives of the patient and her baby for a promotion…” As if things weren’t chaotic enough, she threw another accusation my way: “Actually… the patient and baby could have been saved, but Eliza… made frequent errors, which led to the patient… a double fatality…” Hearing that, anger flared within me. Staring at her, I said each word distinctly: “Sophia, you were the one who performed that surgery.” “You were the one whose error led to the patient’s death, not me.” Her face paled, and her tears fell even harder. She retreated half a step, shrinking behind Marcus, whimpering softly: “Eliza… how could you accuse me… This was clearly your doing…” Marcus immediately stepped in front of her, glaring at me: “Eliza, how long are you going to keep this up?!” I wasn’t “keeping it up.” But I didn’t get a chance to explain. Because the patient’s family was too emotional; they lunged at me without thinking: “It was you! You killed my wife!” A middle-aged man suddenly rushed up, his eyes bloodshot, and kicked my newly bandaged right arm. Pain. Excruciating pain. My newly bandaged arm was broken again. The pain made my vision blur, and cold sweat instantly drenched me. I gritted my teeth, trying to explain: “I didn’t… kill anyone… It wasn’t me!” But no one listened. The patient’s mother even dropped to her knees, pounding the floor and wailing uncontrollably: “Oh, God, my daughter was only twenty-six!” “Her baby never even saw this world! How can this murderer still be alive?!” Cries, curses, and attempts to break up the fight mixed together. The room instantly descended into pandemonium. All eyes were on me, as if I were a heinous criminal. I clutched my right arm, leaning against the wall, trembling from the pain. And the patient’s husband, still agitated, was about to kick me again. “Stop!” The detective finally reacted, reaching out to separate the family members, and said: “This patient broke her right arm at 9:26 PM and was undergoing fracture reduction in the treatment room at 9:52 PM.” “X-rays, surveillance, medical staff signatures, it’s all here. She couldn’t possibly have been on the operating table causing someone’s death!” The room fell silent instantly. Marcus’s face turned white. Sophia completely froze.
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