Fifth Attempt.

  Fang Xiu finally understood—hiding was useless. Fear was useless.

  He couldn’t lie in bed forever with his eyes shut.

  To survive, he had to face her.

  To truly pretend she didn’t exist.

  Otherwise, he’d never leave this house.

  "Honey, breakfast is ready."

  Fang Xiu ignored her. His eyes bnk, he got up, stepped off the bed, and walked straight toward the bedroom door.

  His wife stood blocking the exit.

  He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t flinch.

  He walked right through her.

  No collision. No resistance.

  Just empty air.

  He’d guessed right—until she confirmed he could see her, they couldn’t physically interact.

  Her ability to merge with the bed had proved that.

  He made it out of the bedroom.

  But his wife wasn’t giving up.

  Like a teasing butterfly, she flitted in front of him, appearing and disappearing in fshes.

  And then—

  Fang Xiu died.

  His acting wasn’t perfect.

  You can’t stop yourself from blinking when a fist flies at your face—even if it stops an inch away.

  His wife was like that.

  The more he ignored her, the more she invaded his space.

  She’d float right in front of his eyes**, nose-to-nose, close enough to kiss.

  Even a professional actor would flinch.

  ---

  Sixth Attempt.

  Fang Xiu walked out of the bedroom, face bnk.

  He didn’t bolt for the door—**too suspicious.

  Instead, he headed for the bathroom.

  His wife, ever the "shy" one, didn’t follow.

  Just as he rexed and started relieving himself—

  A beautiful face rose from the toilet bowl.

  Fang Xiu died again.

  ---

  Seventh. Eighth. Ninth. Tenth.

  Fang Xiu was beyond despair.

  He was numb.

  He was broken.

  He couldn’t do it.

  No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t override his instincts.

  His wife would appear in new, horrifying ways—popping out of walls, crawling from under furniture, even emerging from his own chest.

  Every time, his eyes betrayed him.

  Running didn’t work. Abnormal behavior triggered her immediately.

  The endless deaths shattered his nerves.

  He fought. He fled. He gave up.

  Nothing worked.

  It was like fate itself had decided—he would die by her hands.

  ---

  Eleventh. Twelfth. Thirteenth...

  "Honey, breakfast is ready."

  "Hehe… thanks, wifey~"

  Fang Xiu had lost his mind.

  His sanity had crumbled into madness.

  But his wife wasn’t a judge.

  Insanity wasn’t a defense.

  The deaths kept coming.

  What happens when you drive a man insane—and then keep pushing?

  No one knows.

  ---

  Eighteenth Attempt.

  Fang Xiu y on the bed, motionless.

  If not for his faint breathing, his barely-there pulse—he could’ve been a corpse.

  If anyone had looked into his eyes, they’d have frozen in terror.

  Those weren’t the eyes of a living man.

  They were dead.

  Empty.

  No fear. No anger. No humanity.

  They say eyes are the windows to the soul.

  Fang Xiu’s windows had been bricked over.

  But if someone could peel back those yers, past the hollow gaze—

  They’d find a storm of madness.

  And hatred.

  White-hot, all-consuming hatred.

  The kind that burns through sanity and reforges it anew.

  Some men are alive, but already dead.

  Some men are insane, but clearer than ever.

  That was Fang Xiu now.

  His mind had shattered—but his hatred had pieced it back together.

  Slowly, mechanically, he sat up.

  His voice was ft. Lifeless.

  "Die. Die. Die. You have to die. If I live… you die."

  No rage. No tremble.

  Just a promise.

  "Honey, breakfast is ready."

  His wife’s voice was sweet as ever.

  Fang Xiu didn’t react.

  He stood. Put on his shoes. Walked through her.

  He used the bathroom. Washed his face. Changed clothes.

  The whole time, his wife tried everything—floating in front of him, whispering in his ear, even **licking his cheek.

  But Fang Xiu’s eyes never flickered.

  As if she wasn’t there.

  Dressed, he sat at the table and ate breakfast.

  (He made it himself—scrambled eggs, a sausage, whole wheat toast, and milk. Healthy.)

  Turns out, the prettier the woman, the bigger the liar.

  His wife had promised breakfast—but never cooked a thing.

  After eating, he walked to the front door.

  He was leaving.

  To find answers. To learn what she was.

  Only then could he kill her.

  Just as his hand touched the doorknob—

  His wife’s face melted out of the wood, smiling softly.

  "Honey, don’t go out. Stay home with me, okay?"

  CRACK.

  The doorknob twisted off in his grip.

  Fang Xiu stepped outside.

  SLAM.

  The door shut behind him.

  His wife didn’t follow.

  After eighteen deaths, Fang Xiu had finally escaped.

  But he felt no relief.

  Only one thought burned in his mind:

  Revenge.

  "No one kills me eighteen times and gets away with it. No one."

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  His footsteps echoed in the dim stairwell.

  He lived on the fifth floor of an old apartment complex—no elevator.

  The exit door loomed ahead.

  He pushed it open.

  Sunlight spilled in, warm and golden, filling the dark hallway.

  Like stepping into another world.

  Fang Xiu took his first free breath—

  And froze.

  The sunlight bathed him, but he felt no warmth.

  His eyes locked onto the world outside.

  His voice was a whisper.

  "Is this… hell?"