My Best Friend Gave the Wrong Injection and Blamed Me, While My Younger Brother’s Childhood Friend Made Me Take the Fall

During the night shift, my best friend said her stomach hurt and begged me to give a patient an injection for her. I flatly refused, then watched as a woman eight months pregnant, about to give birth, died from the wrong injection, taking her baby with her. In my previous life, just after I gave the injection, the pregnant woman's husband rushed into the nurses' station and broke my nose with a punch. “It was you! You gave her the wrong injection and killed my wife and son!” But I had clearly given her a nutritional shot intended to support her pregnancy. It couldn't possibly have killed her. As I drifted in and out of consciousness, another nurse called the police for me. I thought help had finally arrived, but my younger brother, a police officer, immediately pinned me to the floor. “Confess, Sis. Your fingerprints are on the syringe.” My childhood sweetheart, who worked as a forensic pathologist, produced the autopsy report. “The pregnant woman's time of death matches the time you gave her the injection. You're the murderer!” I was framed, and there was no one I could turn to for help. In the end, the pregnant woman's husband stabbed me thirty-eight times, killing me. Until the moment I died, I couldn't understand it. Why had my childhood sweetheart and younger brother, who had always cared for me, framed me as a murderer? When I woke up again, I was back at the moment my best friend had asked me to give the injection.