Chapter 1: Burned by Family, Reborn for Revenge

My nephew was always getting into trouble. This time, he wandered onto a construction site and got his arm caught in a piece of heavy machinery. I risked everything to save him—ran headlong into danger, heart in my throat—but I still couldn’t save his right hand. The moment I realized it, my stomach dropped. All I could think was: No, no, please, not like this.

That memory still haunts me. I can still hear him. His cries echoing off steel beams, the metallic tang of blood in the air, and that helpless ache in my chest when I realized what we’d lost. Even now, the guilt lingers like a bruise you just can’t rub out.

When my sister-in-law found out, she slapped me hard across the face.

The crack of her palm still rings in my ears. I remember the sting—not just on my skin but deep in my gut, the kind of hurt that makes your heart skip a beat. She didn’t even hesitate—her grief and rage boiling over, looking for someone to blame. It was like she’d been waiting for this moment.

“If you hadn’t wasted time, my son wouldn’t have lost his hand!”

Her voice was raw, trembling with fury. I could see the tears in her eyes, but there was no room for sympathy—just accusation, sharp as broken glass, flung right at me.

“This is all on you. My boy’s never going to have a normal life now, and you couldn’t pay us a million bucks if you tried!”

Her words hit harder than the slap. It was like she’d already written off her own son’s future, and all she cared about was how much she could squeeze out of me.

My brother blamed me too, saying I’d only made things worse by saving a kid who’d be a burden on him for life.

He stood there, jaw clenched, eyes red. For a second, I thought he might hit me. "You cover the two hundred grand in medical bills. And from now on, his wedding costs and his house are all on you."

I thought this was completely insane and refused right away.

I just stared at them, mouth hanging open. Seriously? For a second, I wondered if I was the crazy one—if maybe this was some twisted joke. But their faces were stone cold, and I knew they meant every word.

That night, a fire broke out at home. When I ran for the door, I found it was locked.

The smoke was thick, clawing at my throat. I couldn’t breathe. I pounded on the door until my knuckles bled, the heat pressing in from every side. My heart hammered against my ribs as the flames crept closer.

After I died in that fire, I found out my brother and his wife had set it—just to steal the million I had in my savings account.

Even after death, the betrayal burned worse than the flames. I watched them sift through the ashes, grinning as they found my bank statements. My stomach twisted with a grief so deep it felt endless.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back—back on the day my nephew snuck off to the construction site.

Sunlight slanted through the window. For a second, I thought it was all just a nightmare. But then I heard the chaos outside—the same voices, the same panic—and I knew I’d been given another shot.

“Somebody help! A kid’s arm is stuck in the machine!”

That desperate shout hit me like a sledgehammer. My heart was pounding out of my chest.

The sound cut through me—noisy, frantic, unmistakably real. My hands shook as I forced myself to stand, the weight of déjà vu pressing down on me.

I took a shaky breath and realized I’d come back to life.

The familiar scene in front of me jolted my nerves, the nightmare of my last life surging up like a tidal wave.

It was all there: the same dirt under my shoes, the same smell of oil and dust, the same distant clang of metal. Every detail was burned into my mind.

Last time, the moment I heard the cry for help, I ran with the crowd to the scene.

My legs moved on their own, muscle memory kicking in. I pushed past shouting workers, my heart in my throat.

And then I saw—it was Ben. My nephew.

His face was ashen, streaked with dirt and tears. Seeing him like that, so small and scared, made something inside me snap.

My mind went blank, and I just ran for him with everything I had.

I didn’t stop to think. I just barreled forward, shoving through grown men twice my size, desperate to reach him before it was too late.

I was desperate to save him, terrified that even a second’s delay would mean losing Ben forever.

Every second felt like it was being stretched and pulled, my heart pounding so loud I could barely hear anything else. The world narrowed to Ben’s terrified eyes.

When I got close, I saw Ben wedged deep inside the machine, his face streaked with tears and completely drained of color, so weak he couldn’t even make a sound.

His lips trembled, and his eyes searched the crowd for help. My own panic doubled—this was a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.

His arm was clamped tight, blood leaking from the crevices of the machine.

The sight made my stomach flip. Blood pooled on the concrete. Drip. Drip. It was bad.

The workers had formed a circle—some were shouting, trying to comfort Ben, others frantically searching for tools. Nobody moved. Everyone was frozen. But no one dared make a move.

They were paralyzed, caught between wanting to help and being afraid to make things worse. It was chaos, pure and simple.

The roar of the machine was deafening, like a wild animal, every sound tearing at my nerves.

The grinding and screeching drowned out all rational thought. Sweat broke out on my forehead as I tried to focus.

Panicked, I yelled, “Cut the power! Hit the main switch!”

My voice cracked, but I shouted anyway, desperate for someone—anyone—to do something.

But someone shouted back, “We can’t! The system’s busted! If we shut it down now, the whole setup’ll be toast and we’ll never get it running again!”

The words made my blood boil. Who cared about the damn machine when a kid’s life was on the line?

Furious, I pushed through the crowd and grabbed the guy by the collar. “There’s a kid’s life at stake! What matters more, a person or a machine?”

He looked startled, eyes wide. I didn’t wait for an answer.

I shoved him aside, forced myself to calm down, and scanned the area. That’s when I spotted a hydraulic cutter not far off.

My eyes darted from tool to tool, mind racing. The cutter gleamed under a harsh strip of sunlight—my only shot.

I stumbled, tripped on debris, slammed my knee into the ground. Damn, that hurt.

The jolt brought tears to my eyes, but I didn’t have time to care. I bit down on my lip and kept moving.

But I didn’t care. I got up and went for the toolbox.

The world blurred around me; all I could see was the task in front of me, the urgency of every second.

I grabbed the cutter and rushed back to the machine.

My hands shook as I fumbled with the heavy tool, adrenaline making everything feel both too slow and too fast.

Someone tried to stop me: “Don’t! It’s too dangerous! That thing— it could blow any second!”

Their voice was high and scared, but I barely registered it. Nothing was going to stop me now.

But all I could think about was Ben. I couldn’t hear anything else.

His face, pale and terrified, was burned into my vision. Nothing else mattered. I tuned out everything but his need for help.

I shook them off and dashed to the machine.

I forced my legs to move. I was running on fear and stubbornness.

Just as I got close, the machine shook violently. I almost lost my balance.

The whole thing rattled, making the ground tremble beneath my feet. I sucked in a breath, refusing to back down.

A loose steel plate crashed down from above. I couldn’t dodge—it slammed into my shoulder with a sickening crack, pain exploding through me, my vision going black.

The impact sent me reeling, stars dancing in my eyes. I tasted blood, but held tight to the cutter.

I gritted my teeth, forced myself to keep going, and clung to the cutter, inching closer to Ben.

Every step was agony, but I refused to let go. Ben’s life depended on it—on me.

Sweat poured down my face, blurring my vision. I wiped it away with the back of my hand.

My shirt stuck to my skin, soaked with sweat and fear. The air was thick, every breath a struggle.

The gears spun wildly, spitting sparks. One wrong move and I’d be next.

I could smell the burning oil, hear the angry hiss of metal on metal. It was like staring into the jaws of a beast.

I stared at Ben’s trapped arm, thinking only one thing: Get him out!

The world narrowed to that one goal. Nothing else mattered—not the pain, not the danger, not even my own life.

I aimed the cutter at the spot trapping his arm. Every effort felt like trying to pry apart a mountain, my injured arm shaking with the strain.

My muscles screamed, my shoulder throbbed, but I forced the cutter through, gritting my teeth until I tasted copper. I tasted blood. Didn’t care.

Suddenly, a burst of sparks shot from the machine, the smell of burning filling the air.

The acrid smoke stung my eyes, making them water. I coughed, but didn’t stop.

“Crap, the wiring’s fried! Get back!”

Someone’s shout barely cut through the roar. I knew we were running out of time.

Someone shouted, and in a flash, the wires caught fire with a bang, flames leaping up around the machine.

The fire spread fast—too fast, licking up the metal frame and filling the air with black smoke.

The workers scattered, but I couldn’t leave—Ben was still inside.

Their footsteps thundered away, but I planted my feet, refusing to abandon my nephew.

The flames scorched my skin, and thick smoke choked me.

Every breath burned, my lungs screaming for air. Still, I pressed on, refusing to quit.

But I didn’t stop, pushing my battered body to the limit despite the agony in my shoulder.

My vision swam, but I kept hacking away, determined to get Ben free before it was too late. Come on. Come on.

Finally. I got him out. After what felt like forever, I managed to cut open the machine and pull Ben out.

His body was limp, his arm a mangled mess. I barely registered the pain in my own body as I scooped him up.

Just as the fire was about to swallow us, I used the last of my strength to drag Ben to safety.

The heat licked at my back, singeing my hair. I stumbled out of the smoke, clutching Ben like a lifeline.

His eyes were shut tight, his face deathly pale. My heart twisted.

Tears blurred my vision. I pressed a shaking hand to his forehead, whispering his name like a prayer.

Holding him as I ran, I yelled, “Call 911!”

My voice was hoarse, but I shouted anyway, desperate for someone to help. I could hear sirens in the distance, hope flickering in my chest.

Thank God, Ben survived. His life wasn’t in danger.

The relief was so overwhelming, I almost collapsed. My knees buckled as I watched the paramedics work on him.

But because he’d been trapped too long, his right hand was mangled, just like before.

The doctors worked fast, but the damage was too much. I felt sick knowing I couldn’t change that.

My brother and sister-in-law rushed to the hospital in a panic, demanding to know what happened.

They burst into the ER, faces wild with fear. Their voices echoed off the sterile walls.

Heartbroken, I told them everything.

My words came out in a rush, my voice shaking. I tried to explain, but it felt like shouting into a void.