Biological Supercomputer System

One of my roommates at the dorm was a competitive person. Whenever I studied, she would be anxious. If I opened a package, she would ask me what I was buying. She would also pressure me to tell her my whereabouts. There was even a time when I turned in my bed, she suddenly opened my divider curtain and asked me if I was secretly studying. I was literally going to go insane, but our nonchalant counsellor told me that I was overreacting. After that, I failed to secure a postgraduate position, but she managed to study overseas. When she returned, she became my supervisor. She told everyone she met that I was a very competitive person, and she kept assigning a lot of tasks for me to do. In the end, I died from overworking. When I opened my eyes again, I saw her get into my bed. I recorded the sound of pages flipping and turned on the night light. I played the recording for the entire night. If she wanted to be anxious and lose her sleep, so be it!

A hell-recycle world within the modern world, designed for death or near-death individuals. With the greenhouse effect resulting in instability in hell, access to hell becomes restricted, and the game keeps the new souls busy while offering them a second chance to return to their lives before death, depending on their performance. A six-digit cash prize is awarded to the winning participants, with rewards ranging from reversed choices and time manipulation to wealth and more. The 100 Doors Challenge System was designed purposely for this world, to keep the growing audience (already existing souls) entertained. Chosen participants must die beautifully at each door. The fancier and more tragic the death, the higher the views. The story alternates between real-world broadcast control rooms, digital death arenas, and fragmented dreamlike worlds designed from Author Willa’s traumas, fears, and regrets and those of the participating ghosts. 100 Doors: Die Fabulously for the Audience. This story contains graphic adult themes, including explicit sexual content, psychological tension, dark humour, trauma, and scenes of coercion and moral ambiguity. It explores mature, disturbing, and emotionally intense situations within a fantasy-system setting. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

It all started with her dying and some random ass system coming up to her. --- Counterattacking the female lead Yu Meng: Easy, done, everything is solvable with violence. （￣︶￣）↗　 Female lead sacrificing her own best friend Yu Meng: I will put this bitch in her place. (●'◡'●) Boyfriend-male lead dumping the cannon fodder-me for the Bai Yueguang, white moonlight-female lead: Yu Meng: I am clearly way better than those losers, why do I have to pay attention to them? (✿◡‿◡) Destroying the reborn younger-sister with low IQ Yu Meng: My dearest sister, I don't bite. Come hehe (^◕.◕^) Me, the cannon fodder older sister, is accused by the stupid younger-sister female lead who is reborn, of killing her and stealing her life: Yu Meng: Oops, I robbed off your life again, sorry, not sorry ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Making the cheating couple suffer: Yu Meng: Ew but ugh, can we take a moment to appreciate my Husband? (❁'◡'❁) Fighting with the imperial harem beauties for the Emperor's love: Yu Meng:.... Help, the Emperor's acting weird. ('･ω･')? ------------------- "Husbanddddd, do you still love me?" "You have been asking the same thing for the 10th time this night (╬▔皿▔)╯"

Just because my sister, Yvonne Lindell, claims I swapped Grandma's medicine with sugar pellets and caused her death, Mom locks me inside the cremator. I kneel and beg, but Mom spits at me in disgust. "You wretched girl, stay still! You killed your grandma by secretly switching her medicine. Now go repent to her properly!" Dad hesitates, unable to bear it. "Maybe we should let her out. What if—" "What are you afraid of? Don't forget that she killed your mother! If we don't teach her a lesson this time, who knows who she'll kill next!" The voices outside the door gradually fade, and my heart sinks to the bottom. The flames slowly begin to lick at my body. In despair, I clutch Grandma's cold hand beside me. "Grandma, I'm sorry. I should've taken better care of your medicine. But I swear, I didn't replace it with sugar pellets. Maybe only in death, can I truly atone for this sin…"

In order to protect my father, I was tortured for ten hours, but my father was busy celebrating his adopted daughter’s eighteenth birthday. With my dying breath, I called my father and said, “Dad, it’s my birthday today. Could you wish me a happy birthday?” “You crazy monster! You got your mother killed in order to celebrate your birthday! How could you still ask me to celebrate your birthday? You should just die!” With that said, he hung up. The next day, my corpse was placed in different flower pots and put in front of a police station. My father was in charge of inspecting my corpse, and he could immediately tell that the murderer did this for revenge. What they did to me was cruel and made a mockery of the police’s authority. But he did not manage to tell that the deceased was the daughter he hated.

I had been married to Derek for six years, and we had a three-year-old son. He was poor, earning only $2,000 a month, but I had no complaints; I took care of everything at home for him. After getting dinner on the table for the whole family, I finally had a minute to check my phone. A video popped up on my feed: a twenty-two-year-old girl from a rural area whose hands, roughened by years of hard labor, looked like they belonged to a sixty-two-year-old woman. I looked down at my own hands, just as worn and scarred, and stared at them blankly before tapping into the comments. I expected people to feel bad for her. However, to my surprise, the comments section was flooded with a single sentiment: "Why would anyone marry a penniless loser?" One of the top-liked comments came from a couple; in their photo, they were pictured holding hands—fingers tightly intertwined—with the girl sporting a massive diamond ring. The accompanying caption read: "A man who truly loves you would never bear to let you suffer." I felt a pang of envy. Given the choice, who wouldn't want a glamorous life? As I was about to close the app, I accidentally tapped on the couple's photo, enlarging it. In the background, previously too blurry to make out, was a face I recognized. It looked exactly like my husband, Derek Sterling. I froze, and almost against my will, I tapped into the account's profile. Post after post of lavish photos of them together flooded my screen. And then I saw him clearly. The scar above his brow, the one he got when a shelf fell on him while protecting me, was still plainly visible. It was my husband. It was Derek.

Jethro Miles was an orphan sponsored by my dad. The moment I laid eyes on him, I flipped. Despite my family's objections, we dated for seven years, even as my dad threatened to disown me. Eventually, my dad relented and consented to our marriage. But as we exchanged rings, a young woman in a white dress burst into the venue, staring at Jethro with tears in her eyes. He chased after her, abandoning our wedding. Later, I learned that the woman was his childhood friend from the orphanage. Jethro desperately tried to explain, "Nancy grew up with me. She is like a sister to me. She's been through abuse and divorce. Please, give me time to help her, okay?" Tears blurred my vision as I watched him plead so fervently, my heart plummeting into despair. I managed, "Okay." Jethro took care of Nancy and her son as if they were his real family. What he didn't know were the two secrets I'd kept from him when my dad finally agreed to our marriage: I was pregnant, and I was dying.

When I was having a heart attack, my parents, my brother, and my fiancé were all at our family casino—celebrating Eva, our adopted daughter, at her twenty-first birthday, her official debut into the mafia world. The doctor refused to operate without a legal guardian’s signature. So I called them. My father’s assistant answered. “Sorry, Miss. The Don is in the middle of a toast.” My brother and mother let it ring until it went silent. Finally, my fiancé, Adam, picked up. Music roared behind him. I could hear laughter, glasses clinking. “Cecilia,” he said, impatient. “If you can’t even show up for Eva’s party, stop causing trouble. Today is Eva’s debut. Every Don from three territories is here. Whatever drama you’re playing can wait.” I lost count of how many times they chose her over me. So after this call, I stopped calling. I signed my own name. My family thought I’d finally learned to be obedient. But they should’ve known that in our world, silence only means one thing—I was preparing to disappear for good.

My flight was suddenly canceled, so I dragged my suitcase back home. As soon as I stepped inside, I saw torn black stockings scattered on the floor. This was the eighth time Simon Jones had brought a different woman home. The sound of running water and a young woman’s laughter echoed from the bathroom. I didn’t cry or make a scene. Instead, I sat quietly on the couch, waiting for them to finish. Everyone assumed I would continue being Simon’s devoted fool like before. But no one knew that the man I truly loved had returned. After tonight, Simon, the stand-in, would be discarded.

Everyone in the social circle of Kingsford said I was nothing more than a lapdog raised by Charles Mankin. I was always at his beck and call. I did every filthy, ludicrous thing for him under the sun. When he street raced, I rode shotgun. When he drank himself senseless, I made him hangover soup. When he chased girls, I prepared protection for them. Over time, everyone knew: Charles had a dog who never ran, never bit back, no matter how hard he kicked. They all said I must be madly in love with him. Even Charles started to believe it. So he pushed further, more freely, more cruelly, crossing lines as if they never existed. Then came my twenty-fifth birthday. He, in a rare stroke of mercy, said he'd celebrate it with me. But instead, what he got was the news that I was leaving the country. He went berserk, charging through the airport like a man possessed. I peeled his fingers off my wrist one by one, smiling like I'd never been happier. "Don't be stupid," I told him, still smiling. "That was never love." That night, Charles smashed apart his family home like a rabid dog.