Behind Every Door Lies My Sin

“The three toxicology findings you missed cost two people their lives.” As the electronic voice echoed through the sealed room, my wrist was already burning numb beneath the “Mark of Sin.” I was a former forensic pathologist, and this was the case I had botched three years ago. The reincarnation game offered only one way to survive: find the truth fragments and apologize sincerely. A twin-tailed girl was too afraid of online abuse to admit she was wrong. When her chip glowed red, she shook like a leaf. A suited executive couldn’t bring himself to bow his head to the shareholders, and choked to death on the spot. Behind my door was an abandoned factory. On the table lay a yellowed autopsy report, with a photo of the victim’s mother resting on top. She wore the same gray clothes she had on when she jumped to her death. Five minutes remained on the countdown. The Mark of Sin was about to burn through my skin. This “I’m sorry” wasn’t meant for the dead; it was my lifeline, meant for myself. What’s worse, the fragment was inscribed with a warning: Next round, go to your mother’s hospital.