From Kin to Killers

When I opened my eyes, sunlight streamed through the crack in the curtains, casting a golden ribbon across the floor. I reached out and touched the pillow—it was the buckwheat pillow we always used at home, soft and comforting, unlike the stiff, white pillows from the hospital. The calendar on the table lay open. I reached out and picked it up, my fingertips skimming over the line that read 12th June. That date pierced my mind like a needle, making my temples throb in pain. On this very day in my past life, my sister-in-law Quinn Johnson sat right here on this couch in my home, scribbling all over a US dollar bill with a pen. She said that by throwing this defaced money into a busy intersection, she could "transfer" her fetus's genetic disease to another person, and the illness would pass onto them in the crowd. At that time, I was a chief physician at the municipal hospital. I grabbed the pen from her and scowled. "This is superstition, and it will hurt your child. This is what modern medicine exists for." She snapped back sharply, "Doctors aren't omnipotent! My mom says this method really works—much better than those bitter medicines you prescribe." I didn't argue with her. I just turned around and called my university mentor. He pulled some strings again to get in touch with a genetic expert in the capital city, City A, making three trips back and forth before he could finally schedule the consultation. During those three months, I accompanied Quinn to her check-ups every week, personally ensuring she took the specialist's prescribed medication, afraid that any slip-up could happen. But in the end? Quinn gave birth to a girl, then held the baby, crying in the hospital room all afternoon. Then suddenly, she stormed into my office, pointed at me, and yelled, "You swapped out my son." Later, on the hospital's rooftop, she grabbed my arm and shouted, "You ruined my son. You should pay with your life," before suddenly pushing me off. The sting of the wind on my face still lingers in my memory, like countless tiny knives slicing into me. I watched Quinn once again drawing on the bill, her movements even more forceful than before. "Villa, do you think this method will work?" Quinn looked up at me, her eyes full of hope mixed with a hint of uncertainty, her hand unconsciously rubbing her belly. "My mom said that crossroads are crowded with people, which can carry away the sickness and turn it into a son, so our family can continue the bloodline." I picked up the plain water on the table and took a sip, then forced out a softer smile than usual: "Of course it works. Auntie has lived most of her life and knows these old tricks well. She wouldn't be wrong." Quinn clearly breathed a sigh of relief but quickly furrowed her brows again. "But before, you mentioned gene therapy—is it really effective? My mom says it costs a lot and might not even work." "How could that possibly compare to the methods handed down from our ancestors?" I cut her off, deliberately lowering my voice, as if sharing a secret. "Haven't you heard? Those experts treat superficial illnesses like colds and fevers. What we have is congenital—they can't cure it. It's just a waste of money and suffering." She blinked and looked at me with a bit more trust, no longer hesitant like before, and gently nodded. I added another line, my voice softer as I deliberately leaned towards her: "Besides, this method not only cures illness but can also change the baby's gender. When you give birth to a healthy boy, my brother will love you even more." She curled the corner of her mouth, her previously furrowed brows relaxing, and the light in her eyes brightened: "Yes! This is the reliable one! I'll go throw it away now—better to do it when more people are around at noon, so the sickness leaves faster!" She grabbed the money and stuffed it into her pocket, barely finishing putting on her shoes before dashing to the door. The door slammed shut with a bang, making the framed photos on the wall shake. I sat on the sofa, my fingertips icy cold. The hand that had just held the water cup still carried a bit of warmth, but it quickly faded, leaving my palms slick with sweat. In my past life, kindness only earned me a tragic death—falling from great heights, not even a whole body left behind. This time, I'm not going to be that stupid sucker again. If she wants to stray off the right path and cling to superstition, then I'll push her to fall even faster.