Chapter 1

Just because my little brother, Liam, tripped while we were out, my mother forced me to spend the night alone in the pouring rain in the remote forest trail.

I never expected to be targeted by a serial killer. As my life slipped away from over a dozen stab wounds, I called my mother, sobbing and begging her to save me.

But she only answered with sheer disgust. "Stop acting, Ethan! You're just doing this because you can't handle a little hardship and want attention."

"How did I give birth to a monster like you? You pushed Liam on purpose, and now you’re playing the victim! I wish you were dead! Just looking at you makes me sick!"

She didn't know that I wasn't lying.

But when she finally saw my cold, mutilated corpse, she completely lost her mind.

Five minutes after my death, my soul drifted uncontrollably back to my mother’s side.

Right now, she was holding Liam's hand, looking incredibly anxious. "Don’t be scared, Liam. Mom is right here. You’ll be fine. Let’s get the doctor to examine you in a minute to make sure you didn’t get hurt from that fall."

The worry and tenderness on her face were so intense they practically overflowed.

It was a side of her I had spent my entire life trying to see, but never did.

Whenever she faced me, she was always cold, her voice filled with nothing but complaints and accusations.

Liam gripped her arm tightly, looking up with wide, innocent eyes. "Mom... why did Ethan push me? Did I do something wrong?"

As he spoke, big tears welled up in his eyes. He looked incredibly pitiful.

My mother could never stand to see him cry. Every time he shed a tear, regardless of the truth, she would punish me severely.

Sure enough, the moment she heard my name, her expression twisted with rage.

"You did absolutely nothing wrong, sweetie! It’s all because of your ungrateful wretch of a brother. How dare he lay a hand on his own brother!"

"I only kicked him out to the woods to spend the night as a lesson, and he actually had the audacity to call and lie about dying. That deceitful brat!"

The more she spoke, the angrier she got. Finally, she slammed her hand heavily on the table.

She was taking all her anger out on the table, treating it as if it were me.

Hearing her words, I thought I wouldn't feel anything anymore. I was dead, after all.

But a sharp, phantom pain pierced through my chest, as if a real knife had been driven deep into my heart.

It hurt so bad that my ghostly pale form trembled, almost collapsing.

My mother didn't look like she was talking about the child she carried for nine months. She looked like she was talking about her worst enemy.