THE REBOUND OF FATE

In the urban jungle, your home is supposed to be your sanctuary. For me, it was a place of constant vigilance. The “brat” living in unit 1602, right above my apartment, didn’t just play; he conducted a daily bombardment. From leftover soup to glass bottles, anything he could lift was destined for the sidewalk below.

In my past life, I was just seconds away from my front door when a heavy ceramic flowerpot hurtled from the sky. It struck me squarely on the head. As I lay dying, the last thing I heard wasn’t a cry of help, but a woman’s shrill voice screaming from the balcony: “Don’t you have eyes? Standing there like a fool—you’ve scared my son! Can you even afford to compensate us if he’s traumatized?”

I died because help arrived too late. The police investigation was a farce; the family played the victim, claiming the wind blew the pot over and that “he’s just a child.” They paid a measly 50,000 yuan, and my life was erased.

Then, I opened my eyes. I was back. Five minutes before the pot would fall.

I didn’t rush upstairs to argue. I knew they wouldn’t listen. Instead, I ran to the management office.

“I want to report a high-altitude littering incident,” I told Manager Wang, pointing at the monitors.

He didn’t even look up from his tea. “Oh, Xiao Lin, don’t be so sensitive. If it didn’t hit anyone, let it go. You young people are so dramatic.”

I remembered him from my previous life—the man who cried for the cameras about “safety protocols” while secretly taking bribes from the Wang family to wipe the hard drives. I pulled out my phone, showing him photos of the debris. “This is illegal.”

“Listen to me,” he sneered, tossing a tea leaf onto the floor. “Mr. Wang upstairs is a local with deep roots here. You’re just a single girl renting a room. Don’t go looking for trouble.”

“If you don’t handle this,” I said coldly, “the police will.”

The neighborhood group chat exploded later that day. Mrs. Wang from 1602 posted: “Young people today are so petty. My five-year-old dropped a tiny bottle and she’s making a scene. How heartless!” The neighbors, eager to suck up to the Wangs, chimed in, calling me a “bully” and telling me to be “magnanimous.”

I didn’t reply. I left the chat. I called Engineer Chen, a specialist in high-end security.

“I want a blast-proof steel net. Military grade. Bulletproof.”

“Are you at war with the mob?” Chen asked, startled. “That’s heavy. We’ll need to reinforce the balcony. It’s not cheap.”

“Money is no object. Just make it fast.”

The next morning, while the 90kg “brat” upstairs was thumping around, a water-filled plastic bag slammed onto the grass outside my window. Thump. The glass rattled. If that had hit a human neck, it would have snapped instantly. Looking up, I saw Mrs. Wang spitting sunflower seeds over the railing. She saw me and smirked.

I smiled back. If they wouldn’t listen to reason, they would listen to physics.

Engineer Chen installed the heavy, matte-black mesh. “This isn’t a net, Xiao Lin. It’s a trampoline for bombs. Anything that hits this at speed is going to fly right back where it came from.”

“Perfect,” I said. “Angle it 15 degrees outward. Toward Building 12.”

Building 12 was where the elder Wang’s brother lived. They pretended to be close, but I knew they hated each other over an old inheritance dispute.

I took a photo of the new net, used an app to make it look rusty and weak, and posted it to the group chat: “I spent all my savings on this old, second-hand net for safety. I hope it holds.”

1602 replied instantly: “Haha, looks like a piece of junk. Let’s see how long that ‘turtle shell’ lasts.”

That night, a beer bottle struck the net. Clang! It didn’t shatter. It ricocheted upward, landing on the lawn far away.

“Mom, it didn’t break! It flew away!” I heard the boy shout.

“Don’t worry, honey,” the mother replied. “Tomorrow we’ll find something heavier.”

Over the next few days, I acted the victim. I posted photos of “dents” in my net, crying that I couldn’t afford repairs. The Wangs, emboldened by my perceived weakness, turned my net into a target range. They threw bricks, dumbbells, and trash. Each time, the objects bounced off my high-tension military steel and landed in the common areas or toward Building 12.

The climax arrived on New Year’s Eve.

I saw the Wang family unloading crates of illegal, high-powered fireworks. “Dad! I want to blow up that turtle shell downstairs!” the boy screamed.

“You got it, son,” Mr. Wang laughed.

I sent one last message to Manager Wang: “1602 is about to light illegal fireworks on their balcony. It’s a fire hazard. Please stop them.”

He replied with a voice note over the sound of a Mahjong game: “Oh, stop being a buzzkill. It’s New Year’s. Let them have fun.”

I saved the recording. I checked the bolts on my net.

Building 12, Floor 16—the brother’s balcony—was packed with flammable goods: dried meats, high-proof alcohol, and cardboard boxes.

The countdown began. The city was a cacophony of light and sound.

“Aim right for the net, son!” Mrs. Wang yelled. “Let’s make that bitch cry on New Year’s Day!”

Mr. Wang lit the fuse of a Gatling-style firework. Whiz! The first projectile, a ball of concentrated flame, streaked down like a comet.

BOOM! It hit my military-grade, heat-resistant net. Instead of burning through, the tension and the 15-degree angle acted like a catapult. The fireball didn’t just stop; it inverted its trajectory. It flew across the twenty-meter gap between the buildings at twice the speed, straight into the open balcony of the brother’s apartment in Building 12.

It hit the alcohol crates.

A dull explosion followed, then a roar as a dragon of flame consumed the dried meat and cardboard. The Wang family stood frozen, fireworks still sparking in the boy’s hand, as they watched their brother’s home turn into an inferno.

The night was torn apart by screams. “Fire! Save us!”

I put on a thick coat and walked downstairs, blending into the panicked crowd. The brother’s family was dragged out, covered in soot, their expensive furniture turned to ash.

“Who did this?” the brother’s wife wailed.

Mr. Wang tried to look like an innocent bystander, but a neighbor pointed a finger. “I saw it! I saw your fat kid shooting those massive fireworks down. One of them bounced and flew right into that window!”

“I have it on video!” a teenager shouted, holding up his phone.

Mrs. Wang went berserk, screaming insults, but it was too late. I walked up to the police and handed them my phone. “My high-definition security cameras captured everything. From multiple angles.”

The brother, realizing his own blood had destroyed his life’s work, grabbed a fire axe from a nearby rack. “You bastards! You ruined me!”

The scene devolved into a violent family brawl as the police struggled to restrain them. Mr. Wang was handcuffed on the spot. “You are under arrest for endangering public safety.”

He sat on the pavement, his pants soaked in a puddle of his own fear.

The next morning, Manager Wang came to my door with gifts and a fake smile. “Xiao Lin, let’s be reasonable. Tell the police it was an accident. Tell them your net was faulty and caused the ricochet.”

I played his own voice note back to him—the one where he told me to let them “have fun.” His face turned ghostly white. “I’ve sent this, and the footage, to the fire department and the media,” I said. “How long do you think you’ll keep your job?”

I slammed the door.

The Wang family’s downfall was swift. Lawsuits from the brother, criminal charges for the fire, and then the final blow: I sent evidence of Mr. Wang’s long-term affair and embezzlement to his wife. Their home became a battlefield of domestic violence until she filed for divorce and an order of protection.

Bankrupt, jobless, and homeless, Mr. Wang lost everything.

One midnight, I saw a shadow on my monitor. A man was crawling along the air conditioning units on the 16th floor, carrying a hydraulic cutter. He wanted to destroy the net that had been his undoing.

He underestimated the sensors. As soon as he touched the mesh, a piercing alarm shrieked and floodlights blinded him.

“AHH!” He lost his balance. The cutter fell 15 stories and shattered. He was left dangling, clinging to the edge of my net.

“Save me! Xiao Lin, please! We’re neighbors!” he sobbed, his muscles seizing.

I stood behind the safety glass, watching him. I didn’t move.

“You bitch! I’ll kill you! I’ll haunt you!” he screamed, his grip slipping.

I pulled out my phone and started recording. “What was that? Speak louder, I can’t hear you.”

With one final, desperate cry, he let go.

Thud. He landed exactly where I had died in my previous life.

The police ruled it an accidental death during an attempted burglary. I wasn’t held responsible. Mrs. Wang ended up in a psychiatric ward, and the “brat” was sent to an orphanage. The apartment was seized to pay for the fire damages.

The day after the funeral, I packed my bags. I had received a promotion and a transfer. As I drove out of the complex, I looked up at the empty balcony of 1602.

The air was finally still.