I refused to accept the outcome. Fueled by frustration and disbelief, I dismissed my colleagues and locked myself in the laboratory for another grueling week, determined to push the research and development process forward once more. Day and night blurred as I immersed myself in the data, calculations, and simulations, clinging to the hope that I could regain the team’s trust through undeniable results.
But when I finally emerged from the lab, exhausted yet hopeful, I was met with yet another crushing blow—Luther had already published the new data I had spent the past week refining. Once again, he had beaten me to the punch.
My colleagues saw this and quickly drew their own conclusions. Whispers spread like wildfire—people believed I was only hungry for fame, exploiting my position as team leader to steal the achievements of my subordinates. To them, I was a fraud cloaked in authority, using my family’s influence to take credit for others’ hard work.
The injustice boiled in my veins. Fueled by anger and desperation, I worked overtime, barely resting, pouring every ounce of effort into developing an intelligent robot chip. This chip wasn’t just functional—it was revolutionary. It could assist the elderly with daily tasks, accompany them to medical appointments, and perform household chores with uncanny precision. It was 90% close to human capability, a breakthrough that could reshape the industry.
But just as I was preparing to unveil it, Luther held a press conference. With an expression of feigned sorrow, he claimed that he had no choice but to go public ahead of time—otherwise, he said, I would have stolen his results.
He spoke with emotional conviction, saying I had repeatedly asked for his data and hinted at taking his work. He then painted himself as a misunderstood genius who needed only half a day of inspiration to accomplish what others couldn’t in weeks.
The public was enraged. Accusations rained down like arrows, branding me an academic fraud, a disgrace to the scientific community. Netizens took it a step further, accusing my parents of sponsoring the R&D project solely to reap the rewards. Our family’s smart home tech company was immediately thrust into the spotlight—for all the wrong reasons.
Social media exploded:
“Crack down on fake companies! Clean up the scientific community!”
“Purge parasites in technology and give science a clean sky!”
Luther walked away unscathed, hailed as the rightful patent holder and the shining star of intelligent R&D. Companies lined up to partner with him, eager to manufacture intelligent robots born from my work.
In desperation, my parents scoured evidence to clear my name. But fate dealt its cruelest hand: on the way to submit the findings, they were struck by a speeding, out-of-control truck. We were all inside.
We didn’t survive. Our bodies were crushed beyond recognition.
Yet somehow, fate gave me another chance.
I was reborn—returned to the very moment before it all began.
This time, I swore, I would uncover the truth and expose lies. Luther would not succeed again.
Back in the lab, I heard my colleagues muttering excitedly yet skeptically.
“Luther is truly a genius? He really developed this himself?”
“Our team leader worked for a whole week, and he did it in just half a day? That last section of the data is uncanny…”
My girlfriend and assistant snatched the R&D documents from my hands, glanced at them, and immediately showered Luther with praise.
“Luther, you’re incredible. I always knew you had talent for these things, but to complete such complex data in just half a day? That’s beyond impressive!”
The surrounding staff erupted in chatter. Their eyes widened in astonishment. Those who were once skeptical began to look at me with doubt and suspicion.
Their whispers stung:
“Why are we even working overtime to verify anything? Luther’s results already match what we were aiming for.”
“Let’s be honest, didn’t he already peek at the data? Doesn’t take a genius to figure it out now.”
The looks they gave me were laced with meaning, and my heart turned cold.
In my past life, they believed him without question. They began disregarding my instructions, ignoring my deadlines. Instead, they followed Luther out to parties, dinners, and late-night hangouts.
He had boasted then too—“I just need a flash of inspiration. Give me two hours, and I’ll write you a whole new dataset. Guaranteed.”
This time, I swallowed my anger. I wouldn't argue. I wouldn't fight publicly.
Instead, I was going to do things differently. This time, I’d keep my cards close, my data tighter, and my trust minimal.
As the research entered its second phase, I allowed no one into the lab except one person—my most trusted friend and assistant: Jason Miller.
The fight wasn’t over. It had only just begun.
