When her mother was diagnosed with endstage renal failure, I went behind my family's back and wired eighty thousand dollars to cover the transplant.

The very next afternoon, she stood in front of our entire lecture hall and tore the bank confirmation slip in half. "Thomas Hall, I'm not for sale.

Take your damn money back." Brett Wallace, the guy I called my best friend, planted a fist squarely across my cheekbone. "You think you can buy a person with cash?

I was a blind idiot to ever call you my brother." From that day on, the entire department knew me as the wealthy predator who tried to purchase a classmate.

A year later, I stepped off the edge of a twelvestory roof.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back in that tiered auditorium on a Monday afternoon, listening to our academic advisor read Sadie Wells’s financial hardship notice.

The donation jar made its way down to my row. I reached into my pocket, pulled out a crumpled fivedollar bill, and dropped it into the slot.

Brett elbowed my shoulder from behind. "Just five bucks? Aren't you the loaded one?" I offered a faint, hollow smile and said nothing. In this life? Eighty grand?

She wouldn't see a single cent. 1 When I fell from the twelfth floor, the last image burned into my retinas was Brett Wallace standing on the opposite breezeway, his arm wrapped firmly around Sadie Wells's shoulders.

He was smiling. The wind had roared in my ears, drowning out the world until there was nothing left. And then I woke up.

I woke up to a crisp Monday afternoon in the third week of our sophomore fall, sitting in the seventh row by the window of the lecture hall. Our student advisor, Mrs.

Gordon, stood at the podium holding a printed form, her voice laced with that practiced, maternal pity. "Students, as many of you know, Sadie Wells's mother has been diagnosed with endstage kidney failure and requires immediate surgery.

The university has opened an emergency aid channel, but the financial deficit remains significant. I am urging everyone today..." I stared at her lips as they moved.

It was sickeningly familiar. In my past life, she had delivered this exact monologue, cadence and all, without altering a single syllable.

The metal collection tin was already being passed down the front row. Tens, twenties, singles. The clatter of spare coins hitting the tin bottom echoed through the room.

By the time the tin reached the fifth row, Brett’s voice drifted over my shoulder. "Come on, Thomas. Your family owns a pharmaceutical outfit.

You’ve gotta lead the charge on this one." I didn’t turn around.

In my last life, the moment those words left his mouth, I had slipped out of the room and driven straight to the bank without a second thought. Eighty thousand dollars.

Roughly a third of my personal trust fund. I hadn’t even put my name on the wire transfer. And what did that get me?

Sadie tracked the origin account, dragged me out in front of a hundred and twenty students, and shredded the receipt into confetti.

Then Brett punched me in the jaw, accusing me of treating a destitute girl like property.

Then everyone on campus labeled me "Thomas the Creep." Then my father’s manufacturing supply chains were cut, driving our family business to the brink of bankruptcy.

And finally, my body took flight from the rooftop. The collection tin landed in my hands. The metal felt cold against my skin. I slid my right hand into my front pocket.

Inside was a hundreddollar bill, three twenties, a ten, and a few loose dollar bills and coins. In my past life, I had pulled out my debit card.

In this life— I pinched a single fivedollar bill between two fingers. It fluttered through the slit, landing quietly at the bottom.

I passed the tin to the student on my left, pulled my hand back, and returned my gaze to the oak trees swaying outside the window.

A heavy silence lingered behind me for about three seconds.

Then came Brett’s voice again, dripping with that breezy, fraternal humor he always weaponized. "Holy shit, Thomas, five bucks?

Didn't you drop two grand covering bottle service for the boys last weekend?" A ripple of low chuckles passed through the nearby rows. I turned my head slightly to look at him.

He was slouched back in the ninth row, his long legs propped up on the backrest of an empty seat in front of him, wearing the exact "loyal brother" grin I had trusted for three years.

My loyal brother. I let a mild smile touch my lips. "Didn't bring much on me today. Just spare change." My tone was completely flat, as indifferent as remarking on the weather.

Brett blinked, momentarily thrown off balance.

He was waiting for the Thomas of the past—the boy who would flush red, stammer an apology, and foolishly promise to write a massive check after class. That boy was dead.

The scar running across my psyche from that twelvestory drop was invisible to everyone else, but I felt every inch of it. "Fair enough, man," he said with an easy shrug, letting it drop.

The tin moved on. When the dismissal bell rang, Mrs. Gordon gathered the donations and left.

As I packed my notebook into my bag, my peripheral vision caught Sadie sitting in the far corner of the third row. Her head was bowed low, her shoulders rigid with tension.

In my past life, I would have watched her from afar with aching tenderness. I would have wanted to carry the weight of the world for her.

Now, I withdrew my gaze, zipped my backpack, and walked toward the exit.

At the double doors, a heavy arm slung across my shoulder. "Thomas, hitting the courts tonight?" Brett asked. I glanced sideways at him.

His eyes held an easy warmth, the corner of his mouth cocked upward in his signature charismatic pose. God, I knew that face so well.

I had let that face fool me for years, believing he was the truest friend I had in the world.

Right up until he shattered my cheekbone against the linoleum floor, my mouth filling with copper as blood dripped down my chin. "Step on his blood," he had practically commanded the crowd. "You don't deserve to breathe the same air as her." I offered a slight smile. "Not tonight.

I have to look over some vendor documents for my dad." Brett raised a brow. "Since when does a sophomore need to worry about a pharma company's paperwork?" "Just keeping an eye on things.

Supply chains have been volatile lately; I want to understand our exposure." I threw the line out casually. Yet my eyes stayed locked on his.

A brief flicker passed through his pupils—there and gone in under half a second. In my previous life, I would have missed it completely.

But a man who has lived through his own death views the world through a microscope. That flicker was guilt.

Brett’s father, Wayne Wallace, owned a major medical equipment distribution firm.

In my past life, it was Wayne who quietly orchestrated the coordinated boycott among my father’s three primary raw material suppliers.

Back then, I spent months wondering why my best friend’s father would deliberately destroy mine. Now I understood.

Once my reputation was ruined, my father’s business partners felt it was toxic to be associated with a man whose son was a disgraced predator.

Wayne Wallace merely gave them a gentle push. A convenient favor that eliminated his son's rival while swallowing our market share whole.

A brilliant fatherson tag team. "Alright, handle your business then," Brett patted my shoulder and turned away. I stood in the crowded corridor, watching his receding back.

At this exact hour in my past life, I had been standing at the teller counter wiring lifesaving funds. In this life, I wouldn't part with a single cent.

It wasn't even about hating Sadie Wells. It was simply that dying had taught me a fundamental truth: Some people’s pride is nourished solely by the blood of others.

And I was no longer offering myself as fuel.

Returning to my dorm room that evening, I sent my father a text: "Dad, has Todd Whitlock over at Whitlock Pharma seemed off lately?" Whitlock Pharma was our primary chemical precursor supplier.

In my previous life, the first fatal blow to our supply chain was struck by them.

Two minutes later, my dad sent a voice note, his tone sleepy and relaxed: "Why the sudden question, kiddo? Everything’s smooth.

We’re actually playing eighteen holes next weekend." "Nothing, just curious," I replied.

I tossed my phone onto the desk, lay back on my mattress, and stared up at the wooden slats of the bunk above me. The adjacent bed belonged to Brett. He wasn't back yet.

Most likely at the campus gym. Or at the library—Sadie studied on the third floor every evening from seven to nine. In my past life, I had no idea Brett harbored feelings for Sadie.

I genuinely believed he was just being a protective friend, stepping in to confront me on her behalf because I had been too awkward to confess properly. What a joke.

He wasn’t defending her honor. He was kicking me off the stage so he could step directly into the spotlight. "Look at me.

I’m Brett Wallace, the true protector of Sadie Wells." "The creep who tried to degrade her with money? I cast him out with my own hands." What a flawless hero.

I rolled over, facing the blank wall. This time around, Brett, your stage is gone. Because I refuse to play my part.

Without the explosive charge of my eighty thousand dollars, you have no fuse to light. You’re just another broke college student with nothing remarkable to offer.

You want to win Sadie Wells’s heart? Open your own wallet.

Let’s see if your monthly threehundreddollar allowance can cover a single session of dialysis. 2 The tally of the classroom fundraiser was announced three days later. Mrs.

Gordon posted an update in the department group chat: "Total funds raised: $626." Six hundred and twentysix dollars. From a cohort of one hundred and twenty students.

What had the total been in my previous life? Eighty thousand, six hundred and twentysix. Because my check had carried the entire burden.

Stripped of my fortune, the real generosity of the room was laid bare. Six hundred and twentysix dollars.

To an endstage kidney patient staring down a surgical bill of over sixty grand, it wasn't even a drop in the ocean. The group chat remained dead silent for a long time.

Eventually, someone typed: "Stay strong, Sadie." Someone else dropped a prayinghands emoji. Sadie never replied. I locked my screen. Entirely predictable.

On Thursday at noon, I sat down in the campus dining hall with my tray.

Moments later, Brett slid his plate onto the table across from me. "Thomas, need to run something by you." I chewed a forkful of roasted chicken. "Shoot." He leaned in, lowering his voice, carrying the faint tang of postworkout sweat. "Look, that classroom drive barely broke six hundred.

Her mom's surgical gap is still at least fifty grand." I didn't take the bait. He pressed on. "I was thinking... your family’s doing great.

Maybe you could—" "No." I swallowed, washing it down with water.

Brett froze midsentence. "...What?" "I said no," I repeated, my cadence identical to stating we were out of napkins.

It was likely the first time in his life he had ever received an unvarnished refusal from me.

He sat stunned for two seconds before forcing a chuckle, smoothing over the friction. "Haha, man, let me finish. I'm not saying you cover it all.

I meant a few of us pitch in, and you take the bigger slice—" "I told you. No." I placed my fork down and met his eyes directly. He stared back.

The easy grin remained plastered across his mouth, but the warmth in his eyes had completely vanished. "Thomas, come on..." He moistened his dry lips. "Her mom is literally dying.

You—" "What does that have to do with me?" The sentence was quiet, delivered with an eerie calmness. Yet to Brett, it landed like an openhanded slap.

He physically leaned back an inch, his expression morphing into something complicated and dark. I recognized that look.

I had never seen it in my past life because I had never given him a reason to wear it—I had volunteered to be his financial sacrificial lamb.

That look meant: "Why aren't you following the script?" I picked up my fork again. "If you want to save her, pay for it yourself," I said evenly. "You get a grand a month from your folks.

Cut back eight hundred, and by the end of the year, you’ve got ten grand." Brett’s jaw tightened. I knew damn well he wouldn't.

He spent four hundred on a single night out and dropped two hundred on limitededition sneakers without blinking.

His altruism existed exclusively when spending other people's resources. "What the hell is wrong with you lately?" He scrutinized my face, his voice shifting into a tone of patronizing fraternal concern. "Are you under too much stress?

Midterms? Or is something going on at home—" "I'm fine." I finished the last bite on my plate and stood up with the tray. "Got a two o'clock lecture.

Catch you later." Walking out of the cafeteria, I could feel eyes burning into my spine. Not just Brett's. Several guys from our usual circle were watching too.

I couldn't care less. In my past life, I had traded my very existence caring about the opinions of those around me. Having died once, I knew those opinions were entirely worthless.

The afternoon lecture was macroeconomics. Sitting in my usual spot, I kept my textbook open, though my mind was miles away.

I had already begun tracking our corporate vulnerabilities.

Todd Whitlock at Whitlock Pharma was the linchpin—in my past life, he had broken ties the fastest, severing an eightyear partnership overnight.

I had to uncover what leverage was used against him. Back then, I never had the chance to investigate because I was already an outcast, drowning in public humiliation.

This time was different. I possessed a full year of foresight. Wayne Wallace hadn't struck until the end of our sophomore spring, right after my reputation was pulverized.

Right now, it was only the third week of the fall term. I had seven months. Midway through the lecture, my phone buzzed in my pocket. A group announcement from Mrs.

Gordon: "@All Sadie Wells is currently exploring broader fundraising efforts. Any student wishing to assist further may contact me directly.

We also encourage everyone to share her GoFundMe campaign on their social platforms. Thank you all." I swiped the banner away.

Five minutes later, responses trickled in: "We want to help, Mrs.

Gordon, but we're broke college kids! [crying face]" "Shared on my story!" "Praying for you, Sadie!" A deluge of hollow support and heart emojis.

In my past life, I had shared those same links too.

Before I wired the eighty thousand, I had felt guilty, convincing myself that a social media share wasn't enough, that real care required sacrifice.

So I poured everything into the fire. Only to be publicly eviscerated by the recipient. The irony was bitter. This time, I didn't even bother to repost.

By ninethirty that evening, the dorm was quiet. Brett sat on his bunk with his headset on, grinding through an online game, completely ignoring my presence.

He had been passiveaggressive since lunch. Not yet ready for an open confrontation, of course.

He still needed his "rich best friend." As long as I held utility, he wouldn't burn the bridge.

In my previous life, he only turned on me because a superior theater presented itself—humiliating me in front of Sadie earned him her eternal gratitude.

In this life, I denied him that stage. Without an anonymous massive transfer, there was no dramatic unmasking.

Without the unmasking, he had no moral high ground from which to strike. All he could do was maintain his facade of brotherhood. And stew in his own impotence.

I relished watching him choke on it. My phone buzzed again. Not a group ping. A direct message. From Sadie Wells.

I stared at the name on the screen for a long time. "Hi Thomas." In my previous life, she had never initiated a conversation with me. She hadn't needed to.

Someone had already solved her eightythousanddollar nightmare anonymously. Now, with the money gone, she was forced to look for lifelines. I didn't open the chat.

I flipped the phone face down and closed my eyes. It wasn't malice.

It was simply that I had already carved my heart out for her once, only to watch it ground into dust under her heel. I wasn't about to offer it up a second time.

When I checked the phone the next morning, the notification remained. I tapped it open. "Hi Thomas, I'm really sorry to bother you.

The shortfall for my mother's surgery is still overwhelming, and I've set up a GoFundMe page. Would you mind sharing the link to your Instagram story or social feed?

Thank you." Polite, measured, carefully within bounds. Any decent classmate would have hit repost without hesitation.

I typed back: "Sure." Then I opened the link, let the page load, and closed the browser without sharing it. Two words of compliance cost me nothing. But the actual promotion?

Not a chance. I knew the trajectory of this timeline. In my previous life, her crowdfunding campaign stalled at under four thousand dollars in its first week.

Her story lacked viral appeal outside the university bubble—a workingclass student with a sick parent was an everyday tragedy, not headline material. Four thousand dollars.

A drop in a blazing furnace. Next, she would begin borrowing. The university hardship grant would yield perhaps two thousand.

Combined with the classroom collection, she would barely scrape six or seven thousand. Leaving an insurmountable chasm of over fifty thousand dollars.

In my previous life, I absorbed that entire chasm alone. This time, nobody would catch her fall. I slipped the phone into my pocket and grabbed my bag for class.

Walking through the lobby of the business school, I saw Sadie standing near the community bulletin board, holding a stack of freshly printed flyers featuring a QR code for her campaign.

She wore a faded, washedout hoodie, her hair scraped back tightly, her complexion pale and hollowed by severe dark circles. She was waiting for the morning rush to hand them out.

I walked straight past her. She looked up, our eyes brushing for an instant. I didn't break stride. My pace remained entirely unbroken.

In the edge of my vision, her eyes lingered on me for two seconds before dropping away. She didn't call my name.

Likely assuming that because I had replied "Sure" but never posted, I was merely flaky and unreliable. Fine by me.

In my past life, she found me repulsive because "you tried to buy my dignity." In this life, she found me unhelpful because "you couldn't even bother to share a link." It made no difference.

I took the stairs two at a time to the third floor. Over the next week, the urgency surrounding Sadie's family gradually evaporated from classroom gossip.

Campus empathy had a short halflife—sympathy in week one, indifference in week two, total detachment by week three. Except for Brett. Because his grand game was stalling out.

Friday night, back in the room. Brett returned from the rec center drenched in sweat.

As he sat on the edge of his mattress toweldrying his neck, he suddenly spoke up. "Thomas, I feel like you've been acting weird lately." I was reviewing the publicly available shareholder filings for my father's company. "How so?" "You used to be different," he tossed the damp towel aside, fixing his eyes on me. "You were generous to everyone, always down to help.

Lately you're just... cold." "I grew up." I didn't look up from my screen. He fell silent for a few beats. "Can I ask you something real?

Don't get pissed." "Go ahead." "With Sadie... do you seriously not give a damn?" Only then did I lift my head to meet his gaze.

His face was a masterclass in solemnity, brushed with just enough sorrow to look like a concerned friend trying to steer me right. I knew that routine intimately.

I had swallowed three years of that counterfeit sincerity. "I gave five bucks," I said. A tiny twitch rippled through his jaw muscles. Almost imperceptible.

He was choking on his own words. "Bro... five bucks? You're actually saying that out loud?" He let out a dry, incredulous laugh. "How much did you give?" I countered smoothly.

He paused. "I... threw in thirty." Thirty dollars. His parents sent him twelve hundred a month. He had contributed two and a half percent. My monthly allowance was three thousand.

My five dollars was a fraction of a percent.

His unspoken logic was clear: I was expected to shoulder the moral tax of other people's expectations simply because my family had wealth.

Because I had money, I "ought" to carry the burden. Because I had resources, withholding them made me an unfeeling monster.

That exact logic had backed me off a roof in another life. "Thirty," I nodded, giving him a faint smile. "More than me, then.

You're a true humanitarian." I lowered my eyes back to my laptop. Cutting off the conversation entirely.

Brett sat frozen on his bed, his gaze lingering on the top of my head for a long time. He didn't speak another word that night.

Yet I knew the irritation was festering beneath his skin.

His script had been simple: subtly guilt me into financing the operation, let Sadie feel indebted to "the generous donor," position himself as the noble liaison who made it happen, and harvest her affection in the end.

With my wallet locked, the very first step of his sequence had jammed. All he could do was panic. And a panicking man always makes mistakes.

I was content to wait. 3 Midway through the third week. Sadie’s campaign stalled out at roughly four thousand two hundred dollars. The numbers completely flatlined.

No one in the department chat brought it up anymore.

Wednesday afternoon was open, so I spent it in the university library crossreferencing industry databases for our supply chain logistics.

My father’s firm specialized in generic pharmaceuticals, relying on three core chemical suppliers: Whitlock, Fontaine Bio, and Griffin Materials.

In my previous life, all three pulled their supply contracts simultaneously at the end of the spring semester.

My father was caught entirely unprepared; production lines halted for two months, resulting in massive breachofcontract penalties that crippled the business.

At the time, everyone chalked it up to ruthless market forces. Even my dad believed it.

Only after my death, piecing together the timeline in my head, did I realize the horrific precision: the supply crash occurred the exact week my reputation imploded on campus.

It wasn't an accident. Wayne Wallace moved in the same regional medical circles and maintained longstanding personal ties with the heads of all three suppliers.

It would have taken him just three phone calls. "Have you heard about Robert Hall’s kid? Tried to purchase a female student on campus for eighty grand. Disgusting scandal.

You sure you want to risk your corporate brand with an outfit like that? If regulatory bodies look into their cash flows..." Three calls were all it took.

Businessmen were allergic to reputational contagion. Better yet, Wayne had sweetened the deal by offering to absorb their production quotas into his own distribution pipelines.

A single stone, two birds. Crushing his son's romantic rival while devouring my father's operational foundation. In this life, I had given him no leverage.

No eightythousanddollar stunt. No predator label. He had no ammunition. Yet that wasn't enough to guarantee safety.

A lack of ammunition simply meant he would look for another weapon. I had to strike proactively.

Digging through Whitlock Pharma’s public SEC disclosures, I noticed a massive shortterm debt maturing early next spring; their operational cash flow was razorthin.

If an outside party offered Todd Whitlock a marginally better distribution advance, he would have every financial incentive to jump ship.

I snapped photos of the balance sheet and saved them into a secure note. Walking across the quad back to the dorm, I dialed my father. "Dad." "Hey, Thomas.

What's up?" "That supply agreement with Todd Whitlock—when does our current term expire?" A brief pause on the line. "Why are you suddenly so interested in our contracts?" "I'm working on a supply chain case study for my corporate finance seminar, using our company as the model," I lied smoothly. "I noticed Whitlock’s contract ends in March.

Given their balance sheet, they might face liquidity pressure around then. It makes them vulnerable to being poached by competitors."