Part 1A Second Chance at Survival

It was the last day of our family vacation.

Dad went out to grab late-night snacks, and Mom was in the bathroom taking a shower.

Suddenly, the hotel room door let out a sharp beep, and a strange man swiped a keycard and walked right in.

He locked the door behind him and headed straight for the bathroom.

I hid under the covers, absolutely terrified, sobbing as I dialed my dad’s number.

"Daddy, come back! Hurry!"

Dad sprinted all the way back to the hotel, bumping right into the man as he walked out of our room, casually pulling up his pants.

The man even smiled and greeted my dad.

"My bad, buddy. Walked into the wrong room."

The two of them got into a brutal fight in the hallway.

The man pushed my dad down the concrete fire escape stairs, then fled the scene without a trace.

The hotel claimed it was simply a system glitch—an extra keycard printed by mistake—and compensated us with $50,000.

But my mom never spoke another word after that night. A year later, she passed away in a psychiatric facility.

I was sent to live with my grandmother, haunted every single night by the sound of that electronic beep.

From then on, my nightmares played on an endless loop: sometimes my phone call caused my dad's death, sometimes not calling caused my mom's.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back to the year I was seven.

The front desk receptionist was smiling, handing two keycards across the counter to my dad.

I stared dead at the encoder next to her computer keyboard. Resting on it was a third card, its green light still blinking.

"Miss," I pointed at it. "Who are you giving that third keycard to?"

* * *

The receptionist's practiced, professional smile stiffened for a fraction of a second.

She glanced down at the card I was pointing to, then casually covered it with her palm.

"You're mistaken, sweetie. This is just a dud card. The system glitched and didn't write the information properly."

My dad looked down as well.

"A dud?"

"Yes, sir."

The receptionist smiled and slid the two real keycards into a paper sleeve.

"Sir, you are booked in the family suite on the 17th floor. Your two cards are ready."

"Breakfast is from 7:00 to 10:00 AM in the second-floor dining room."

As she spoke, she tried to nonchalantly sweep the third card under her hand into the recycle bin next to her.

"Don't throw it away!"

I let out a piercing scream and lunged across the counter, slamming my hands down over hers.

I didn't have much strength, but the sudden movement was startling.

The receptionist jumped, and the guests lined up behind us began casting strange looks in our direction.

My dad looked confused too.

"What's wrong, sweetie?"

I just stared at that card.

In my previous life, the police had investigated the hotel's backend system.

The hotel's official explanation was a system malfunction.

They claimed the receptionist accidentally encoded an extra keycard, which was later mistakenly picked up by another guest.

That was how that man was able to swipe open our door.

The hotel was willing to pay $50,000 in damages.

But by then, my dad was dead, and my mom had lost her mind.

My family was completely destroyed in an instant, yet everyone told me:

"The hotel already paid the settlement. It was just a tragic accident."

But my family could never come back.

"Daddy, take this card too."

The receptionist’s expression shifted. "Sir, this card is useless."

"If it’s a dud card and my kid wants to play with it, just let her have it."

"This..."

The receptionist tried to pull her hand back, but I gripped her wrist with everything I had.

"Didn't you say it was useless?"

"Why won't you give it to me?"

My dad finally sensed that something was off. He looked directly at the receptionist.

"Since this is an extra keycard printed for our room, we should have the right to dispose of it, shouldn't we?"

The receptionist’s smile looked strained.

My dad nodded.

"Alright."

"Then destroy it right now, right in front of me."

The receptionist didn't move.

A few seconds passed before she managed a forced smile.

"Of course."

She picked up the keycard and tapped it against the encoder machine next to the monitor.

"There you go, sir. It's completely wiped."

The machine flashed a red light.

The receptionist casually tossed the card into the recycle bin, smiling brightly. "It's completely useless now."

My dad patted my head.

"Alright, you feel better now?"

I didn't answer.

The events of my previous life were still vividly burned into my memory.

I remembered exactly what the police had told me during the investigation: a red light simply meant an invalid operation. It did not mean the card was wiped.

I shook my head frantically, looking up at my dad with tear-filled eyes.

"Daddy, I don't trust her. Let's test it ourselves, please?"

The receptionist froze entirely.

"Test what?"

I pointed at the recycle bin.

"The third card."

All the color instantly drained from her face.