The moment Lilian’s knife plunged into my abdomen, the live stream chat was flooded with comments like, “True love wins all.” In my past life, I tried to stop my sister, Lilian, from being a surrogate for a gay couple, and she stabbed me to death. Reborn, I fully supported her surrogacy plan. Simultaneously, I exposed Kevin Davis’s STD records and Ryan Hayes’s fraud evidence to the entire internet. They went live to slander me; I released all our SnapChat messages. They pleaded with me to delete the posts; I used my financial leverage to permanently ban them. When Lilian, touching her pregnant belly, asked me why I saved her in the shelter, I sneered, “Because your miserable life has just begun…” 1 I lay on the ground, blood gurgling in my throat, choking my screams. My phone lay three steps away, its screen still bright – Lilian’s TikTok live stream was ongoing, viewers rapidly surpassing a hundred thousand. “Alright, everyone, watch closely!” my sister Lilian’s voice blared from the phone speaker. “This is what happens when you stand in the way of true love!” The camera shook, then focused on my convulsing body. The comments scrolled wildly: [Holy crap, is this for real?] [Must be a script? That blood bag looks so fake] [Call 911, hurry!] I tried to lift my hand to switch off the live stream, but Kevin’s foot pressed down on my wrist. The man, a former fitness instructor, loomed over me. The tiger head tattoo on his arm glowed a sickly greenish-black under the emergency light of the stairwell. “Anna, don’t blame me,” Lilian crouched down, her face close to the camera. Her colored contacts gleamed unnaturally bright in the dim light. “Kevin and Ryan’s love is the purest thing in the world. They just want a child, why did you have to stop them?” I wanted to say it was illegal, that surrogacy in California required legal procedures, that they couldn’t even provide basic financial stability for her – but blood blocked my windpipe, and I could only make rasping sounds. “You always know everything, don’t you?” Lilian’s face hardened. “Silicon Valley elite, data expert, a hundred and fifty thousand a year – so what? But do you understand love? Do you understand the courage of two men who stand together against the whole world?” Kevin pulled the knife out. I convulsed again. The live stream viewership surpassed two hundred thousand. “This blood is real!” Lilian shrieked at the camera, a bizarre excitement in her voice. “See? This is the price of prejudice! Kevin, give her another one!” The second knife plunged into my abdomen. I heard the live stream notification sound from my phone – TikTok officially issued a violent content warning. But it was too late. Lilian’s face twisted and distorted in my fading vision. She transformed from the little girl who used to follow me around asking for candy, into this stranger, crazed by her idea of “LGBTQ+ love.” Mom and Dad always said, “You’re the older sister, you have to let your sister have her way” – so I gave up my college tuition, gave up internship opportunities, gave up the share of affection that should have been mine. And this was what I got in return. Finally, someone in the comments recognized the address. I heard sirens wailing in the distance. Kevin panicked: “Lilian, the police…” “Don’t be scared!” My sister gripped his hand. “Our love will be remembered by history! You bitch, remember this – you forced our hand!” She kissed Kevin in front of the camera, my blood staining her lips. The sirens grew louder, but I couldn’t hear them anymore. One last thought, like a sharpened steel spike, jabbed into my mind: If there’s a next life, Lilian, I will personally send you to the hell you crave. 2 The day after Lilian moved in with Kevin and Ryan, I did three things. First, I liquidated my assets. Five years in Silicon Valley, after-tax savings of two hundred eighty-seven thousand dollars. The thought of buying a house, which I had in my previous life, was completely extinguished. I found a lawyer specializing in high-net-worth clients and established an irrevocable trust fund, removing Lilian’s name from all beneficiary lists. Second, I forged documents. Not fraud charges, that was too crude. I had my lawyer draft a Temporary Restraining Order for Domestic Violence, citing Lilian’s repeated threats to “sabotage my career and social standing, aiming to coerce me into supporting her financially.” The document date was left blank, and the signature line empty. Third, I contacted Simon Smith. His private assistant replied to my encrypted email: “Mr. Smith looks forward to meeting you tomorrow morning at ten AM at the Fairmont Hotel.” I finished these tasks by seven AM on Thursday. I changed into a Theory suit and drove to work. “Anna, did you check Slack?” Jackie slid her chair over the moment I sat down. She was referring to the “No-Burnout” channel – our team’s anonymous venting space. I shook my head, opening my phone. 99+ unread messages. At the top was an encrypted link from Mark, with just one word: WTF. I clicked it. It required two-factor authentication. The page loaded for five seconds, then a photo popped up. A hotel suite in San Francisco. On the carpet, a dozen naked male bodies were tangled together, like failed exhibits of modern art. Faces were blurred, but body details were sickeningly clear. I was about to close it when my gaze snagged on the bottom right. A man’s arm rested on the sofa armrest, a tiger head tattoo, with the letters “KR” – Kevin and Ryan’s initials – inked below it. The tattoo’s position, size, and color were identical to the one I last saw before I died. My heart slammed against my ribs. I clenched my phone, my knuckles white. “Scared you, didn’t it?” Jackie whispered. “Mark said it blew up on some anonymous forum he follows last night. They say it was a private party in the Bay Area’s queer community, someone secretly recorded and sold it.” “Which hotel?” “The St. Regis, the one in Union Square.” She leaned closer. “Heard some married guys were there, and a fitness instructor who sells videos on OnlyFans…” I took a screenshot, zoomed in. There was a small mole next to the tiger head tattoo, in the exact same spot. Heh, Kevin. The man who stabbed me in the stomach in my previous life was now entangled with a dozen men on camera in this one. “Did the police get involved?” I asked, my voice surprisingly calm. “The forum admin deleted the post, but it’s already spread,” Jackie sniffed. “What do these people even think they’re doing? Aren’t they afraid of getting sick?” I closed the page and opened the tracking software on my computer. This was an internal company tool, used to analyze user behavior data – theoretically strictly forbidden for private use. But rules were made for those who followed them. I typed in keywords: Kevin, fitness instructor, San Francisco, tiger head tattoo. Three seconds later, the system returned 17 matches. I filtered out the 3 most likely accounts and started scraping data. By ten AM, I had: 1. Kevin’s OnlyFans backend data: Monthly income $2,800, 57% from married male users. 2. His Grindr login records: Login locations over the past three months included the St. Regis Hotel, Ryan’s apartment, and the address Lilian was currently staying at. 3. Bank statements: Balance $1,207.33, with a $500 expense last week noted as “party ticket.” Ryan’s data was even more interesting. Credit score 582, four credit cards maxed out, and a recent $2,000 transaction – paid to “Bay Area LGBTQ+ Family Legal Consulting,” service item: surrogacy agreement drafting. They’d even found a lawyer. I saved all data to an encrypted hard drive, cleared my browsing history. My phone vibrated then. Lilian sent an ultrasound photo – a blank template found online. Caption: “Anna, I’ve decided, I’m getting the implant next month. Kevin said he’ll take care of me forever.” I replied: “So proud of you.” Then I opened Reddit, registered a new account, username: Truth_Teller_10
My first post was on r/sanfrancisco, title: “Beware of Bay Area LGBTQ+ Surrogacy Scam.” The content was just two sentences: “A gay couple is inducing young women to act as free surrogates. One of the men is involved in multi-person sex parties, with STD transmission risks. More details to follow.” I didn’t post evidence, didn’t mention names, just planted a seed. Three minutes after the post was published, there was one reply: “Do you have specific info? Can contact local LGBTQ+ organizations.” I closed the page. The seed was planted. Now I had to wait for it to sprout, wait for Lilian to get pregnant, wait for Kevin and Ryan to feel they had won. Wait for them to climb the highest ladder. Then I’d kick it out from under them. A calendar reminder popped up in the bottom right corner of my computer screen: “Tomorrow 10:00 AM, Fairmont Hotel, Simon Smith.” I dismissed the reminder and looked out the window. The San Francisco sky was a blinding blue. Last life, you made me bleed to death. This life, I’ll watch you rot away, little by little, in the sunlight. 3 Friday evening at seven, I unlocked my apartment door with my key. Lilian was sitting on my couch. She wore one of Kevin’s old T-shirts, a laptop resting on her lap, the screen displaying a pink-background baby name website. “Anna, transfer twenty thousand dollars to me,” she said without looking up. “Urgent.” I put down my briefcase, deliberately making my tone sound confused: “Didn’t Kevin and Ryan prepare a surrogacy fund for you? Legal surrogacy in California averages a hundred and fifty thousand, they should at least cover medical expenses.” Lilian snapped her head up, her eyes like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. “Our relationship can’t be measured in money! I’m protecting true love, not selling my womb!” “What about your tuition for next semester?” I walked towards the kitchen, pulling sparkling water from the fridge. “San Jose State University, I remember you still have three classes to retake.” “Being pregnant doesn’t affect going to school,” she waved her phone, the screen showing a screenshot of a class schedule. “I’ve arranged everything. Classes in the morning, prenatal education in the afternoon. Kevin says kids with highly educated moms are smarter.” I twisted the cap off the bottle, the carbonation hissing. In my last life, this logic would have made me laugh in anger. This life, I just felt pathetic – she didn’t even realize she was being conned, still helping the fraudsters count their money. “I can’t get twenty thousand,” I said, lying without batting an eye. “The trust fund money is frozen, and this quarter’s company bonus hasn’t been paid yet.” Lilian’s expression froze. “What do you mean? Mom and Dad get half your salary every month, you think I don’t know you have savings?” “That’s pre-tax,” I continued my lie smoothly. “After tax and 401k deductions, I take home less than four thousand a month. Rent is twenty-five hundred, car loan six hundred, the rest barely covers food.” She stared at me for ten seconds, then suddenly laughed. “Fine, then transfer two thousand first. Kevin’s gym commission comes next month, I’ll pay you back then.” I opened Venmo, entered the amount, and wrote “loan” in the memo. When the transfer successful notification sounded, Lilian’s expression relaxed. “Smart girl,” she said, closing her laptop and standing up. “I’m leaving. Implant surgery next week, don’t bother me unless it’s important.” “Do you need me to drive you to the clinic?” “No,” she was already at the door. “Ryan will go with me. He said… this is the first step of their love’s crystallization.” The door closed. I stood in the hallway for two minutes, then picked up my phone and called a cleaning service: “Tomorrow morning at ten, a deep clean of the entire apartment. Sofa, bed sheets, all textiles directly disposed of, expedited service.” Hanging up, I opened my laptop. On the screen was the resignation email I’d written last night – Silicon Valley tech company data security analyst, annual salary $160,000, 401k account balance $87,000. I clicked send. Then I logged into the company server for the last time. My access would expire tomorrow morning at nine; I had fourteen hours. Search keywords: Kevin, St. Regis Hotel, party video. The system brought up seven encrypted files, all sensitive content intercepted by the IT department last night. I downloaded all of them, using my own script to wipe the access records. The third file was the complete video. Twenty-three minutes, high definition, uncensored. I dragged the progress bar, stopping at eighteen minutes and forty-seven seconds – Kevin’s face flashed across the screen, blurry but identifiable. And the tiger head on his arm. I clipped a five-second segment, enhanced its clarity with an algorithm, then opened the three anonymous accounts I’d registered yesterday: Reddit: r/BayArea, title “Union Square Hotel Multi-Person Party Leak, Participants Allegedly Local Fitness Instructor.” I posted only the screenshot, uncensored. TikTok burner account: Uploaded the edited three-second video, face blurred but tattoo clear, caption “Bay Area queer community this wild? #HealthyLiving.” Local Chinese forum: Posted in Google-translated Chinese, title “Warning! Tattooed Man Scamming Girls into Surrogacy,” body text only “DM for details.” It was 9:17 PM when I finished posting. I closed my laptop and packed a suitcase. Not many important things: encrypted hard drive, passport, trust documents, and the envelope Simon Smith’s assistant sent this morning – inside was a photo of my biological mother, Victoria Smith, taken in 1989 in front of the Golden Gate Bridge, seven months pregnant. I touched the woman’s face in the photo. We looked so much alike. At ten sharp, I drove to the Fairmont Hotel. The short-term rental apartment near my former company was forty-two hundred a month, first and last month’s rent upfront. The front desk clerk, a Latina girl, looked at my ID: “Ms. Smith? Your suite is on the top floor.” I swiped my card and entered. Thirty-eighth floor, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the entire San Francisco night view. I tossed my suitcase in the corner and opened my phone. The Reddit post already had over two hundred comments, the TikTok video had over five thousand views, and someone in the Chinese forum asked: “Is the tattooed guy from that gym near Union Square?” Not enough. I logged into a fourth account and sent an email to the San Francisco Chronicle’s anonymous tip line: “Exclusive tip: Bay Area fitness instructor using OnlyFans income to pay for surrogacy, luring underage fans into multi-person sex parties, evidence attached. His current girlfriend is a San Jose State University dropout, currently planning illegal surrogacy.” Attached were screenshots of Kevin’s bank statements and Lilian’s text message: “Implant surgery next month.” All information was true, all accusations were traceable. I just put them all together. Sent at 11:03 PM. I put down my phone and went into the bathroom for a shower. Hot water streamed over my skin. I closed my eyes, Lilian’s image from my past life, holding her phone and live streaming my death, vivid in my mind. She’d said, “This is sacrificing for love.” Now it’s your turn, sister. Let’s see how much your love is worth.
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