I died at the hands of my best friend’s fruit knife. She stabbed me twenty-five times, then produced proof that she was insane: a diagnosis of schizophrenia.
The criminal case was dropped. The law could do nothing to her.
My parents took the report on my grievous injuries and knelt, crying, at her door. All they got in return was, “She’s already crazy. Stop coming here to make trouble.”
I watched their despair and stared at the horrific wounds covering my body. My hatred was boundless, and I died with my eyes wide open.
But I didn’t die all the way.
With the agony of those twenty-five stab wounds and endless resentment, I was reborn again and again, transmigrating into the bodies of girls betrayed, abused, and even murdered by their “best friends.”
The top student pushed into a river and drowned, the heiress robbed of everything, the ordinary girl driven to suicide by rumors and online harassment...
Their “best friends” were all like the woman who killed me, wrapping themselves in the appearance of friendship while hiding the most poisonous knives.
This time, I’m no longer the fool who was stabbed twenty-five times and still defended her killer.
I’ll carry the hatred of every victim and tear away their disguises with my own hands in every life, ruining them and making them pay.
The law can’t do anything about the dead? No problem. I’ll handle it.
