Cold raindrops hammered against the windows of New York Presbyterian Hospital, their sound as piercing as shattered glass.

The smell of disinfectant and death permeated the ward. Evelyn Anderson had grown accustomed to it. This odor served as a grim soundtrack, constantly reminding her that cancer cells were mercilessly expanding through her lungs, stealing every precious inch of breathing space.


She had wasted away to little more than a skeleton. Her once-proud golden-brown hair had thinned to wispy strands after multiple rounds of chemotherapy, carelessly gathered at the nape of her neck. Her skin had taken on a waxy yellow pallor, stretched tight over her cheekbones, making her look like an ancient specimen awaiting placement in some museum's display cabinet.

The monitor at her bedside beeped rhythmically, tirelessly—that electronic pulse her only fragile tether to the world of the living.

Her husband, Mark Thorne, had just left. As usual, he wore an impeccably tailored Armani suit, his handsome face displaying just the right amount of practiced concern and fatigue. He'd tucked her in, planted a cold kiss on her forehead, and murmured something about an urgent acquisition case before promising to return that evening.


"Rest well, my love." His parting words hung in the air, hollow as a stage whisper.

Evelyn had once believed his love was the only light in the darkest tunnel of her life—her sole comfort against the encroaching darkness of death and suffering.


But today, she needed to go home. There was an important legal document to retrieve—the original trust fund paperwork her parents had left her. She wanted to have it re-notarized before she died, ensuring it would benefit a charity rather than falling into opportunistic hands. She dismissed her nurse, called a car service herself, and planned a quick trip there and back.

When she unlocked the apartment door with her spare key, women's stilettos and men's Italian loafers lay scattered across the entrance hall. An icy premonition gripped her heart. From deeper within came the unmistakable sounds of suppressed moans and nauseating intimate laughter—voices she knew all too well. One belonged to Mark. The other to Chloe Jennings—her supposed best friend.

Evelyn's blood turned to ice in her veins. Bracing herself against the wall, she inched toward the partially open bedroom door, each step feeling like she was walking barefoot across broken glass.

"Darling, are you sure that dying wretch is finally on her way out?" Chloe's voice dripped with coquettish impatience through the crack in the door. "God, I can hardly wait to become the rightful mistress of this place."

"Almost there, baby. The doctor said a week, tops." Mark's voice was muffled, his face apparently buried in Chloe's neck, but the malicious excitement came through clearly. "Her insurance payout plus that massive trust fund her parents left her—it'll all be ours soon. Buy all the damn Hermès bags you want."

"And don't forget you promised we'd quit that stuffy job of yours and spend three months in the Maldives."

"Of course, my queen. The moment she flatlines, our real life begins."

Evelyn felt her soul violently cleave in two—one half frozen in the ice of brutal reality, the other burning in the hellfire of humiliation and betrayal.

She couldn't bear another word.

With trembling hands, Evelyn shoved the bedroom door wide open.

The scene before her was even more grotesque than she'd imagined. Mark and Chloe lay naked, entangled on the king-sized bed—the marriage bed she had carefully selected, still dressed with the Egyptian cotton sheets she'd splurged on for their anniversary.

"What a stellar performance." Evelyn's voice, rough as sandpaper from weeks of coughing, sliced through the room like a blade.

The lovers sprang apart like startled deer. Chloe shrieked, clutching the sheets to her chest, while Mark's expression shifted from shock to something far worse—annoyance at being interrupted.

"You… what the hell are you doing here?" he demanded, fumbling with his pants, his voice attempting authority but cracking with panic.

"I came back for my things," Evelyn laughed, the smile twisting her gaunt face into something ghastly. "And to see my devoted husband and loyal friend. Couldn't wait, could you? Couldn't even wait for my body to cool before claiming your inheritance?"

Chloe's face drained of all color, while the last veneer of decency fell from Mark's expression, replaced by the naked cruelty of a man with nothing left to hide. "Well, since you've seen everything, I guess the charade is over. Look at yourself, Evelyn—you're barely human anymore. Did you honestly think I'd still want you? If it weren't for your money, I wouldn't even be able to stomach looking at you!"

"Damn right!" Chloe chimed in, her voice shrill as she leapt from the bed, eyes blazing with self-righteous fury. "You're just a dying waste taking up space! Clinging to Mark, clinging to this beautiful home! You should have died months ago!"

A waste.

Their words pierced Evelyn's already shattered heart like poisoned daggers. Staring at the contemptible pair before her, she felt a wave of bone-deep exhaustion wash over her. Hatred still smoldered in her chest, but she lacked even the strength to defend herself.

She turned to leave, desperate to escape this tainted sanctuary.

But Mark moved with surprising speed to block her path, his eyes flashing with something cold and calculated. "Since you've stumbled in on us, I'm afraid you can't leave."

Warning bells clanged in Evelyn's mind. "What are you doing, Mark?"

"What am I doing?" Mark's lips curled into a sneer as he exchanged a meaningful glance with Chloe, who immediately moved to block Evelyn's other escape route. "I was planning to let nature take its course, but it seems you're determined to accelerate the timeline."

As he spoke, he advanced toward her step by menacing step. That handsome face she'd once adored now twisted into something demonic.

"You're insane! This is murder!" Evelyn's frail body retreated until her back pressed against the terrace's glass door.

"Murder? Hardly," Chloe's laughter cut like broken glass. "A terminal cancer patient jumps to her death after discovering her husband's affair—it's practically a cliché. Everyone will weep for poor Mark, the devoted husband who couldn't save his troubled wife from herself."

Evelyn's eyes widened with horror and disbelief. She never imagined they would actually dare to—

They gave her no chance to finish the thought.

Mark lunged forward, his athletic body slamming into her with brutal force. Evelyn's wasted frame stood no chance. The glass door behind her shattered on impact, and momentum carried her backward, half her body suddenly suspended in empty air, twenty-eight stories above the street.

Cold rain and howling wind instantly engulfed her. Her final sight was their faces—Mark and Chloe's expressions twisted with greed and savage determination.

Without hesitation, they reached out in unison and shoved her teetering body with brutal finality.

"Go to hell, Evelyn!"

These were the last words she heard in this world.

Her body plummeted, wind screaming past her ears. The sting of betrayal, the terror of death, and a volcanic hatred enveloped her soul like a suffocating shroud. Her consciousness surrendered to infinite darkness a heartbeat before impact.

……

Time ceased to exist—perhaps a century passed, perhaps only seconds.

Then a shaft of blinding sunlight pierced her eyelids with stubborn insistence.

Evelyn's consciousness was violently yanked back from the void. Her eyes flew open as she gasped for air like a drowning woman breaking the surface.

The sickening sensation of freefall still echoed through her body.

Above her was a familiar ceiling. The air carried no antiseptic tang—instead, she detected the delicate aroma of white tea, her favorite fragrance.

She… wasn't dead?

An absurd thought surfaced. She struggled upright and examined her body with disbelief. Gone was the withered skin and skeletal frame. Her arms were smooth and strong, her skin radiant with healthy color. She reached up to touch her head, fingers meeting thick, silky hair where sparse strands had been.

She flung aside the covers, leapt from bed, and staggered to the full-length mirror across the room.

The mirror reflected a young woman with flushed cheeks and a perfectly proportioned figure—a stranger who was somehow herself. This was Evelyn Anderson from three years ago, before cancer had ravaged her body and stolen her identity.

Her stunned gaze drifted to the electronic calendar on her nightstand.

The display showed a date in glowing digits: May 12, 2021.

The day before she and Mark were scheduled to register their marriage at city hall.

Exactly three years before her cancer diagnosis in that other life. Evelyn's hand flew to her mouth, her body trembling uncontrollably. Tears streamed down her face, but these weren't tears of despair or pain.

This was ecstasy. Rebirth. And a hatred so profound it could only come from clawing her way back from the deepest pit of hell. The bone-chilling memory of being pushed to her death had crystallized into something unbreakable at her core.

She, Evelyn Anderson, was back.

Back from hell with the memory of murder and a vow of vengeance.

Mark, Chloe… are you ready? The game has only just begun.