Chapter 2

I stared at the Wi-Fi name that refused to change. My back was snug against the front door, which shuddered with every blow from David outside.

His voice had gone hoarse from screaming, rough and ragged as he roared, "Get out here! If my wife loses our babies, I'll make you pay with your lowly life!"

I didn't open the door. I stayed crouched against it, clutching the unplugged power cord, with only one thought—I could not let this life end the same way as the last one.

Last time, they turned the whole thing into a public spectacle. They livestreamed everything. The internet doxxed me. My girlfriend jumped off the building, while I eventually worked myself to death on a construction site.

The ambulance came and left soon after.

Gradually, the commotion in the hallway died down. Only a few neighbors lingered outside, whispering among themselves.

I never stepped outside or even turned on the lights. Just like that, I sat there in the darkness, staring at the stubborn Wi-Fi name, until dawn.

Early the next morning, before I could come up with a plan, someone knocked on my door again. This time, it wasn't violent pounding; it was slow and calm.

There were six measured knocks with a pause in the middle. Somehow, it felt like a debt collector announcing his arrival, though reality proved that I wasn't that far off.

I peered through the peephole. Five or six people were standing outside.

Lynette sat in a wheelchair, her face sallow. A blanket covered her protruding belly, and she looked utterly drained. Behind her stood David with his hands on the wheelchair.

Aside from him, there were also two elderly couples. Judging by the resemblance, I surmised they were both sets of parents. The last man was middle-aged, wearing glasses and carrying a leather briefcase, his expression all business.

I cracked the door open just enough to show half my face.

David's eyes turned bloodshot when he saw me. However, this time, he didn't yell. He deliberately forced down his anger and adopted a low, restrained voice.

"Four thousand dollars, hospital bill. You can decide whether you want to transfer it or pay cash. That's for the hospitalization and the medication to keep the babies alive."

As he spoke, the man with the briefcase pulled out a stack of paperwork and slid it through the gap in the door. There were emergency room fees, hospital admission deposit, medication to prevent miscarriage, follow-up ultrasound charges…

On top was the admission form. The diagnosis read, "Threatened miscarriage. Uterine contractions induced by severe emotional distress."

I pushed the papers back. "I told you. A Wi-Fi signal can't go through walls and affect an unborn baby. Besides, our apartments aren't even next to each other. There's another unit between us."

"So, you're saying this has nothing to do with you?"

Mrs. Miller rushed forward from behind and jabbed a finger in my face. "My daughter went into labor pains right outside your door, and you dare say you're not responsible? Everyone saw that disgusting Wi-Fi name of yours!"

"Was that even my router?" I shot back, my voice rising. "I unplugged the power cord, yet the Wi-Fi signal was still there. You think that's my fault? How's that my fault?"

I scoffed. "I even posted a photo of the unplugged router in the group chat. If we're talking about responsibility, let's start with actual evidence! The router was disconnected. There's no way my Wi-Fi should've still been broadcasting!"

The man in glasses finally spoke. His tone was calm and measured, as if he were negotiating a business deal. "Mr. Sam Dickson, right? I'm the attorney representing the Butchers. As things stand, the situation isn't looking very favorable for you."

He held up three fingers. "First, the Wi-Fi name was indeed being broadcast from the router registered to your apartment. Second, you repeatedly changed the network name, and every single change coincided with my client's contractions.

"Third, the hallway security cameras can verify exactly when those changes were made."

He adjusted his glasses. "If you're unwilling to settle this privately, we can certainly take the legal route. But if it comes to that… we're no longer talking about just four grand."

At some point, our neighbors had filled the hallway.

The elderly woman who had berated me for "not being a man" last night was the first to chime in. "Young man, if you did it, own up to it. Look at that poor woman. She's in a wheelchair. How can you still deny it?"

The middle-aged man from upstairs joined in. "Just pay them. If this ends up in court, you'll be the one with the most damage."

Then, my across-the-hall neighbor spoke. He had been the first person to open his door after David started shouting last night.

Standing at the front of the crowd, the old man looked at me with the weary disappointment of an elder reprimanding a stubborn child.

"Kid, you've got to admit it when you've done something wrong. She's carrying three babies. If they don't make it, will you truly be able to live with yourself?"

I tightened my grip on the doorknob until my knuckles turned white. Every single voice in my radius was speaking for the Butchers. They were all telling me to take accountability.

If I refused, I was heartless, a deadbeat, a man trying to dodge what he owed. Every time I tried to argue, they came back with the same answer.

"The router doesn't make any sense."

"There's no other explanation."

"You must've done something."

I had no proof that the Wi-Fi signal had nothing to do with me, and in the absence of proof, everyone simply assumed it did.

My hand was shaking as I transferred the four thousand dollars, not because of the money, but because of the humiliation. It was reminiscent of when someone forced your face into the dirt and demanded you admit they were right.

I didn't waste another second after that. That very morning, I contacted a realtor and rented an apartment on the far east side of the city, as far away from this neighborhood as I could get.

I told no one, paid three months' rent up front, and even threw in an extra month's agency fee to speed up the paperwork.

That afternoon, I packed. By the evening, I moved out. I left the old router behind, tossing it straight into the dumpster downstairs.

When I got to my new place, I unboxed a brand-new router. It had never been opened before, and I was the one who peeled the factory seal off the packaging.

When it came to setting the Wi-Fi name, I hesitated for five whole minutes. In the end, I carefully typed in something that couldn't possibly be connected to babies or miscarriages.

"Nice Weather Today".

Just three words, no hidden meaning, no room for misunderstanding.

I pressed Enter. The modification was successful. The status bar refreshed, and the name read exactly as I had set it.

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. A new router, a new Wi-Fi name, a new apartment, and even a new internet provider. Surely, that should do the trick. This life wouldn't be anything like before.

Early the next morning, I was jolted awake by the sound of someone cooking. The noises were muffled through the wall—not from upstairs or downstairs, but from the unit next door, the wall directly against my living room.

Then, I heard a woman's gentle voice, softly talking to her children. "The three of you better be good in there. Stop kicking Mommy, okay?"

I recognized that voice.

I shot out of bed and lunged for my computer. In the bottom-right corner of the screen, the Wi-Fi name sat there as quietly as ever.

"Invincible Wall-Piercing Baby Killer".

I yanked open my front door and sprinted into the hallway. At that exact moment, the apartment next door opened, too.

A pregnant woman stepped out, her huge belly leading the way. She held a mug of hot water in one hand. When she saw me, she tilted her head ever so slightly and smiled.

In all my lives, I had seen that smile twice.

The first time was when I had finally admitted to setting that problematic Wi-Fi name in my previous life. The second was when she had first blocked my doorway in this life.

"What a coincidence. We're neighbors again," she said.