My boyfriend, Tony, dragged me to the campus blood drive run by the Student Volunteer Coalition. I was chronically anemic—nowhere near the safety threshold to donate—but when I tried to pull back, he just scoffed. “Why did you even join the SVC if you don’t have a bone of civic duty in your body, Naomi?” He coaxed and guilted me onto that bloodmobile. But I didn’t know then—not until I was already lying on a sterile hospital bed—that my blood wasn’t destined for some anonymous bank. It was being sent directly to a private lab to be matched with the bone marrow of our campus darling, Susanna Hastings. Tony forged my signature, shoved me into the extraction room, and watched as they took what wasn’t theirs. In the end, I got a severe infection, went into septic shock, and died alone in the ICU. When I open my eyes again, the harsh fluorescent lights of an observation ward blind me. A nurse walks in, clipboard in hand. “Naomi Miller? Get ready. We’re heading up to Hematology for your final matching confirmation.” My boyfriend, Tony Henderson, is sitting by the bedside, his hand reaching out to stroke my hair with that practiced, sickening tenderness. “Don’t worry, babe. It’s just a formality.” I stare up at him, my heart hammering against my ribs, and dial 911. 1 The second the line connects, Tony’s gentle smile freezes. I hold his gaze, my voice steady and clear as I speak to the dispatcher. “Hello. My name is Naomi Miller. I’m a freshman at Coastal State University.” “I have reason to believe that someone used a campus blood drive to illegally harvest my blood sample for a bone marrow match without my consent. Now, they are trying to force me into further testing.” “I am chronically anemic. I do not consent to any matching, harvesting, or donation.” “Please send officers. I’m in the observation wing of the Hematology Department at Valley Memorial Hospital.” Tony snaps out of his trance, lunging forward. “Naomi, have you lost your mind?” He reaches out, clawing at my phone. I don’t shrink back. I scream at the top of my lungs: “Nurse! He’s trying to take my phone! Someone call security!” The entire hallway goes dead silent. Two nurses poke their heads into the room, and a patient’s relative in the next bay stands up to get a better look. Tony’s hand freezes mid-air, his face twisting through a dozen ugly shades of panic before he quickly plasters on his signature look of gentle, long-suffering patience. “She’s just stressed,” he says, looking at the onlookers with a helpless shrug. “It’s a misunderstanding. We’re classmates—well, we’re dating. I just brought her in for a routine volunteer checkup.” I let out a cold laugh. “A volunteer checkup that requires HLA high-resolution typing?” The nurse blinks, looking confused. Tony’s eyes darken. “Naomi, stop throwing around medical jargon you don’t understand.” I reach under my pillow and pull out the clipboard clipped to the foot of my bed. In my past life, I hadn’t even glanced at it before he stuffed it into my bag. This time, I unfold it, holding it up for everyone to see. Under the “Requested Procedures” column, the words scream in black ink: “HLA Recipient Cross-match, Donor Confirmation, Complete Blood Count.” I point my finger directly at the word “Recipient”. “Who is the recipient, Tony?” Tony squeezes his eyes shut, exhaling slowly as if trying to tolerate an unreasonable child. “Susanna’s condition is critical, Naomi. You’re just doing a confirmation. Nobody is making you donate right this second. Is saving a life really worth calling the cops?” “When did I consent to being screened in the first place?” I ask him. He doesn’t answer. “When did I sign the informed consent form for bone marrow donation?” Still silence. “And why does the system show my anemia profile as perfectly normal?” Tony’s expression turns utterly venomous. Sensing the shift in the room, the nurse immediately turns on her heel to fetch the charge nurse. I clutch my phone, my voice unwavering. “I want my medical records, blood draw logs, security footage, and signature files flagged and sealed immediately,” I announce to the room. “No one is taking me anywhere without my explicit, in-person consent.” Tony steps closer, dropping his voice to a menacing whisper. “Naomi, don’t blow this out of proportion. Susanna Hastings is lying in a ward upstairs, fighting for her life.” I look up at him. “And?” “Because she wants to live, I’m obligated to hand over my blood, my marrow, my actual life?” His brow furrows in genuine frustration. “How can you be so dramatic? No one is trying to kill you.” In my last life, I believed him. And it cost me my life. I don’t have the energy to appeal to his conscience anymore. Conscience is a luxury Tony traded away a long time ago to pave his career path. Ten minutes later, hospital security arrives. Twenty minutes after that, Officer Darren from the local precinct walks in with his partner. Tony is finally sweating. But his first instinct isn’t to explain—it’s to blame me. “Officer, she’s emotionally unstable,” Tony says, turning to Officer Darren. “We were just registering for a charity match. She suddenly panicked and started making wild accusations against the hospital.” Officer Darren looks at me. “Are you the caller?” I nod, unlocking my phone and pulling up the voice recorder app. I play it. From the moment the nurse walked in saying “final matching confirmation” to Tony whispering “Susanna is fighting for her life,” every single syllable is laid bare. Tony’s lips drain of color. I bring up my medical history, my freshman physical, and the photo I took of the bloodmobile schedule. “I don’t meet the medical criteria for blood donation. But during the drive, the Student Volunteer Coalition still drew an extra vial of my blood, claiming it was for a ‘volunteer health database.’ I never signed a registry. I have no idea how my sample ended up in a matching lab.” Officer Darren’s face hardens. He asks the staff to call the department head. Tony tries to speak, but I cut him off. “Officer, I want a forensic handwriting analysis on any consent form they claim to have. If my signature is on there, it’s forged.” Before the words can settle, a weak, trembling voice drifts in from the open doorway. “Naomi… why are you doing this to Tony?” I turn my head. Susanna Hastings is sitting in a wheelchair, draped in an oversized hospital gown. Her face is so pale it’s almost translucent, her eyes brimming with tears. “I just want to live.” 2 The moment Susanna appears, the atmosphere in the hallway shifts. She’s the golden girl of Coastal State—the face of our university’s promotional videos, the straight-A student, the star of every gala. Since her diagnosis, the university’s social media pages have posted endless pleas for her: “Save Our Golden Girl.” Thousands of dollars have poured into her GoFundMe. Even I had donated fifty dollars in my past life, genuinely wishing for her recovery. That was before she used my body to buy herself a second chance. Susanna grips the armrests of her wheelchair, tears spilling over her lashes. “Naomi, I know you’re scared. But it’s just a test. No one is forcing you to donate right now.” Tony immediately drops to his knees beside her, adjusting the blanket over her legs. It’s a scene I know all too well: the frail beauty, the devoted boyfriend, and me—the cold-hearted, selfish villain refusing to help. That was exactly how they painted me in my past life, turning the world against me. I don’t even look at Susanna. I keep my eyes on Officer Darren. “I refuse to discuss my medical information in front of people who have nothing to do with my care.” Susanna’s sobbing hitches. Tony looks up, his eyes flashing with rage. “She isn’t an unrelated party! She’s the recipient!” I let out a soft laugh. “So you admit it?” His face pales. Officer Darren immediately steps in. “You already knew the donor-recipient match? Who disclosed that information? Did the donor sign an authorization for this match?” Tony opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Susanna lowers her head, her voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know the procedures… I just heard from the doctor that there was hope.” Just then, a middle-aged man in a white lab coat rushes down the hall. His badge reads: “Dr. Barlow, Chief of Hematology.” In my last life, he was the one who altered my hemoglobin levels in the system. He was the one who breezed into my room before the harvest and said, “You’re young and healthy, kid. A little bone marrow draw won’t hurt. You’ll bounce right back.” Dr. Barlow frowns the second he steps inside. “Why are the police here? This is a routine medical consultation.” I look him dead in the eye. “Dr. Barlow, when did I authorize your department to run an HLA test on my blood?” He doesn’t look at me, keeping his tone icy and professional. “You registered with the SVC donor database. Screening is part of the standard protocol.” “Show me the registration,” I say, holding out my hand. “Show me my signature.” He hesitates for a fraction of a second. “The documents are filed in our system.” “Then pull them up. Right now.” The hospital’s chief administrator arrives shortly after. Officer Darren requests that all related physical charts, system logs, and signed authorizations be impounded. Dr. Barlow’s expression sours. “Officer, these are private medical files. We can’t just hand them over.” “The patient is the one requesting her own records,” Officer Darren replies calmly. “She has every legal right to verify her own signature.” While we wait for the physical archives to be pulled, a nurse begins to wheel Susanna back to her room. Suddenly, Susanna reaches out and snatches the hem of my shirt. “Naomi, please… I’m running out of time,” she whimpers, her hand trembling. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just need a little bit of hope.” I look down at her pale fingers. She had held me just like this in my previous life. Right before I was wheeled into the harvest room, she lay on her gurney, crying, “I’ll never forget what you did for me.” And then I died. And she lived. I gently but firmly pry her fingers off my shirt. “Your hope cannot be bought with my life.” Her tears flow faster. Within minutes, my phone starts vibrating violently. The SVC group chat is blowing up. “Did Naomi Miller seriously call the cops after matching with Susanna?” “Susanna is literally dying. Calling the police is so toxic.” “She was happy to log volunteer hours for her resume, but the second she actually has to give back, she plays dead?” “Anemia is literally so common. Stop using it as an excuse.” Then, someone posts a cropped screenshot of my university freshman physical. My name is fully visible. My low hemoglobin level is circled in red, captioned: “She’s not even that sick. Drama queen.” I stare at the screen, my fingertips turning numb. The cyberbullying in my past life had been brutal, but seeing it play out again makes my stomach turn. They called me selfish. They said I was a parasite. They said Tony deserved so much better. And when I died, they simply said, “Well, her health was poor anyway. You can’t blame anyone.” This time, I don’t type a single word of explanation. I screen-record the chat. I take screenshots. I save the names, the timestamps, the member list, and the forward history. Then I call Dean Collins, the faculty advisor for the Student Volunteer Coalition. “Dean Collins, my private medical records have just been leaked online by members of the coalition. Furthermore, I have reason to believe the campus blood drive was used to illegally harvest student blood samples.” There is a long pause on the other end. “Naomi, where are you right now?” “Valley Memorial Hospital.” “Stay put. I’m on my way.” As soon as I hang up, Tony steps into the doorway. The tender boyfriend act is entirely gone. “Naomi, do you really have to drag everyone down with you?” I look at him. “You’re the ones who dragged me onto a harvest table first.” His eyes turn cold and menacing. “If Susanna misses her transplant window because of you, you’ll regret this for the rest of your life.” I hold his gaze. “I’ve already regretted it for a lifetime.” He doesn’t understand what I mean. But I do. And the real battle hasn’t even begun. 3 By afternoon, the university forum is in a complete frenzy. The headlines are vile: “Donor Backs Out Last Minute, Calls Cops: Susanna Hastings Left to Die?” “Freshman Uses Volunteer Hours for Resume, Cowards Out When Actually Needed.” “It’s Just a Bone Marrow Donation. Does It Ever Actually Kill Anyone?” The comment section is a toxic wasteland. “Her boyfriend literally begged her. She’s so cold-blooded.” “Susanna is the pride of our school. If she dies, how will this girl sleep at night?” “I’m anemic and I donate blood all the time. Stop whining.” “Can we expose her face? People like this shouldn’t be allowed in our community.” My roommate, Becca, sends me a text. She’s usually timid, always trying to keep the peace. “Naomi, maybe you should just talk to Tony? Donating bone marrow is a good thing. Involving the police is going to ruin your reputation.” I stare at her message for a long time before replying: “If someone stole your blood, tested it without your knowledge, and then forged your signature to force you into surgery, would you still think it’s a “good thing”?” Becca doesn’t reply for several minutes. Finally, she writes back: “But Susanna is just so sweet. It’s so sad.” I close the chat. People always confuse sympathy with entitlement. Being pitiful isn’t a free pass, and it certainly doesn’t give anyone the right to harvest my organs. By evening, Dean Collins arrives at the hospital. Her face grows grimmer with every document I show her. “The university never approved any bone marrow screening programs for the blood drive,” she says. “Then who had access to the student roster and our ID copies?” I ask. Dean Collins hesitates. “The club president. Tony Henderson.” She immediately contacts the university’s legal counsel. Meanwhile, Officer Darren and his team secure the registration logs from the bloodmobile, the blood sample transit logs, and the hospital’s internal database history. Dr. Barlow keeps insisting it’s all a misunderstanding. “The student probably signed a stack of volunteer paperwork and forgot. Screening is a routine part of these drives. We haven’t performed any invasive procedures.” I listen to his excuses, feeling completely numb. This was exactly what they did last time. Step by step, they claimed it was “just a formality” until I was trapped in the ICU, and even then, they blamed my “unfortunate, weak constitution.” At nine o’clock, the head nurse comes by to check on me. “No one is authorized to transfer you or perform any tests without your physical, written consent. Don’t worry.” I nod. But I don’t feel safe. In my past life, they took me in the middle of the night. Not through the front lobby, but through the back exit. The transport vehicle didn’t even belong to the hospital; it was a private van belonging to some sketchy “wellness center.” Tony had told me then, “Valley Memorial is too crowded. We’re going to a partner clinic for a quick checkup. We’ll be right back.” I had been so blind, so trusting. By the time I realized something was wrong, they had confiscated my phone. Thinking of this, I open my location sharing and send it to Officer Darren and Dean Collins. Then I walk to the nurse’s station. “If anyone tries to transfer me, order a test, or check me out, please verify it with me directly. It only counts if I say yes on camera.” The head nurse looks at me with a soft, sympathetic gaze. “Understood, sweetie.” By ten-thirty, the ward grows quiet. Tony has been missing all afternoon, but I know he won’t let this go. Sure enough, at 11:07 PM, my door creaks open. A man wearing a blue transport uniform walks in. His badge reads “Blood Center Logistics Agent”. He holds a clipboard. “Naomi Miller? We have a transfer order for your follow-up screening.” I stare at his face, and the blood in my veins turns to ice. It’s him. The exact same transport driver from my past life. The one who had sneered at my tears and told me, “You’re a lucky girl. You get to save a life and get paid for it.” I lower my eyes, pretending to be frightened. “Now? Where’s my boyfriend?” The driver says, “He’s waiting for you downstairs.” Just as he says it, Tony steps into the room from behind him. He’s wearing a crumpled white shirt, looking exhausted, like a good guy who’s been driven to his wit’s end by a difficult girlfriend. “Naomi, please stop making a scene,” Tony says softly. “Let’s just finish the confirmation test, and this will all be over.” I shrink back into the mattress. “I’m not going.” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “The Hastings family is going to compensate you. Fifty thousand dollars, plus an internship at their firm. You’ve been stressed about paying tuition, Naomi. This solves everything.” I look at him, my heart turning to stone. So that was my price. “And if I still say no?” Tony’s expression hardens, the gentle facade completely slipping. “You already signed the consent form.” He pulls a few sheets of paper from a folder. “Naomi, don’t make me make this ugly.” I look at the signature at the bottom of the page. The messy, curved letters look remarkably like my handwriting. But they aren’t mine. “Let me see that,” I say, reaching out. Thinking I’ve finally capitulated, Tony hands the papers over. The moment they touch my fingers, I slam my hand down on the emergency call button. Footsteps immediately start echoing down the hall. The transport driver’s face pales, and he spins around to bolt. Tony lunges forward, grabbing my wrist in a vice grip. “Naomi!” But before he can pull me, the door is flung wide open. “Let go of her!” a cold voice barks.
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