Chapter 1 — My Alibi

In my past life, I was falsely accused of operating an unauthorized student shuttle bus that resulted in three fatalities and one severe injury. However, I had only just arrived at the horrifying scene when someone struck me unconscious from behind, shoving my limp body into the driver seat. Every shred of fabrication and forged evidence pointed directly at me, and even the sole surviving child insisted with absolute certainty that I was the one behind the wheel. I was powerless to defend myself against the overwhelming tide of accusations. Stripped of my entire livelihood through heavy financial liabilities and crushed by a harsh prison sentence, I ultimately met a suffocating end when my head was brutally forced into a filthy toilet bowl. My grieving parents, hounded relentlessly by the vicious cyberbullying of the victims' parents, were driven to the darkest depths of despair and slit their wrists in suicide. Opening my eyes once more, I found myself miraculously hurled backward in time, currently driving toward the catastrophic scene. Gazing at the flickering traffic light at the intersection ahead, I slammed my foot hard down on the accelerator and barreled straight through. The traffic police dragged me out of the wreckage, their faces as dark as the bottom of a charred pot.

You did this on purpose, didn't you?

I admitted it with utter nonchalance, Yes, officer, I did it on purpose. Arrest me. Was it not just a meager seven days of administrative detention? To exchange that for the survival of my entire family was a bargain beyond measure.

1

My soul drifted out of my physical vessel, hovering weightlessly in midair as I looked down upon my own head submerged in a toilet bowl. Only a single thought echoed in my mind: this death was agonizingly unjust. I had been the youngest elite kindergarten principal in the entire city, maintaining a flawless safety record for eight consecutive years without a single parental complaint. Just this year, I had been nominated as a candidate for special-grade principal. My husband also held the title of the youngest special-grade principal in the province. According to everyone around us, I was the happiest woman alive, blessed with a fulfilling romance and a thriving career. I had foolishly believed my happiness would endure for a lifetime, never imagining that my years would be cut short at a mere thirty-two. The tragedy was entirely manufactured, for the accident had never been my doing in the first place. By the time I rushed to the scene, three souls had already perished and another was gravely wounded. Yet every witness, every piece of physical evidence, and the dashcam footage all converged maliciously upon me. The police investigation results proclaimed that my fingerprints coated the steering wheel, my personal water tumbler sat undisturbed on the dashboard, and the final frame of the dashcam video captured me intentionally steering the vehicle into a tree. Even the sole surviving child pointed a trembling finger to accuse me. I had a hundred mouths and still could not clear my name. During the trial, my husband wept tears of bitter betrayal as he testified against me.

I warned her long ago that the school shuttle was too old and needed replacement, but she stubbornly refused purely to save money.

On the day of the disaster, the mechanical faults of the vehicle were glaringly obvious. When I advised her, she retorted that Director Zhang’s son was in a hurry to get home for cartoons, and currying favor with the director would secure her promotion to special-grade principal.

Yet disaster struck regardless. I am deeply sorry; I simply could not talk sense into her. I never dreamed she would hold children's lives in such callous disregard.

Yet that vehicle had been purchased only two years prior and possessed no mechanical defects whatsoever. I demanded a thorough forensic examination, but the fabricated investigation produced maintenance papers for a fifteen-year-old vehicle instead. No one believed my pleas. The public showered me with curses, branding me a monster while praising my husband for his righteous sacrifice of his own wife. It was not until the exact moment my soul severed from my mortal coil that the terrifying truth finally unraveled. The driver that day had actually been my husband’s childhood sweetheart, Liao Thanh Thanh. It was she who stubbornly insisted on driving Director Zhang’s son to show off, she who recklessly violated traffic regulations before crashing into the tree. Tran Tieu had summoned me to the scene merely to serve as a scapegoat for Thanh Thanh. He struck me unconscious, staged the scene to make me look like the driver, tampered with the dashcam footage himself, and paid the surviving child five hundred thousand yuan to keep quiet. Everything he orchestrated was designed to let Thanh Thanh walk away completely scot-free while I shouldered the blame. As for my parents, upon learning of my wretched death in prison, they raised their voices online to seek justice, only to be overwhelmed by a torrential wave of cyber harassment that drove them to the brink, prompting them to end their lives. Hovering above, I witnessed all of this, utterly powerless. Suddenly, my phone rang—it was my husband, Tran Tieu. It took me a long time to snap back to reality and realize I had been reborn. Trembling, I swiped the screen and answered.

Lam Vi, why haven't you arrived yet?

Only you know how to fix the issue with this vehicle. Director Zhang’s child has a stomachache and is in a rush to reach the hospital. If you delay this, your nomination for special-grade principal will be revoked!

Hurry up and stop dragging your feet!

His tone carried an unusual panic, starkly contrasting his usual composed demeanor. But I knew the truth: the car was never broken; rather, a catastrophic traffic accident was unfolding. Director Zhang’s son wasn't suffering from a stomachache; he simply wanted to rush home to watch cartoons. At that very moment, four children were trapped inside that van, and three were already dead while one was injured. The real culprit was none other than his beloved childhood sweetheart, Thanh Thanh. His frantic urgency now was solely driven by the desire for me to arrive and take the fall. I forced myself to remain calm. I am on my way.

Then hurry up. Director Zhang is not someone you can afford to offend. As long as you take good care of his son, your special-grade principal title is practically guaranteed.

By then, you can finally hold your head high in front of my mother. Step on it, drive like you are speeding.

Not a single word differed from my past life. Trusting him implicitly, I had rushed to the scene by tearing through three red lights, stepping directly into the meticulous trap he had laid for me. I checked the time: July 3, 2026, 5:40 PM. Exactly fifteen minutes remained before I would reach the crash site. The horrific death from my past life flickered vividly before my eyes—the suffocating terror of my head forced into the toilet, the pools of blood on the bathroom floor where my parents slit their wrists, and Tran Tieu pointing his finger at me in the courtroom, claiming my obsession with a title drove me to drive a broken vehicle and make illegal lane changes. If I arrived at the scene at 5:55 PM, absolute doom awaited me. I drew a deep breath, gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands, and fixed my gaze on the traffic light at the intersection ahead. I gritted my teeth and spat out three words: I am almost there. At 5:55 PM, Tran Tieu would have five minutes to forge the dashcam footage. I had to manufacture an airtight alibi for that exact window of time. Pouring all my strength into my foot, I slammed down on the accelerator and plowed straight ahead.

2

A deafening crash echoed through the air as the traffic light pole was knocked flat and the airbags deployed instantly. I slumped forward against the defusing airbag, my heart hammering violently against my ribs. Cold sweat streamed down my forehead while my ears rang persistently. Dazed and shaken, a traffic officer walked over and rapped sharply on the window glass.

Get out of the vehicle!

Taking a steadying breath, I pushed the door open and stepped out with practiced calm. The traffic officer’s gaze was freezing.

Surveillance footage shows you intentionally accelerated into the traffic light. Do you have any explanation?

I shook my head serenely. None at all, officer. Arrest me, and I will fully cooperate with the investigation. The officer’s expression hardened further as he lifted his walkie-talkie.

We have an intentional collision with a traffic light at the Thanh Son intersection. Requesting immediate dispatch.

Within five minutes, a police cruiser arrived. Photographs were snapped, evidence gathered, and inquiries made. Though my body trembled uncontrollably, the massive boulder crushing my chest finally rolled away. At 5:55 PM, I would have arrived at the accident scene in my past life, only to be knocked unconscious and planted in the driver's seat. But no matter how flawless their scheme was, it was impossible for two versions of me to exist in two different locations simultaneously. I glanced at the clock: 5:50 PM. Five more minutes and I would have reached the disaster zone. Instead, I was placed inside a police car, which wailed its siren as it sped toward the traffic accident division. Seated inside the interrogation room, my eyes locked onto the wall clock. 5:55 PM. In my previous life, this was the exact moment I arrived at the scene, where Tran Tieu knocked me out, seated me behind the wheel, and fabricated the camera logs. Tonight, however, I had crashed into a traffic light; there was surveillance footage, tangible evidence, and official dispatch records. Before six o'clock, it was physically impossible for me to appear at the crash site, meaning I could never be labeled the driver responsible. A traffic officer handed me a statement form.

Sign here.

I checked the time: precisely 6:00 PM—the exact moment Tran Tieu had framed me for the disaster in my past life. Gripping the pen tightly, I inscribed my signature. 6:01 PM. A profound wave of relief washed over me. At the exact minute the school shuttle met its tragic end, I was sitting inside the traffic accident division undergoing questioning. There were cameras, witness statements, police dispatch logs, and my own signature. No matter how miraculous Tran Tieu believed his powers were, he could never conjure a second me to bear his crimes. Leaning back into the chair, a smile began to form on my lips before my phone abruptly rang. I glanced at the flashing caller ID: Tran Tieu. I let it ring. At this very moment, he must be pacing like an ant on a hot pan. The cherished childhood sweetheart he protected so fiercely had violated regulations, caused a devastating crash resulting in three deaths and a severe injury, yet the scapegoat he prepared was nowhere to be found. I let out a cold laugh and switched the phone off entirely. Fingerprints scanned, facial recognition completed, photographs taken, and signatures applied repeatedly. By the time every procedure concluded, it was past eight in the evening. In my past life, the police would have already detained me by now, and headlines would be screaming across the news about an elite kindergarten principal who drove a faulty vehicle and made illegal lane changes, killing three children. Tonight, I had never set foot near that scene. I was no criminal, nor would I meet a watery grave. My parents would continue living peacefully. Tran Tieu must be losing his mind with panic right now. I could vividly picture his pale, terrified childhood sweetheart tearfully begging for his rescue while he showered her with false reassurances. Before Thanh Thanh arrived, Tran Tieu had indulged my every whim. But ever since she joined the kindergarten staff a year ago, he had not cast a single warm glance in my direction; his heart and soul belonged entirely to her. I knew he would not sit idly by and wait for ruin. He would undoubtedly conjure another scheme to pin this horrific vehicular disaster squarely on my shoulders. Less than three minutes later, the door to the interrogation room swung open. An unfamiliar traffic police officer named Khong Hoanh stared at me with an expression of stern gravity.

Lam Vi, I am Officer Khong Hoanh from the traffic accident division. A report was just filed regarding a severe school shuttle accident on Tung Pha Road resulting in three deaths and one injury. The driver fled the scene, and that driver is you.

3

I nearly failed to suppress a burst of laughter. It had arrived precisely as expected. Hearing his words, the other officers in the room froze in shock. Yet I remained entirely unruffled, having already lived through this nightmare once before. I sat in absolute comfort, shielded by an unbreakable alibi.

Fled the scene?

I met his gaze with a look of feigned bewilderment.

Officer, I was arrested immediately after my own minor collision just hours ago. How could I possibly have fled?

Officer Khong narrowed his eyes at me.

Two hours ago, precisely at six o'clock, you drove a school shuttle on Tung Pha Road, veered into a tree, and left three dead and one injured.

The cause of the accident was mechanical failure of the shuttle combined with your reckless lane violation, resulting in three immediate fatalities.

Officer Khong’s stare felt like a sharp blade, yearning to pierce right through my skin.