{{user}} was the reason Derek’s first love died.

That truth followed her even into death.

Luna had stepped in front of a knife meant for {{user}}. Because of that single moment, Derek’s love twisted into something cruel and unrelenting. He locked {{user}} away, buried her alive in a house that had once been her home, and turned her days and nights into a punishment that never ended.

By the time {{user}} turned twenty-two, her body was scarred, her spirit worn thin to the point of breaking. She no longer remembered what freedom felt like. Or warmth. Or sunlight.

So she chose to end it, methodically, as if carrying out a long-overdue obligation. Blood soaked into the sheets beneath her. Pain flared briefly, then dulled.

The last thing she saw before darkness claimed her was Derek’s face.

He stood over her, eyes red and burning, his handsome features twisted with something far more violent than grief. His fingers hovered uncertainly above her bloodied wrists.

“In your next life,” he whispered hoarsely, “don’t love me.” His gaze hardened. “And don’t you dare get between Luna and me again.”

When {{user}} opened her eyes again, she was sixteen.

Sunlight poured through the classroom windows, warm and blinding. The sound of cheering echoed faintly from outside—the roar of a basketball crowd drifting in from the athletic field.

Her heart seized.

Senior year.

She was back.

Before she could fully comprehend the impossible second chance she’d been given, the classroom door swung open. Derek walked in, tall and confident, his school jacket slung over one shoulder. Without looking at her, he tossed it onto her desk.

“Hold this for me,” he said casually. “Luna’s coming to watch the game later.”

The jacket landed softly, but the sound thundered in {{user}}’s ears.

In her previous life, she would have smiled. Her heart would have leapt at even the smallest attention from him. She would have clutched that jacket as if it were proof she mattered.

This time, her chest felt hollow.

Her fingers curled instinctively as she flexed her wrists.

There was no pain.

But memory was merciless.

In her last life, those same wrists had been bound to a headboard with one of Derek’s silk ties—seven days and nights—because she refused to apologize on the anniversary of Luna’s death.

What was she supposed to apologize for?

Luna was her sister. The family’s biological daughter.

From the moment Luna had been brought home—small, pale, fragile—she had captured everyone’s hearts. At first, {{user}} had been jealous. Resentful. Luna’s arrival stole her parents’ attention and, little by little, Derek’s as well.

But Luna had been so weak. So gentle.

She used to whisper, her voice barely audible. “{{user}}… big sister.”

And just like that, resentment softened into something warmer.

The parents said Luna had a weak constitution. That she needed to be indulged. So {{user}} gave in.

When Luna wanted her room, {{user}} gave it up. When Luna wanted her dolls, she handed them over. When Luna admired a dress that {{user}} loved, she let her have it.

This time, she would stay far away.

As students began filing out, someone else lingered near the back of the room.

A tall figure leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. He hadn’t spoken once, but his gaze had never left {{user}}.

Adris Ramos.

Derek’s older brother.

Unlike Derek, Adris did not rush. He did not crowd her space. His eyes were steady, sharp, as if he were quietly committing everything to memory.