Knife to My Heart

First， the faint sound of blood flowing through blood vessels. Gradually， it grew into a cacophony like a waterfall crashing down. Then， the heart contracted violently， emitting a loud "thud" in the ears. Vivian Grant’s eyes snapped open. Her body struggled to function， her chest weighed down as if pressed by a boulder， forcing her to gasp for air like a reanimated corpse. Discomfort surged through every part of her body， as though she had been dead and rotting for some time before reviving. She tried to stand by leaning against a tree but collapsed repeatedly， her vision flickering in and out of darkness. "What the hell is happening?" She tried to assess her situation， but her mind was as blank as a freshly erased notebook， yielding no answers. The only information she had was her name， written on the “cover“ of that notebook—Vivian Grant. At least she had one of life’s three great questions figured out:"Who am I?" "What a triumph." A sharp whistling sound— Her battered body suddenly reacted with astonishing speed， rolling behind a tree like a donkey evading a predator. "Thunk!" A dull impact vibrated through the trunk， followed by the metallic hum of a blade. "Hiss—" Cold sweat broke out across her skin. "This isn’t right. What kind of hellhole is this?" She had to escape. But her body， having just saved her life， refused to cooperate further. Her limbs trembled， her legs heavy as lead. Another whistling sound followed. Death was seconds away. "Damn it， legs， MOVE!" After desperate internal screaming， her legs finally obeyed—just barely. She rolled sideways. A throwing knife grazed her ear， slicing off a few strands of hair. Heart pounding violently， Vivian Grant touched her chilled ear， her pulse racing as if trying to leap out of her throat. Adrenaline temporarily suppressed her physical misery. She scrambled to her feet and bolted. The knife-wielding assassin gave chase， his prey fleeing for her life. The forest was dim， the eerie glow of mutated plants flickering through the mist. Vivian Grant’s ankle caught on a vine， nearly sending her face-first into the dirt. She cursed—words even she didn’t understand—before clambering up and continuing to run. "What sin did I commit in a past life to wake up in a real-life Temple Run?" The thought almost made her laugh."Seriously? Making jokes at a time like this?" And wait—what even "was" Temple Run? Ahead lay a bog， bubbling with methane and dotted with small， circular ponds. Instinct screamed at her to avoid it. She skidded to a halt， her shoes leaving streaks in the damp earth， then veered right—only to freeze at the glint of a blade blocking her path. "Haha， well， guess this is it." The relentless knife-thrower finally deigned to show himself. His figure emerged slowly from the shadows， as though shedding an invisible cloak. Vivian Grant squinted. Tall and lean， his black combat suit hugged a narrow waist. Silver hair gleamed coldly under the dim light， but his most striking feature was his eyes—golden， slit-pupiled， like a reptile’s. Yet Vivian Grant’s attention was momentarily stolen by the way his tight suit emphasized his well-defined chest. "Look at those pecs—oh wow， that tree over there is huge. Speaking of huge， what about his—" "Wait， no. Focus." “Done running?” His voice was deep， smooth—the kind that could do ASMR， if not for the murderous intent lacing it. Vivian Grant instinctively stepped back， her back hitting a tree. An absurd thought popped into her head:"At least the guy trying to kill me is hot." Murderous intent? No， no—that was just "passion". And passion was just one step away from love. "Clearly， this assassin is in love with me." "Okay， enough delusions." “Uh… handsome，” she gulped，“do we know each other?” His eyes narrowed. A knife spun in his hand， flashing ominously.“Playing amnesiac?” "If only I were faking it." Vivian Grant forced a bitter smile， but before she could speak， dizziness crashed over her. She braced against the tree， her vision darkening. "This body… something’s seriously wrong." Her nose felt warm. She touched it—blood. The golden-eyed man’s expression shifted. He strode forward， gripping her shoulders and performing a quick， practiced examination. “Tch.” He smirked coldly.“Look at the mighty Miss Grant now.” "Miss Grant?" That sounded… important. Before she could process it， he abruptly released her， pulling a metal case from his belt and tossing it at her feet. “Take these.” He turned away.“I’ll spare you this time.” Vivian Grant stared， dumbfounded， until his silhouette vanished into the trees. She picked up the case—inside were blue pills. "What the hell?"“Chases me down just to give me medicine? Is it poisoned?” A distant horn blared. The metal band around her wrist vibrated. ""[Death Notice: 3 dead today. Remaining contestants: 47.]"" ""[Notification: 10 new followers. Current live viewers: 6.]"" Only then did Vivian Grant notice the glowing wristband displaying the number "47". So… this was some kind of competition? She scanned the surroundings， realizing the plants weren’t just moving—they were "writhing". “Perfect，” she muttered.“Amnesia， assassins， creepy forest， and a reality show. Next up: monsters?” As if on cue， an unearthly howl echoed in the distance. Sighing， she pocketed the pills. She needed to figure out her past， where she was， and—most puzzling—why the knife guy had stopped mid-murder. "He couldn’t have just gotten bored， right?" But first—survive. That was her last thought before darkness swallowed her vision. Consciousness lingered， but her body refused to respond. "Passing out here is suicide." Especially when there was a cliff right— Her foot slipped. She plummeted like a broken kite， the world spinning. Pain seared through her arm—something sharp had slashed it open. She flailed， grasping at nothing but damp air. "Thud!" Her back hit first， the impact jolting her organs. She lay sprawled in a thorny thicket， staring up at the slivers of sky between dense leaves. Testing her fingers—good， not paralyzed. Lifting her bleeding arm—"yikes"， bone-deep. "Hurts like hell." “Fantastic，” she told the heavens.“First knife-throwing， now cliff-diving. What’s next—” "Deja vu. Didn’t I just say this?" "Crack." A twig snapped to her left. Vivian Grant froze. Two glowing green dots appeared in the shadows， accompanied by a wet， rancid stench. She turned her head slowly—painfully slowly—to see a mutated mole the size of a hound， baring dagger-like teeth. “Uh… my bad.” She forced a grin， inching toward a broken branch.“Carry on?” The mole lunged. Vivian Grant swung the branch like a baseball bat—"whack!"—right into its sensitive snout. "Screeeech!" The creature recoiled， shaking its head. She scrambled up， but blood loss made her vision swim. Stumbling backward， her hand brushed something cold—a rusted knife wedged in the rocks. “Finally， some luck?” She yanked it free just as the mole charged again. Instinct took over—duck， pivot，"stab". The blade sank into the mole’s throat. Warm blood splattered her face. "Ugh， smells like death." Gagging， she collapsed， her grip on the knife shaking violently. Then she noticed the bones. Dozens of skeletons littered the cliff base， one still clinging to the rocks as if trying to climb. “Well， at least I’ve got company tonight.” She grimaced， stripping a corpse’s clothes to bandage her wounds. Her fingers brushed something in a pocket—a half-empty matchbox and a bloodstained note. ""[Don’t trust the instructors.]"" The ink was smudged， but three words stood out: ""[They are…]"" “"Are what?!"” She wanted to shake the skeleton.“Don’t leave me on a cliffhanger!” Footsteps crunched above. She held her breath， pressing into the shadows. “Dead? What a waste.” The voice was familiar—the knife guy. He sounded… disappointed? Vivian Grant hesitated."Call for help?" Then liquid splattered down. The acrid stench of gasoline hit her nose. "Oh， you’ve got to be kidding." “Wait! I’m ali—” "Whoosh!" Flames erupted， engulfing the pit and its skeletal occupants. Vivian Grant hurled herself toward a narrow crevice half-hidden by vines， her back burning. Squeezing through， she cursed，“First medicine， now fire? Make up your damn mind!” The tunnel narrowed until her bones creaked in protest. Trapped in a claustrophobic nightmare， with fire licking at her heels."Not even my worst dreams are this cruel." Meanwhile， in a VIP box overlooking the arena， elegantly dressed spectators laughed. “Look at the mighty Grant family’s daughter—reduced to a stray mutt!” “Even her mother’s bankruptcy wasn’t this pathetic.” “Bet on how long she lasts? I say three days!” “Oh， Raphael， why not send her supplies? You "are" her instructor， after all.” The addressed man lowered his lashes， golden hair spilling over his chest. “All is by God’s will.”