Trapped In A Cycle Of Bloody Deaths

Cordelia's POV

The anonymous post’s warning came true. I was trapped in an endless loop of death.

In my first life, I took on a high-risk surgery, only to be brutally stabbed by a grieving family member afterward. Thirteen fatal wounds left me bleeding out on the floor.

In my second life, I faked an injury to avoid the operation, only to be shoved down a steep flight of stairs, resulting in extreme head trauma and a snapped neck.

In my third life, I performed the surgery alone. My reward was a cold gunshot straight through the skull.

In my fourth life, I live-streamed the entire procedure. The surgery went flawlessly, yet my throat was still slit, and my skull was crushed by a heavy blunt object.

On my deathbed, I finally glimpsed the horrifying secret hidden within the patient...

"The arrogant hospital heiress, Cordelia Whitlock, was stabbed thirteen times by a grieving family member for treating human life like dirt. The mastermind behind it all? Her father’s long-hidden illegitimate son."

I stared at the anonymous post on my phone screen, let out a cold scoff, and tossed it into my locker.

It was an illogical prank. First, my late father didn't have any illegitimate children. Second, as top cardiothoracic surgeon at Harcourt, I had never botched a surgery.

"Cordelia, your lucky day."

Romilly Ashby leaned against the locker room door frame, arms crossed. As my bitter rival in the cardio ward for the past year, her eyes gleamed with an unnervingly generous light.

"The ER just wheeled in a special case. Sylvie Renner. Severe kyphosis—a hunchback—and an incredibly rare, tricky tumor on her heart." Romilly stepped closer, her heels clicking, dropping her voice. "Nail this excision, and the Chief of Surgery position is yours."

I narrowed my eyes at her.

"Romilly, you'd sleep in the hospital for that Chief spot. Now you're tossing this prime cut of meat to me?"

"Let's be real, Cordelia. You're the only one in this hospital with the 'Hands of God' to pull this off." A fake smile curled on her lips. "I admit I'm not as good as you, much as I hate it. The difficulty is off the charts. Only you can handle it."

A familiar scent of cedarwood drifted from the hallway. Emory Vane, the Chief of General Surgery, approached with his steady gait. He placed a warm hand on my shoulder, his thumb casually brushing my collarbone.

"Help the hospital win this rare case. Consider it a personal favor to me, alright?" Emory's deep, tiger-like eyes locked onto mine, his voice low and persuasive.

I looked at the mature, dependable Emory.

Everyone at Whitlock Memorial thought I was just a star surgeon. No one knew that when my father died two years ago, he left me the controlling shares of the most prestigious private hospital in the city. I was the sole legal heir. And now, even Emory, my most trusted mentor, was paving the way for my career.

The shadow of that bizarre online post instantly vanished from my mind.

Afternoon. OR 4.

Everything was flawless. The tumor was precisely dissected. The sutures flew through my fingers without a single mistake.

"Washout complete. Come off bypass," I let out a breath. "Prepare for the heart to restart."

Seconds ticked by.

The line on the monitor remained a flat, dead gray.

Something was wrong.

Through my sterile gloves, the moment I touched Sylvie's heart, a bone-chilling cold shot up my spine.

No matter how I massaged it, some bizarre force seemed to be crushing the life out of the organ from the inside!

"Dr. Whitlock..." the anesthesiologist’s voice trembled. "The patient is dead."

I froze, hands covered in blood, staring fixedly at the heart that would never beat again. How? I didn't make a single mistake!

Exhausted and stained with blood, I pushed open the heavy doors of the surgical wing.

Sylvie’s husband, Silas Renner, stood a few feet away like a ghost. The normally honest, average-looking man now had bloodshot eyes. He clawed at his own hands, his gaze as hollow as a manipulated puppet's.

"Mr. Renner, I'm so sorry. There was an unforeseeable complication during the—"

"You killed her."

Silas's voice was eerily calm. He slowly pulled his hand out of his coat pocket.

"They told me... You famous doctors, fighting for that damn Chief position, you don't give a shit about the lives of poor people!"

"They? Who told you? Silas, you need to calm down—"

"Go to hell, you quack!"

A silver flash violently tore through the dim air.

The cold, rough blade of a hunting knife plunged deep into my abdomen. The agony instantly sucked all the oxygen from my lungs.

"You're going to pay for my wife!" Silas roared like a madman. He ripped the bloody blade out and plunged it ruthlessly into my spleen.

"Ugh!" Caught off guard, I collapsed onto the freezing tiles. Blood erupted, dyeing my white scrubs crimson.

After Silas stabbed me eight consecutive times, my vision blurred. Bloody foam choked my throat.

When he brought down the twelfth strike in a frenzy, I convulsed violently from the pain.

The absurd warning from that online post exploded in my mind like thunder. It was a death prophecy.

"Rot in hell!"

Accompanied by Silas's agonizing scream, the thirteenth strike pierced straight through my heart.

Darkness swallowed me whole.