After I Signed the DNR, She Finally Chose to Love Me

The shrapnel tore through my abdomen, yet I felt no pain.

However, blood surged from between my fingers—warm, viscous, like someone had overturned a bucket of red paint inside me.

Juárez, Mexico. The air in the warehouse district was thick with the scent of gunpowder and rust. I leaned against a concrete pillar; the bandages on my left hand were soaked through, and I could no longer grip my weapon.

A twelve-man squad. Completely wiped out.

Nothing but white noise on the radio.

"Delta Force, huh?"

The voice didn't come from the radio. It came from inside my head.

"Who’s that?"

"Echo," the voice replied, as calm as a voice assistant. "You are dying. You’ve lost about two point three liters of blood. You have three to five minutes left."

I glanced down at my wound. The bulletproof vest had been ripped open, and a piece of shrapnel was embedded to the left of my navel.

"So?"

"I can save you. But there is a condition."

Outside the warehouse, shouts in Spanish and the barking of dogs drew closer.

"Speak."

"You have been selected for a Trial," Echo said. "A parallel world, based on your reality. Mission: Make the target character say 'I love you' from the bottom of their heart. Success means returning to reality. Every time you use a 'Skip Opportunity,' you must endure a real death—you die for real, and are then forcibly resurrected."

"What if I refuse?"

"Then you die now. No resurrection."

Three seconds of silence.

"Who is the target?"

"Ella Hawke."

A gunshot rang out. Or perhaps it was my own heartbeat exploding in my ears. Darkness swallowed everything.

When I opened my eyes again, I was lying on a hospital bed. The ceiling was white; the air smelled of disinfectant.

My body was intact. No shrapnel, no gunshot wounds, not even a scar.

On the nightstand lay a security pass: Kane Redfield, Security Consultant, Hawke International Group.

And a photo.

In the photo, the woman was about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, with deep brown hair, green eyes, and wearing a dark blue suit. She stood before a fountain in an estate, her back straight, her chin slightly lifted.

Ella Hawke.

The door opened, and a doctor entered.

"Medical check-up is normal; you’re cleared for discharge. Miss Hawke’s car is waiting for you in the lobby."

He didn't care. In this world, perhaps people returned from the gates of death every day.

At the lobby entrance, a black SUV awaited.

The car drove for twenty minutes, through an iron gate. Hawke Estate. Not a villa, an estate. A Georgian-style white building with a circular fountain at the main entrance.

A woman in a gray suit walked down the stairs.

Ella Hawke. A bit shorter than in the photo, about 1.65 meters. But her presence hadn't shrunk at all.

"Kane Redfield?"

"Yes."

"Your predecessor didn't last through last month." She glanced at her tablet. "I hope you can last a bit longer."

No pleasantries, no fake smiles.

I followed her, maintaining a distance of three to five steps. It was something I had done countless times; my body entered the state faster than my mind.

For the first week, I didn't say much to her. I observed her. She was like a precision instrument; every action was cost-calculated.

The second week, Austin.

Hotel parking lot. A man disguised as a driver rushed out from behind a van. I saw the gun in his hand—a Beretta, silenced.

A fraction of a second before he pulled the trigger, I tackled his shoulder. The bullet veered, hitting the car next to us. We both crashed to the ground; I pinned his wrist with my elbow.

The sound of bone cracking. Disarmed, arm twisted for leverage, knee pinning his lower back. No more than six seconds.

I stood up. Ella was standing three steps away, the driver blocking her.

"Thank you," she said.

The tone was as if she were thanking a subordinate who had poured her a cup of coffee.

I nodded. My left shoulder blade burned—a piece of shrapnel had grazed it, leaving a gash. Blood seeped through my shirt sleeve.

Ella saw it. Her gaze lingered on my cuff for a second.

Then, she turned and got into the car.

Later, the driver told me that Ella had ordered logistics to re-upholster the passenger seat. Because I had bled on it and made it dirty.

Not pity for me. The car was her asset.