I woke up with a hangover, and the whole world said I was Cui Zhijiang.
My wife, daughter, coworkers, and childhood friends all looked at me with absolute certainty. The shop staff called me “sir.” The place I shared with roommates had been rented out by “me,” and the money in my bank account had been withdrawn bit by bit in the middle of the night.
But my name is Jiang Fan. Worse still, in my memory, Cui Zhijiang jumped into a river and killed himself twelve years ago.
I had become a dead man.
No transmigration, no rebirth. Someone in the shadows had torn Jiang Fan’s life apart brick by brick, then stitched Cui Zhijiang’s scheme together thread by thread. They had even made an appointment for me at a psychiatric hospital.
They wanted me to go mad, and wanted my “death” to look perfectly natural.
But they didn’t know the pieces had already started moving on their own.
