Allison Kramer was a very unlucky person.

After a bruising day as the highest woman on the corporate ladder working at a world leading agribusiness company, she found out more than she bargained for. Which was saying something, considering she had bargained for a lot–stock options, a 402(L), a company car.

But, nevertheless, after cutting through a blind alley to get to the parking garage, Allison got herself super-duper murdered.

“I bet you don’t remember me,” said the disheveled figure who confronted her with a .32. “You fired me last month. to my face. Like it was nothing.”

“Carl Winterschmidt,” Allison said. “I didn’t fire you like it was nothing. You were embezzling, and not only did I not have youo arrested, I gave you a fruit bouquet from Edible Arrangements.”

“And it fed my family for two days!” Carl cried. “After the fruit ran out, so did my wife! You die now!”

Allison barely felt the .32 ACP bullets slice through her. There was a rushing sound at her ears, the world went black, and…

…he came to holding a smoking Walther PPK, looking down over a murdered corporate lady.

“Damn,” Allison said, throwing away his gun. Not again.”

For the 27th or 37th time since her first death in 2007, Allison had gotten transmigrated again. For some reason, maybe a gypsy curse that had been insufficiently advertised, every time she died she took over the body of whoever had killed her.

The problem was, her bad luck meant she keept dying.

There was the time she was walking down a corridor and the janitor forgot to leave out the wet floor sign after he’d mopped up and then she slipped, smashed her skull on the edge of a cabinet, and died. She’d been the janitor for a year until he died in a hit and run scooter accident.

Then there was the time she got stuck under the ice saving a child from a frozen lake and woke up as a Tammy Cubbins, age 5. Or the time she got her throat torn out by a puppy, followed by three months of being a puppy followed by a further eleven of working at a “no-kill” animal shelter.

Allison sighed, and walked into traffic. Maybe she could get run over by a cool rich socialite and wake up as a cool, rich socialite with a cool, rich socialite car.

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