MTL - Time is slow - Chapter 661 dancer

“Stop following me!” Asher yelled, his patience running thin. He had let it slide for too long because she had done a lot for him. But now she was everywhere, suffocating him.“I’m only trying to protect you,” she responded.Asher sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I need some space, alright? I can take care of myself.”She didn’t budge, and just kept staring at him with that same obsessive look, like she had no intention of leaving.“Is it because you’re strong now? Are you going to leave me because I'm no use to you anymore?” Her voice had turned cold, sharp enough to cut through the silence.“Of course not, you know that’s not the reason…”“Then why do you want me to stop following you?”“I’m just going to the restroom, for God’s sake!” He massaged his temple, clearly at his wit’s end.“Oh, you should have said that earlier.” She giggled, the earlier tension melting away.“I did,” he sighed in defeat.

The dead cannot speak.

It means the living can create any story they want.

Inheritance, honor and wealth can be taken away by lies.

However, what happens when a person, who was presumed to be dead, returns alive?

Five years ago, she was schemed to have one-night stand with a stranger, resulting in a mysterious pregnancy.Meanwhile, at her engagement party, she was humiliated by her fiancé, abandoned by her family, becoming the most notorious woman in the city.He is the powerful and enigmatic heir to a conglomerate who unexpectedly enters her life.From then on, her stepmother is utterly defeated, her ex-fiancé begs for forgiveness, and her stepsister pleads for mercy repeatedly.He, ruthless as ever, declares domineeringly, “She's mine. Who dares to impose on her?” Everyone is stunned and shocked.Her life undergoes a drastic change.

I am Racist.…I mean, my name is Racis T.I was a stand-up comedian. The flop kind. The type who only got laughs when someone else was roasting him.One night, I was doing a gig at a shady, run-down bar—the kind where tattooed bikers drink motor oil for breakfast. I went in with my usual dark humor, but my jokes were getting the same reaction as my dating profile: complete silence.That didn’t sit right with my inner artist, who was already starving to death. So I did what any committed comedian would—I went darker.Turns out, one of my jokes (or all of them?) triggered a guy so hard that he pulled a trigger. Headshot. Instant death.But hey, look at this: A guy got triggered, so he pulled the trigger. That’s wordplay. But who cares? I’m dead anyway.All I wanted was a successful show, people laughing, and maybe a few girls swooning over my wit. I never cared about money. The millions I’d have made would have gone to charity—specifically, 0.001% of it. See? I’m generous like that.Anyway, death is death. My story should’ve ended there.But… if there is an afterlife, I had a simple wish: become a successful comedian, find a loving wife, and have just enough money to afford three meals a day… and maybe a humble little private yacht. Or a jet. But that’s it. Because, like I said, I don’t care about money.Unfortunately, wishes don’t work that way.Because, well—there was an afterlife.And it was absolutely not what I wished for.