In 1999, Westriver City.
North of Westgate Village.
Along National Highway 223—sheer cliff on the left, a forty‑five‑degree drop on the right.
Down the slope lay a Santana, overturned and crushed so badly its frame looked twisted by a giant hand. Every window had shattered. Both airbags in the front seats had burst open. The driver was slumped over the dashboard, unconscious.
In the back seat, a woman leaned sideways, her body pinned tight between the warped metal. Blood dotted her white blouse, spreading like wilted petals.
It was obviously a brutal crash.
The license plate belonged to the Southgate District government.
Adrian Palmer’s eyes flew open. His head buzzed like a beehive, and every bone in his body screamed as if the car had rolled over him again and again. Cold sweat slid down his forehead.
He forced a few shaky breaths. The stab of pain in his ribs almost made him curl up, yet the wrecked Santana in front of him sent a deeper shock through him. The scene… felt familiar. Unsettlingly familiar.
“What… what is this? Why does this look exactly like the accident from twenty‑three years ago?” He fought to focus, even as the burning pain all over his body kept telling him the unbelievable truth—this wasn’t a hallucination.
“Didn’t I die?”
“Don’t tell me… I came back?”
Twenty‑three years ago, Adrian had just graduated from Westspire University with a degree in Chinese Literature. He started working at the Southgate District government office, barely a month in when the new deputy district mayor picked him as her full‑time liaison. Everyone envied him for the stroke of luck.
But no one expected fate to turn so vicious. A sudden crash knocked him straight off that rising path. His life shattered alongside the metal.
June 28th, 1999—Adrian drove Deputy District Mayor Brianna Collins to an inspection in Lowergate Village. The office driver had taken leave, so Adrian had to take the wheel.
Then the brakes failed.
The car slammed into the cliff.
Adrian survived thanks to the airbag, suffering only minor injuries. But Brianna Collins… died because help didn’t come in time.
The accident wasn’t technically his fault, but someone had to take the blame. He was transferred out of the Southgate District government and dumped into the Westriver Daily as a barely‑relevant manuscript reviewer.
“Turns out the heavens weren’t done with me… Luck didn’t ditch me after all. I actually got another chance…”
His voice trembled as clarity slowly returned. Adrian turned, looking toward the back seat.
Brianna Collins was still breathing.
Still alive.
After the accident, he had read the investigation report. Brianna Collins died because a broken rib pierced her lung, fluid kept building up, and in the end she suffocated.
Clang.
Clang.
The moment Adrian Palmer snapped back to himself, he lifted his leg and kicked the driver-side door open. Pain shot up his body, but he forced himself to circle to the back of the car, yanking hard on the twisted door.
A sharp creak tore through the air as he pried the door open with sheer force.
He took a deep breath, eyes sweeping over the wrecked interior. Then he scrambled back to the driver’s seat, leaned over the console, and reached an arm under the front passenger seat.
Please… please let this old manual adjuster still work…
A harsh click sounded, and the passenger seat suddenly tilted forward.
“Ah… ngh…” The shift eased the pressure on Brianna’s crushed body, and she let out a faint, muddled sound, barely conscious.
Her face was ghost‑white. Blood soaked her chest, and there was a gash on her head—thick, dark blood matted her hair and smeared across the cushions.
Adrian dragged her out and then collapsed onto the ground with a dull thud. Brianna lay flat on her back, completely unresponsive. Her breathing was shallow, almost fragile, but still there—still a thread of life.
The emergency kit… trunk…
Government cars always carried basic medical supplies for unexpected situations.
And right now, that was exactly what Adrian needed.
Even though the crash had been caused by brake failure, he had carried the guilt for a lifetime.
To ease that weight, he had thrown himself into learning emergency rescue from a doctor friend—whenever he had free time, he’d study, practice, repeat. And once he learned Brianna died from a punctured lung, he focused especially on the small emergency procedures that might’ve saved her.
He had practiced them countless times. Never imagined the day would actually come when he’d need to use them.
His hands trembled as he reached out. Lips pressed tight, breath held, he carefully undid the buttons on Brianna’s clothes.
Then he removed the torn bra from her blood‑streaked chest.
He had to cut a small opening about three inches below Brianna Collins’ armpit, then guide the trapped fluid out through a tube.
“Hiss—”
Adrian Palmer sucked in a sharp breath. For a second, the world in front of him blurred—not just from the blood, but from the shock of seeing her skin, pale and smooth like fresh cream.
He forced his eyes shut for a moment, drew in a steady breath, and tried to shove every distracting thought back where it came from. When he opened his eyes again, his hand was already lifting the sterilized blade.
The knife slid in, parting that delicate skin.
Deputy District Chief Collins flinched, her brows drawing tight in pain, and a moment later her eyelids trembled open.