My wife’s beloved, the man she kept in her heart, pushed me from the tenth floor.
I was on the brink of death and desperately needed a large amount of blood to survive.
But my wife, a lawyer and the only person with the same rare panda blood type as me, was at the police station defending him.
When my sister called to beg her to come back and donate blood to save me, she looked disgusted.
“If he’s going to die, then let him hurry up and die. A selfish, vicious bastard like him doesn’t deserve to live.”
She thought I was framing the man she loved and that the whole thing was a setup of my own making.
Even at the end, as she looked at my corpse, she sneered.
“Would you stop pretending? You’re just trying to get my attention, aren’t you?”
