Reborn Into an Endless Murder Cycle

As the news broadcast reported a random serial killing near my residential complex, I knew—I had been reborn once again.

In my first life, my husband insisted on going out in the middle of a snowstorm to buy weapons for self-defense. I locked every door and window, waiting at home, anxiety clawing at my chest. I never imagined the killer could pick locks. Before I could even react, a blade plunged into me, and I died on the couch.

In my second life, I didn't hesitate. I hid in a concealed storage room, holding my breath.

But the door was still pulled open. A man wearing a rabbit mask stared straight at me.

"Found you," he said.

In my third life, I ran to the police station. I rushed inside and told the officer on duty that the killings weren't random—that the murderer was coming for me.

They looked at me like I'd lost my mind. Then my husband arrived in a hurry and took me away. But the moment we reached our front door, a heavy hammer smashed into the back of my head.

Through the blinding pain, I forced my eyes open, but I never saw who killed me.

Now, staring at the grave expression on the news anchor's face, agony surged through every inch of my body.

Rebirth isn't a reset. The damage accumulates—and sooner or later, it will torture me to death.

Without hesitation, I walked into the kitchen and set a pot of oil to heat.

And I waited… for the moment the lock began to turn.

The oil began to smoke.

My palms were slick with sweat as I carried the pot, trembling, toward the door.

The lock clicked—

I raised my hand, ready to throw.

A force I couldn't break seized my wrist.

"Cindy, it's me!" my husband shouted.

I froze, startled.

Luckily, with the heavy snowfall, he was bundled in thick layers and unharmed. He took the pot from my hands, grimacing.

"You told me before that hot oil could be used as a weapon—I thought you were joking. Didn't expect you to actually mean it!"

I had no mind for small talk. My gaze locked onto the backpack he had brought home.

Inside it… was a hammer.

My mind went blank. My lips trembled.

That was it—the very weapon that had killed me in my last life.

In that life, I had begged the police to let me stay overnight at the station. It was my husband who came to persuade me to go home.

"Baby, you're overthinking things. We can't interfere with their work."

But following him had led me to my death—struck down by a hammer just one step away from our front door.

Now the weapon lay bare before me.

And my husband… was the prime suspect.

But why? We'd been married for five years, living a life that was warm and sweet. The New Year was approaching, and we'd even planned to invite both our parents to celebrate together.

He had no reason to kill me.

"What's wrong? Did the news scare you?"

Seeing something off in my expression, he reached out and gently touched my pale face, concern filling his eyes.

Could someone like him really have the nerve to swing a hammer at my head, again and again?

I forced a smile.

Glancing at the large bag of tools he'd bought, I asked, "Why did you get a hammer?"

He let out a casual laugh and crouched down to unpack the bag for me.

"Everything else was sold out today, so I tried my luck at a hardware store. The owner highly recommended this—said one swing wouldn't just hurt, it'd cripple you if it didn't kill you."

His offhand tone made my body tremble uncontrollably.

I took a step back, forcing another weak smile.

"Honey… tonight, I want to sleep alone."

He paused.

"Aren't you scared?"

I squeezed out an awkward smile. "What's there to be scared of? I have some urgent work to handle. I'll sleep in the study."

We occasionally slept in separate rooms anyway.

He looked at me for a long moment, then smiled and nodded.

The moment I entered the study, I locked the door with a sharp click. Then I dragged every table and chair I could find and piled them against the entrance.

When I finished, I collapsed to the floor, drenched in cold sweat.

I couldn't call the police—without concrete evidence, they wouldn't take the case.

I couldn't leave either—the snow outside had already piled up to my calves.

And if I tried to leave rashly… what if I provoked him?

Holding my breath, I listened to the sounds from the living room.

He was no different from usual—washing up, scrolling through videos, then returning to the bedroom.

Until three in the morning, everything remained eerily calm.

Drowsiness began to creep in.

Then, in the next instant, the sound of the front door opening tore through the silence.

Every hair on my body stood on end.

Someone had entered the living room.

Footsteps moved past the kitchen, past the guest room… and stopped between the master bedroom and the study.

I covered my mouth, tears threatening to spill from sheer terror.

Whoever it was knew the layout of my home intimately. This wasn't their first time here.

So this wasn't a random killing.

The only one who wanted me dead… could only be my husband.

I glanced at the pile of clutter blocking the door, feeling a fragile sense of security.

Immediately, I dialed the police, lowering my voice to a whisper.

"Is this the police? The serial killer is in my house!"

The person on the other end was stunned and began preparing to dispatch officers to the address I gave.

I took a deep breath.

"The killer is my husband. His name is—"

My words were cut off by the sound of a door opening.

I looked up in horror—only to realize it wasn't the study door.

It was the master bedroom next door.

The next second, my husband's scream split the night.