After Becoming a Scummy Alpha, I Met the Reborn Omega - Chapter 58

Although Lin Changsheng had ordered an investigation into Lin Wan’s past, the findings turned up surprisingly clean. Aside from the fact that her parents were both deceased, there was hardly anything useful to be found.

It seemed Lin Wan had lived a very low-profile life over the years. As for her parents, the records simply stated that they had died in an accident.

Was I overthinking this? Lin Changsheng stared silently at the file in front of him.

Had the trauma from Chen Lin and Su Jing’s incidents affected him more than he realized? It was only natural that his mind kept returning to such thoughts. The system’s ongoing silence made everything feel even more out of control.

Su Jing clearly knew far more than he did. What is the system hiding? Could it be a greater secret about this world?

With a sigh, Lin Changsheng shut the file.

His gaze fell on a device placed nearby. It had been delivered by Hua Miaomiao’s team earlier that day—a latest-model neural interface, designed specifically for entering virtual game worlds.

Just by wearing it over the head, one could fully immerse into the game, experiencing sensations as if they were real. Word had it that Hua Miaomiao’s team had recently expanded beyond romance simulators, branching out into other genres as well, though most were just variations of existing game formats.

This particular version was still in beta testing, so there were no other players. The premise was simple: the protagonist must “win over” the main heroine in the game.

With nothing better to do, Lin Changsheng put the device on his head. Before long, his consciousness began to drift—and then fully entered another world.

When she slowly opened her eyes, the first thing she saw were her own hands—they were cuffed, and she was sitting in a chair.

But… this chair looked exactly like one from an interrogation room.

“Talk. How did you commit the crime?”

A cold, composed voice rang out. Lin Changsheng looked up and was stunned—it was a female police officer. Her uniform was unmistakable.

Then Lin Changsheng’s eyes landed on her face—and she nearly swore aloud.

Wasn’t that her wife’s face?

Right now, Mo Zhaoyan stood before her, looking every bit the seasoned, no-nonsense cop. Seeing Lin Changsheng’s bewildered expression, Mo Zhaoyan assumed she was just being evasive and knocked on the table with a water bottle.

“Don’t pretend. The evidence is conclusive—you can’t fool me.”

That wasn’t something Mo Zhaoyan would ever say. Even though she wore Mo Zhaoyan’s face, Lin Changsheng knew this wasn’t her.

What the hell is this game? Hua Miaomiao really slipped in some “personal content.”

“What crime did I commit?” Lin Changsheng asked.

“…”

Just then, the chime of a clock echoed through the room. Lin Changsheng turned his head to look—it was coming from the wall-mounted clock, which now pointed precisely to three o’clock.

As the final chime faded, a sharp pain hit Lin Changsheng’s head—and then she opened her eyes again.

Same scene. She was back in the interrogation room.

But this time, Mo Zhaoyan wasn’t already there. Instead, she pushed the door open and casually placed the same water bottle on the table.

Lin Changsheng glanced at the clock—it now showed a few minutes earlier than before.

So that’s how this game works… Lin Changsheng was starting to understand the mechanics.

Before Mo Zhaoyan could speak, Lin Changsheng beat her to the punch. “What crime have I committed to be locked in here like this?”

Mo Zhaoyan seemed a little surprised by the unexpected question, but quickly recovered and snapped back, “Quit playing dumb. The officer hasn’t even asked you anything yet—don’t speak unless spoken to.”

That line felt strangely familiar to Lin Changsheng, though she couldn’t immediately place where she’d heard it before.

“Three hours ago, you filed a police report,” Mo Zhaoyan continued. “You claimed that a family of seven had been murdered in a suburban house. We responded and investigated the scene. The only traces we found… were yours.”

“We suspect you staged the entire thing. You’d better tell us how you committed the crime. It’ll go easier on you during sentencing.”

“A family of seven?”

Only then did Lin Changsheng realize where this scene came from—it was the same place where Chen Lin had once interrogated her. Even the lines were nearly identical. But now, the face that should have been Chen Lin’s… was Mo Zhaoyan’s.

While the content was nearly the same, the details had shifted. Clearly, the person who designed this game hadn’t personally lived through the real events.

“I didn’t kill them—it was Su Jing!”

“Su Jing? Who’s that? Where is she?”

Damn.

Back then, the police had never been able to find any evidence on Su Jing. In the end, because Lin Changsheng refused to confess and the evidence was insufficient, she had been released without charge.

The clock chimed again—three o’clock.

A wave of searing pain struck Lin Changsheng’s head. When she opened her eyes again, she found herself alone in the interrogation room. The time had rewound again—earlier than before.

She began thinking of ways to escape. Just earlier, she had tried to exit the game, but whatever setting Hua Miaomiao had applied, it wouldn’t let her log out.

Memories of the past came flooding back.

Back then, Chen Lin, lacking solid evidence, had tried to break her psychologically through prolonged interrogation—forcing her to confess. But despite three days and nights of relentless questioning, Lin Changsheng had stood firm. Sleep-deprived, but unwavering, she insisted on her innocence.

Now, determined to beat the system at its own game, Lin Changsheng made a decision.

This time, when Mo Zhaoyan entered the room—before she could even set the water bottle down—Lin Changsheng shouted:

“I killed them! I confess!”

Mo Zhaoyan was clearly thrown off by the abrupt confession. She hadn’t even started the interrogation yet.

Still, she quickly composed herself. “The officer hasn’t asked you anything yet. Don’t answer out of turn.”

Same script again.

Lin Changsheng glanced anxiously at the clock. The hands inched steadily toward three o’clock. Her nervousness was growing too obvious.

Mo Zhaoyan noticed it. Combined with the suspiciously quick confession, something felt off.

“What are you so afraid of?”

Lin Changsheng tried to steer things back on track. “There were only traces of me at the scene, right? That means I’m the one who killed them.”

Mo Zhaoyan narrowed her eyes. “How do you know the only traces at the scene were yours? Weren’t you the one who called in the report, claiming someone else murdered them? Why are you confessing so suddenly?”

Shit.

Her plan to end the game by confessing had backfired—Mo Zhaoyan was growing more suspicious.

Just then, the dreaded sound of the three o’clock chime rang out again.

No, not again!

Pain shot through her skull.

This damned realism system—it let her feel everything just as it would be in real life, including pain.

But when she opened her eyes this time, she was no longer in the interrogation room.

She was in a police car.

Her hands weren’t cuffed—yet. At this point in the sequence, she was still just a witness, being escorted to the station.

Sitting beside her was a female police officer.

Lin Changsheng looked up.

Of course. It was Mo Zhaoyan’s face again.

This version of Mo Zhaoyan even seemed concerned about her. “Are you alright?”

“…I’m fine.”

Lin Changsheng looked down at her clothes—torn, bloodstained—and became even more certain: this was a recreation of the events from back then. Could it be that the neural interface could scan memories and reconstruct them as visual experiences?

Just then, a phone rang. The female officer next to her answered it, and her expression gradually turned serious. Her gaze toward Lin Changsheng shifted—from initial concern to cautious suspicion. It must’ve been the on-site investigators calling in to report that only Lin Changsheng’s traces were found at the crime scene. That alone would explain her sudden change in attitude.

Sure enough, after hanging up the call, she placed cuffs on Lin Changsheng’s wrists.

Lin Changsheng didn’t resist—she knew it would only make the officer more guarded.

The following sequence played out nearly identical to the earlier loops: back in the interrogation room, relentless questioning began. The problem was, even Lin Changsheng herself could no longer remember the details clearly.

“Enough. Stop asking. It doesn’t matter whether I confess or not,” Lin Changsheng sighed, looking up at the clock as it struck three o’clock once again—sending her back to the police car.

This time, the timeline had rewound even further—to the moment she had just entered the vehicle. At this point, the officers were at their most relaxed.

“This area’s really out of the way,” the officer beside her said casually. “Can’t believe you disappeared for so long and ended up here. Your family reported you missing—we’ve been looking everywhere.”

Family? Must be my sister, Lin Changsheng thought.

She didn’t respond. Instead, she looked around the car and spotted the gun holstered at Mo Zhaoyan’s waist.

A reckless idea began to form.

Worst case, the loop starts over again. What am I afraid of?

Without hesitation, Lin Changsheng snatched the pistol with lightning speed and aimed it at Mo Zhaoyan’s head.

“Turn the car around. Now. Don’t go to the station.”

The driver in the front was clearly shocked, but with a hostage involved, he had no choice but to comply and follow Lin Changsheng’s orders.

Yet even with a gun to her head, Mo Zhaoyan didn’t panic. “Why are you doing this? If you’re in trouble, tell me. I can help you.”

That sounded so much like what Chen Lin used to say. The memory hit Lin Changsheng hard.

“You can’t help me. You can’t even help yourself. Why are you so stupid—why sacrifice yourself for some idea of justice…”

But of course, the woman wearing Mo Zhaoyan’s face couldn’t understand what those words truly meant. As Lin Changsheng became distracted, she seized the moment and grabbed the gun back.

Great. Now Lin Changsheng didn’t even need to wait for that phone call—she was immediately cuffed.

Once the officer received the call confirming the crime scene details, her suspicion deepened.

“You killed someone, then reported the crime, and now you’re stealing an officer’s weapon. What are you trying to do?”

“I don’t even know anymore…” Lin Changsheng muttered bitterly. “It was a woman named Su Jing. She forced me into this. Why don’t you go investigate her instead?”

At the mention of Su Jing’s name, a flicker of recognition crossed Mo Zhaoyan’s face. She seemed thoughtful—but not entirely convinced.

The interrogation cycle resumed, again and again, with no variation in the outcome.

Eventually, after what felt like countless loops, Lin Changsheng began to understand—no matter what she did, the ending wouldn’t change.

Fortunately, the loop didn’t remain fixed. Time kept rewinding… until she was taken all the way back to the moment before she made the call to the police.

The room was dark and suffocating, splattered with blood. Severed limbs were scattered across the floor. Flies buzzed everywhere, and the stench of rotting flesh filled the air, making Lin Changsheng gag.

This was it—the crime scene she had witnessed with her own eyes back then.

There were no traces of anyone else. After being tortured by Su Jing, she had awakened in this very room.

Back then, she had wandered around in a daze, trying to figure out where she was—unintentionally leaving her own footprints and fingerprints everywhere.

This time, Lin Changsheng didn’t call the police. Instead, she focused on fully observing the scene—hoping to catch the details she had missed before.

At first, she had thought this was just a game.

But no game could recreate a scene with this level of authenticity.

There was only one explanation: this was her memory.

Still, memory is an unreliable narrator. Influenced by trauma and subjectivity, intense emotional shocks can distort or overwrite memory—transforming blurred, incomplete fragments into false recollections that feel entirely real.

In other words, what truly happened back then—no one can say for sure.

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