Reborn After Being Killed for My Organs

It was my mother.

I saw her alone—standing there like a defiant figure, unyielding, blocking the plane with her body in full view of everyone.

She refused to let the aircraft take off.

Even when four or five airport security guards came forward, attempting to drag her away, she resisted with all her strength—scratching, biting, kicking. She fought like a wild animal, desperate and out of control.

Watching this, my whole body trembled uncontrollably.

A deep fear welled up inside me.

Because I knew—obstructing a plane at an airport is a serious offense. It’s illegal.

But my mother didn’t care.

She was so desperate to make sure I boarded that flight, even if it meant breaking the law.

So desperate… to send me off to Canada… to die with my organs cut out?

“Look, your mom is even willing to go to jail just so you can go on this trip,” my sister said, gesturing toward the scene.

“Don’t disappoint her, brother.”

“Be good. Hurry up and get on the plane.”

She spoke gently, but there was an unsettling undertone in her words.

Still, I didn’t move. I stood rooted to the ground.

Because I already knew what was waiting for me if I got on that plane.

I remembered it too vividly:

The moment I disembarked, I would be handed over to a so-called “tour group” that was really a front for human traffickers.

I would be abused, beaten, humiliated, and stripped of all dignity.

And once they drained every ounce of value from me, I would be slaughtered like cattle—my organs harvested.

I didn’t even get the mercy of closing my eyes before I died.

No matter what, I would never board that plane again.

I would never step into that nightmare a second time.

“Sister… please, bring Mom back,” I said softly, pressing a hand to my forehead. “I’m not feeling well. I don’t want to go today. I think I need to go to the hospital for a check-up.”

I pretended to have a headache.

In the past, if I did so much, the whole family would panic and fuss over me. They’d never force me to do anything if I felt unwell.

But this time, my sister responded differently. She looked anxious, but her concern felt strange—calculated.

“Brother, don’t worry. I’ll tell the tour group. You can see a doctor once you arrive. The hospitals there are good too—they’ll take care of you.”

“Just get on the plane first, okay?”

As she spoke, she reached out to grab my arm, trying to pull me forward.

But I didn’t budge.

I stared at her, confused.

She had never been like this before.

Whenever I felt sick, she’d drop everything and take me to the hospital right away.

She’d book all the tests, sit with me for hours, and make sure I was fine.

But now…

“Sister,” I said, my voice trembling. “I don’t want to get on that plane.”

Smack!

She slapped me hard across the face. The impact made me stagger.

Her eyes blazed with anger.

“Do you have any idea how much that ticket cost?” she shouted.

“You think just saying ‘I don’t want to go’ is enough?”

“I made thousands of dumplings to earn the money for this trip!”

“Do you think you deserve our kindness? Do you think you deserve Mom and Dad’s sacrifices?”

I raised a hand to my cheek and felt the burning mark of her slap.

And in that moment, I wanted to scream.

Do you think you deserve me?

You tricked me into that flight.

You handed me over to criminals.

You let them torture me.

You let me die.

“Sister… I have a scholarship,” I said, forcing a bitter smile as I took out my bank card.

“I can reimburse the plane ticket with this.”

As the provincial champion, the local government awarded me a 10,000-dollar scholarship.

The money had just been deposited into this card—it was my pride, my honor, my lifeline.

But when my sister saw it, her face twisted with disgust.

“That’s nothing compared to what our family gave you!” she spat.

She yanked off her gloves and thrust her hands into my face. They were covered in raw, red blisters, some broken and oozing.

“Look at these! I got these from making zongzi non-stop, day and night. For you! I worked until my hands bled to earn this trip for you!”

“If you don’t get on that plane, all my effort—all my suffering—will be for nothing!”

“Be good, stop being selfish. Get on the plane right now, or it’ll be too late!”

She was using guilt as a weapon—moral blackmail—to force me into submission.

In my previous life, I had been deeply moved when I first saw her injured hands.

She worked at a pie shop.

Her job was hard, and the pay was low.

She and my brother-in-law only brought home a few thousand dollars a month.

And back then, I believed her.

I had believed her love was real.

But now I know.

I saw through the act.

Because that trip didn’t lead to a vacation.

It led to hell.