Chapter 3

Cordelia's POV

I gasped sharply and my eyes flew open.

The locker room again. The phone screen was on, displaying that cursed death prophecy.

The third time.

I fiercely wiped the cold sweat from my face, my heart hammering. First life: I took the surgery and got stabbed 13 times. Second life: I ran, got pushed down the stairs, and snapped my neck.

If I operate, I die. If I run, I die.

I yanked the locker room door open, bumping straight into Romilly.

"Cordelia, the ER just wheeled in—"

"Sylvie Renner, rare cardiac tumor. I'll take it." I cut her pitched script off, staring intensely into her eyes.

Romilly blinked, clearly derailed by my quick agreement. "Glad you're seeing sense. Just nail this—"

"But I have one condition." I took a step forward, my voice as cold as a scalpel. "I do the procedure alone."

"Are you insane?!" Romilly shrieked, glaring at me in disbelief. "This is an ultra-high-risk surgery! No assistants? You want to murder someone on the table?!"

"Cordelia, this violates protocol." Emory hurried over, his usual composure dissolving as he lowered his voice urgently. "Whitlock Memorial will never approve a solo operation of this magnitude. You're playing roulette with your career!"

"Don't quote protocol at me, Emory." I closed the distance between us, locking onto his shifting eyes. "If this surgery truly requires my 'Hands of God', then I don't need dead weight in the room getting in my way."

"This is medical negligence!" Romilly's face flushed red, and she shot an uneasy glance at Emory.

That single glance made me sneer internally.

I knew it. In the first life, the surgery was technically flawless, yet Sylvie died inexplicably. If someone hadn't tampered with her on the table, it wouldn't make sense. The only reason they were so desperate to pack my OR with people was so they could execute an "accident."

"Listen closely." I grabbed Emory by the tie and yanked him close. "Either I walk into that OR alone, or you wheel the patient straight to the morgue and explain it to the husband yourselves. Pick one, Emory."

His jaw tightened hard, a glint of cold malice in his eyes almost piercing me.

"Fine." He suppressed the fleeting darkness, replacing it with an expression of deep disappointment. "If you insist... I hope you take responsibility for this, Cordelia."

2:00 PM. OR 4.

No assistants. No nurses. I even locked the anesthesiologist outside. Under the operating lights, it was just me and Sylvie. Every step of the procedure was clean, swift, and completely isolated. Not a single person had the chance to get near my table.

Yet, the moment the heart was supposed to restart, the monitor flatlined without warning.

Sylvie died in front of me again.

"Damn it... Who the hell is doing this?!"

Numb, I pushed open the heavy OR doors, lacking even the strength to lift my head.

A deafening bang echoed through the lobby.

Before I could even register the absolute hatred on Silas Renner's face, a terrifying force ripped right through my forehead. My head snapped back violently, and my vision was washed in blood red and black.

The fourth awakening.

Slumped in the locker room chair, I panted heavily. My scrubs were drenched in cold sweat.

This time, I didn't even waste a second being terrified. I kicked the door open.

"Cordelia, the ER just—"

"I'll do it," I declared, staring down the startled Romilly and the approaching Emory. "Alone. And I have one condition."

"What condition?" Emory stared at me in shock.

"I want the surgery live-streamed to every major medical network in Harcourt. Every single detail!" I barked. "I want the whole world watching this operating room!"

"You're out of your mind!"

I ignored their hysterics and forced the plan through.

Under the watchful eyes of thousands, I excised the tumor with astonishing speed. On the monitor, the stopped heart began to pump again, the waveform bouncing to life robustly.

"Surgery successful," I looked dead into the camera, not hiding my cold smirk.

However, the second the live feed was cut and the red recording light blinked off—

A piercing alarm tore through the room.

Sylvie’s heart had just been violently stopped again.

The OR doors burst open. A deranged Silas lunged at me like a feral dog. He snatched a pair of sharp emergency shears off the surgical tray and drove them straight through my throat.

The agonizing pain and bubbling blood killed all sound in my vocal cords. While I convulsed, suffocating, he grabbed a heavy oxygen tank and brought it down on my skull again and again.

In the final fraction of a second before my skull caved in, my vision managed to look past Silas's blood-soaked arm, fixing onto the operating table.

Sylvie lay cold on her side. But the deformity on her back—the so-called "severe kyphosis"—was protruding high beneath the sterile drape. It presented a sickening, shifting silhouette.

It was as if something was trying to burst out of her spine.

In the instant before darkness took me, I finally realized exactly what kind of monster was orchestrating this all.