Part 1The Pregnant Woman Who Murdered Me Is A Man

It was three in the afternoon when Rory Lynn, the newest hire, suddenly @-mentioned me in the company-wide chat—a group with hundreds of people.

[That bitch at desk 203, can you stop drumming on your keyboard? The vibration is giving me a stomachache!]

[My baby is trying to sleep in here. If your noise gives him a concussion, I’ll make sure your whole family pays the price!]

I immediately explained that I was rushing a critical proposal and, for the record, I was using a silent keyboard. But she wouldn't hear it.

I patiently tried to reason with her a few times, and to avoid any further conflict, I even requested permission to move my laptop out to the hallway to work.

I never imagined that a week later, she would burst into the break room, a steaming kettle of freshly boiled water in her hand, and pour it over my head.

I collapsed into the scalding puddle, skin peeling and shredded, yet she still slammed her high heel down on my head like a lunatic, crying hysterically:

"It’s your fault! I miscarried! Your keyboard noise killed my son!!”

My vision blurred, and I finally lost consciousness—never understanding, even as I died, how a silent keyboard could kill a person.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day she first cursed me out in the group chat.

Faced with her familiar abuse, I didn’t back down this time. I fired back immediately, my tone cold and sharp:

"Stop acting like a pregnant woman! Your damn rooster is bigger than mine!"

* * *

The message hit the group, and the hundreds of people who had been enthusiastically discussing strategies immediately fell silent.

A few seconds later, Rory Lynn’s messages exploded, flooding the screen:

[Anya Reed, what in God’s name are you talking about, you rotten bitch? I’m three months pregnant! My ultrasound reports are right here! How dare you slander me?!]

[Everyone, look! Anya Reed at 203 is just a barren cow who can’t stand to see anyone else have a baby!]

[@HR @Mr. Harrison, if people like this work here, I’m calling the police! This is defamation! This is a personal attack!]

Rory pitched a dramatic fit, and the moment she did, my colleagues rushed to her defense, their accusations pointed squarely at me.

Brenda from the Design Department:

[Anya, you’ve gone too far. How could you say something like that to a pregnant woman? That mouth is poison!]

Another person tried to placate Rory:

[Rory, calm down for the sake of the baby. Maybe Anya was just making a terrible joke.]

Rory wasn't about to let it go:

[A joke? Who makes a joke like that? I have nothing to say to her! She’s just jealous I married well and have my husband's child in my belly!]

[My pregnancy is already high-risk! The doctor told me to stay on strict bed rest!]

[And this whore is over here pounding on her keyboard like a damn jackhammer! If anything happens to my baby, I’m going to skin her alive!]

Other colleagues in the building started chiming in:

[Seriously, Rory said she felt ill. Can’t you just be quiet?]

[It's already late afternoon. Can’t that proposal wait until tomorrow? Why are you picking a fight with a pregnant woman?]

Watching them twist the truth, I started laughing—a cold, humorless sound.

In my previous life, that’s exactly how they had systematically driven me into a corner.

I explained countless times that I had a silent keyboard, and I worked in the stairwell just to accommodate her.

Yet, my reward was her pouring boiling water over me, scalding me from head to toe.

Before I died, my skin was burned off, my skull fractured by her heel, and Rory Lynn’s deranged face was the last thing I ever saw.

I closed my eyes, the scorching pain of the boiling water still a phantom brand on my soul.

Rage and hatred churned in my chest.

Rory was still furiously @-mentioning me in the chat:

[Cat got your tongue? Why aren’t you talking, you cheap whore? Are you feeling guilty?]

[Are you doing this on purpose? You don't want me to have peace, do you? I finally got pregnant, and you’re trying to kill my son, aren’t you?]

[If anything happens to him, can you pay for it? Will you pay with your life?]

“Pay with my life?”

“Should I pay for the shit you’re going to give birth to?”

I stared at those three words, unable to contain my fury any longer. I went to the chat and dropped a voice message in a low, chilling tone:

"Fine. Come over here right now. If you dare to drop your pants in front of the entire company, I, Anya Reed, will jump off this building right here and now, to pay for your son’s life!”