On that fateful day, Scarlett Watson, daughter of my father Tobey Craig's beloved, was determined to prove herself a forensic genius by tackling a dissection all on her own.

But as fate would have it, chaos unfolded in the sterile quiet of the lab.

While cleaning the cadaver, a slip of her hand sent sulfuric acid splashing across the body.

Panic surged through her as she clutched a false credential, panic-stricken and desperate.

As a result, the real criminal remained at large, an innocent man was unjustly condemned to prison.

When I encountered the aftermath during my second dissection and discovered what had really happened, I went to report it, only to be halted by Tobey, who stood like an unyielding wall in front of the truth.

"Dad, please! We have to tell them what really happened!" I insisted, but my words hung impotently in the air.

Scarlett, her cheeks streaked with tears, looked up at Tobey, her voice shaking.

"Mr. Craig, what should I do? I swear, I didn't mean it!" Her desperation was palpable.

In a shocking twist, to protect her, Tobey not only turned a blind eye to the truth but brazenly claimed that I had been the first one to dissect.

He destroyed the crucial surveillance footage, shielding Scarlett from accountability while condemning me to a fate worse than death—I was not only facing imprisonment but also the revocation of my forensic license.

At my sentencing, fury boiled over. The families of those wronged surged forward, their grief morphing into rage.

Before I could comprehend my fate, a knife plunged into my side, ending my life in a single, brutal stab.

But then came the unthinkable—I found myself reborn, back on the very day Scarlett applied to the dissection room.

"Ah! It hurts so much!" Scarlett's anguished scream shattered the eerie silence, echoing against the cold walls of the lab.

I peered through the blinds, watching as she, the once-promising forensic expert, accidentally splashed sulfuric acid onto the corpse.

The scene unfolded like a nightmare, vividly captured by the ever-watchful surveillance cameras.

In her panic, she tossed aside professional ethics, recklessly cutting off the corroded flesh without authorization.

Then, in a moment of sheer negligence, she carelessly shoved the sulfuric acid into an evidence bag as if that would erase her mistakes.

It wasn't long before Tobey rushed in, his worry evident. "Scarlett, what happened?" he asked, his voice frantic.

She grasped her injured hand. "Mr. Craig, the sulfuric acid... I accidentally spilled it, but thank goodness, I found this fingerprint before the acid could fully corrode the skin."

Her voice was strained, but her desperation for approval was clear.

I felt a chill run down my spine. In my previous life, she had made the same mistake—splashing acid and, in a panicked attempt to cover her tracks, amputating flesh and placing the lab acid into an evidence bag.

The fingerprint she claimed to have found? Just a random pick from the list of suspects, a pathetic attempt at creating a false narrative.

Despite the mountains of evidence she'd fabricated, Tobey praised her, showering her with compliments for her supposed first big find.

Little did he know, the very evidence fell into the hands of the judicial system, leading to another innocent boy behind bars while the true criminal walked free.

Haunted by suspicion, I conducted another dissection. In the corpse's mouth, I discovered DNA from another suspect.

It was a breakthrough, but as I rushed to report my findings, Tobey stood in my way once again.

Scarlett's tears fell like spring rain. "Mr. Craig, what should I do? I didn't mean to..."

she whimpered, makeup running, a heartbreaking portrait of guilt and fear.

To shield her, Tobey deleted the surveillance footage and twisted the narrative, falsely accusing me of being the one who dissected that day.

Before long, I found myself standing in the shadow of impending doom, charged with perjury while Scarlett basked in the spotlight, crowned as the one who uncovered the "truth."

My forensic license had been unceremoniously snatched away, the public's relentless ire mounting against me.

All the while, Scarlett reveled in the accolades that accompanied her newfound "brilliance," soaking up the admiration like a thirsty flower after rain.

On the day the verdict was handed down, the atmosphere grew thick with tension. The victim's family, a storm of fury and grief, broke through the barriers meant to protect me.

At that horrifying moment, I felt a sharp pain pierce through me—a knife driven by anguish and rage.

And there was Tobey, ever the protector, shielding the fragile Scarlett, his back turned to the chaos that swirled around us like a tempest.

As the darkness closed in and my consciousness began to fade, I caught his murmur, tinged with bitter relief,

"At least it's not Scarlett who died. I've given you life, raised you up, now it's time you pay me back..."

A blaze of anger ignited within me.

This was all Scarlett's fault! Why was I bearing the brunt of her reckless mistakes? What kind of twisted love it was for a father to sacrifice his own daughter to shield someone like her?

In this life, I'd make sure they pay for what they'd done!

They would endure the same scorn and ridicule that I had faced in the forensic community, feeling the disdain of every passing stranger!

As I watched the crowd gather, their faces a blend of horror and fascination, I shoved Scarlett aside, urgency propelling my movements.

Under Tobey's furious glare, I summoned every ounce of strength left in me and said,

"Look, as far as I know, that sulfuric acid wasn't even part of the evidence. It's all documented. And based on the state of the corroded flesh and the color, it's clear there wouldn't be any fingerprints left—just marks from a grip. So, tell me this: where did your prints come from?"

I narrowed my eyes, locking onto Scarlett, my gaze boiling with intensity and accusation.