Framed for the Exam Scandal, I Lost Everything

A week before the college entrance examination, I was hospitalized with a raging fever brought on by extreme stress.

But on the day of the exam, just as I lay weak and pale in my hospital bed, a group of armed officers barged into the ward and arrested me—accusing me of stealing the national test papers.

Because of the leak, the entire college entrance examination was suspended. Chaos followed. Thousands of students who had prepared for years saw their futures crumble in an instant—and I became their scapegoat.

Hatred flooded in from all directions.

Strangers on the internet dug up my home address. My classmates turned on me. Even my parents hesitated, uncertain whether to believe me.

Despite witness statements from nurses and my family, the police insisted I could’ve left the hospital undetected to commit the crime. The so-called "evidence" they had—grainy footage, a vague figure, convenient timestamps—was deemed ironclad.

I was convicted.

My life fell apart.

Protesters surrounded our home. Furious candidates, blinded by resentment, hurled rocks and filth through our windows. My house was destroyed, my name dragged through the mud. In the chaos, my parents were beaten to death by the violent mob. Not long after, the house was set ablaze.

And when I was finally released from prison years later, before I could even take a breath of freedom, I was stabbed to death in broad daylight by a group of frenzied exam-takers seeking vengeance.

That was how I died—disgraced, abandoned, and broken.

But fate gave me one more chance.

When I opened my eyes, I found myself back in the week before the exam. Right before everything went wrong.

This time, I wouldn’t wait for disaster to find me.

To guarantee a solid alibi, I deliberately caused a disturbance and got myself detained in the local detention center for seven full days.

——

If I was locked up the entire time, no one could pin the test paper leak on me again. No flimsy theories. No accusations. No doubts.

I went over every detail from my past life, every mistake, every unanswered question. I still didn’t know who had framed me or how they had done it—but I was determined not to let history repeat itself.

When the exam day finally arrived, I waited in silence inside the detention center, confident that the worst was behind me.

Until the heavy footsteps came.

The steel door swung open.

Seven or eight armed officers filed in, their eyes hard and hostile. My stomach turned cold.

"There she is," said the man in front, pointing at me. It was Detective Harris—the same officer who had arrested me in the hospital in my previous life.

Before I could speak, they rushed forward and slapped the cuffs on my wrists.

“Wait—what’s going on?” I shouted. “I’m still in detention! I’m not even supposed to be released until tomorrow!”

No one answered.

They dragged me out of the cell.

And just like that, my nightmare began all over again.