WNDR5041

She Poisoned My Coffee and now I transmigrated.

You drank the coffee, and now you are pressed against your own bedroom ceiling watching Vivienne dial 911 with hands so steady they could be rehearsed — because they were. The divorce papers are still on the desk, the joint account is frozen, and the moment the coroner signs, she inherits everything you spent a lifetime building. You have one heartbeat left, four people somewhere in or near this house, and no idea yet which one helped her pour the cup — as you slowly and painfully died. You know you died. But you woke up in a place still similar but it's definitely not the same earth.