How Did 'He Killed Me Nine' Become A Popular Meme?

My best friend loved playing 'jokes.' On my birthday, she projected my worst photos in front of everyone, saying she just wanted to 'liven up the mood.' When I was on my period, she deliberately gave me a defective pad. Even when she saw the stain on my clothes, she said nothing–claiming she was helping me 'get more attention.' After I started dating, she edited my photos into suggestive images and spread them across social media groups, pricing them like a product. When I finally snapped and confronted her, she just laughed. "I'm just helping you test your boyfriend," she said. "If he doubts you, then he doesn't really love you. How can you blame me?" Later, a man used the information from those posts to track me down and harm me. I did not survive what followed. However, when I opened my eyes again, I was back to the day she first shared those images.

I am one of the last of the merfolk, born with the ability to create Mermaid's Pearls. Pearls that can bring the dead back to life. After the werewolf, Kyle, saved me from human hunters, I would have done anything for him. He died nine times expanding his pack’s territory. Each time, my pearl brought him back. The ninth time, I was too weak to even stand. But the first thing he did when he woke up was pull a sexy omega she-wolf into his arms and flirt, "Baby, you smell incredible—not like Althea. Her scent does nothing for me." He glanced at my pale face, annoyed. "Go rest. Get ready for the next time. I'll need you again soon." The next time? He had no idea. There would be no next time. I only had nine pearls. And I'd just given him my last.

Everyone says I have the face of an angel. However, I choose to take a knife and slash my own beautiful face. When my twin sister sees the drastic change in my appearance, she loses it and screams at me, wanting to know why I ruined my face. In my past life, she couldn't stop stealing food deliveries. When our next-door neighbor caught her, she shoved the pregnant woman so hard that she miscarried. The woman was seven months along, and both she and her baby died. But my sister just shrugged it off, bragging that she was some popular influencer, and two pathetic lives didn't matter. She even slapped down a 50-dollar bill like it was nothing, just to humiliate them. "Still trying to scam my money? For all we know, that woman's baby was already dead inside her. Your family must've done pretty awful things to deserve losing two lives like that!" When the dead woman's family showed up at our door with kitchen knives, ready for revenge, my sister chickened out and hid. Before that, she tricked me into coming home instead. The second I walked up to our front door, the grief-stricken husband slashed at my neck, severing the artery. I died right there on the spot. After I died, everyone spat on my memory. They all said I got what I deserved, and my parents covered up what my sister really did. She even had the nerve to come forward and apologize for me, cashing in on my death while hooking up with my boyfriend. The two of them became this perfect couple online and made tons of money. This time around, I decide to destroy my face. I want to see how she will steal my identity and pin her crimes on me now!

On the day the male influencer patient was discharged, he posted a tearful video accusing my chaste, principled doctor wife of sexually assaulting him. In the clip, he cowered in a corner of the hospital, trembling, his clothes disheveled. With a terrified cry of "Dr. Shelby," he abruptly cut the footage. Overnight, my wife became a monster in a white coat—public enemy number one across the internet. We begged him, again and again, to come forward and clarify the truth. Instead, he posted an injury assessment report and wept about being bullied by his doctor. My wife had no way to defend herself. She was suspended pending investigation—and in the end, she leapt from the thirtieth floor. I endured humiliation and waited for the truth to surface. When it finally did, I obtained a reexamination report that proved her innocence. But by then, no one cared about the truth anymore. And I, consumed by despair, died of cancer. When I opened my eyes again, I had returned to the day that patient was first admitted. This time, I begged my wife to take leave—I wanted to take her away from this doomed fate. But my gentle wife wrapped her arms around me, her eyes red, and said, "Don't be afraid, honey. This time… I won't run away."

In the Kingdom of Avelune, no one dies without warning. Every soul is born beneath a glowing number, counting down the exact day death will come. Elara Veyne has no number at all. She's spent her life feared for it, until she locks eyes with a stranger in the rain who shouldn't be standing at all. His number reads zero. He's breathing anyway. And when he looks at her, it isn't with fear. It's with recognition. His name is Kael Draven. The kingdom calls him the Black Villain, a man rumored to have killed thousands and to be impossible to kill himself. He tells her she's late, as if she was always meant to arrive. He knows her name before she speaks it. Details about her life no stranger could know. Every instinct tells Elara to run. But Kael keeps finding her. Keeps saving her from dangers he predicts before they happen. And the longer she stays near him, the more the world unravels: a woman who dies and wakes the next morning with no memory of it, a painting centuries old bearing both their faces exactly as they look now, dreams of a golden room she's certain she's never seen and somehow knows by heart. Piece by piece, the truth surfaces. Elara has lived this life before. Died in it, over and over, in ways she cannot remember and Kael cannot forget. Behind his violence is a man who has spent three centuries choosing to love her again, every time the world takes her from him. Now something ancient is waking, and it has decided they are both mistakes to correct. Elara is the reason the world keeps breaking. Stopping it might mean losing the one person who has never let her go.

My mother was once adored and protected by three men. As such, I had three fathers. After her death, I was raised by one of the greatest doctors, the richest man in Theala, and an award-winning actor. For 13 years, I was showered with overwhelming adoration. That was until three years ago—the day they adopted Erin, an orphan girl. From then on, they began to dote on her. When she accused me of stealing her necklace, they tore my room apart in their search, smashing my most cherished music box in the process. They only felt remorse when they saw me sobbing over the shards. As compensation, they bought me every music box they could find. When she claimed I mocked her for being an orphan, they forced me to write a hundred apology letters as punishment. They only massaged my hands in remorse upon seeing them trembling so badly that I could no longer feed myself. When Erin accused me of shredding her gown, they locked me in the dark basement, starving me for three whole days. When I was let out, they were filled with remorse upon realizing how much weight I had lost. Their bloodshot eyes watched over the grand feast they prepared as an apology. All of that lasted until Erin poisoned my cup of water. I kept coughing up blood as my body grew weaker by the day. Daniel only diagnosed me with malnutrition and made me take prescribed supplements. Unbeknownst to him, those supplements only hastened the poison's effects. After I collapsed at school, I went to the hospital for treatment. "You only have three days left to live," the doctor said. Why then… Why did my fathers drown themselves in sorrow and kill Erin after my death?