In my past life, my wife falsely accused me of being a serial killer. No matter how desperately I tried, I could never prove my innocence.
The victims’ families took revenge on my loved ones using the same brutal methods, some were dismembered, others left without a whole body to bury. And yet, from my prison cell, I was powerless to stop it.
When I opened my eyes again, I had returned to the very day my wife went to the police station to file her report.
After warning them that someone would die that day, I tried to investigate the truth behind her frame-up, only to discover that she had vanished without a trace.
By coincidence, on my way home, I came across a bank that had just been robbed. A sudden idea struck me.
“Yes, I volunteer to take the place of that pregnant woman as a hostage.”
——
The negotiating officer froze for a few seconds.
“You know the criminals inside have homemade guns? This could really kill someone!”
His eyes flashed with urgency, but more than that, with worry. Worry that I didn’t understand the danger, worry that I would back out once I realized the truth.
I simply shrugged, indifferent.
“Whatever. If I die, just give me a Good Citizen Award.”
I had already died once, a death so unjust it suffocated me. This time, I wasn’t craving a heroic end.
All I wanted was for them not to tie me to that serial killer, for my family not to suffer more undeserved pain. That alone would be enough.
“Alright, we’ll make the most of this hostage exchange opportunity. Please, try not to be too nervous!”
The negotiator instructed me earnestly before strapping me into a bulletproof vest.
Wearing one for the first time felt oddly novel, I almost thought I was cosplaying as a soldier.
The police were already in the middle of negotiations with the bank robbers inside. I waited at the back, ready for the exchange.
“No way! Women should be exchanged by women!”
“This guy’s obviously your undercover cop!”
The robbers’ voices echoed from within.
I rolled my eyes inwardly. My skinny arms and legs? How could anyone mistake me for a trained officer?
“Cut the crap. Watch this!”
I bypassed the officers and strode straight into the center of the area. Then, one by one, I began stripping off my clothes.
Jacket. Bulletproof vest. Wool sweater. Pants. Socks. Heavy leather boots.
Until I stood there completely bare, save for a pair of boxer shorts.
“Guys, need me to take more off?” I asked, holding out my hands so the cops could cuff me again.
The move stunned not only the robbers, but even the police themselves.
“A pregnant woman about to give birth is already in a desperate situation. Why do you think she left the hospital and came to the bank instead?
“Isn’t it because no one was there to take care of her? She’s already suffered enough, pushing through for the sake of her child. And now you refuse to exchange hostages? Are you really trying to kill her?”
I stepped two paces closer, but the robber didn’t react at all.
Dressed like this, who could possibly suspect anything strange?
“I’ve got nothing on me, handcuffs locked tight. If I were undercover, you’d be celebrating. You’re holding cops hostage; they’d be extra cautious with me!”
I kept pleading with the robber.
Many people outside were sweating bullets at that moment. If I couldn’t pull off the hostage swap like this, who else could?
Finally, after a tense few minutes, the hostage-taker spoke up.
“Walk in here with your hands up. No tricks!”
Hearing those words, I felt an enormous weight lift off my shoulders. I almost wanted to rush straight inside.
In just a few hours, it would be the very time when the “me” from my past life committed the crime. After that, my beloved wife, Seraphina Duvall, would walk into the police station to file her false report.
The police would find the tools used in the murders at my home, bearing my DNA. Witnesses would even swear they had seen me near the crime scene.
