My Wife Wants My Heart—She Doesn’t Know I’m a Top Assassin
948 Views · Ongoing · August
I’m a top assassin.
Three years ago, on a rainy night, I was being hunted when a stranger took a bullet for me. As he lay dying, he grabbed my hand and begged me to protect his son—and to keep living in his place.
To escape my pursuers and keep that promise, I changed my face, took his identity, and stayed by the boy’s side as his father.
His wife was arrogant, cruel, and constantly cheating. For the child—and to protect my cover—I endured all of it.
Until today.
She drugged me.
When I woke up, a doctor was holding a blade over my chest. They were about to take my heart.
Lying on that operating table, I finally learned the truth: her family had been trafficking organs all along.
That man died three years ago because he discovered it, and she arranged the crash that killed him.
She murdered the man who saved me. Now she wants to kill me too.
She still thinks I’m the same weak doctor who gets out of breath after a short run.
She doesn’t know I’m resistant to anesthesia.
And she definitely doesn’t know these hands have held scalpels—and snapped far too many necks.
Three years ago, on a rainy night, I was being hunted when a stranger took a bullet for me. As he lay dying, he grabbed my hand and begged me to protect his son—and to keep living in his place.
To escape my pursuers and keep that promise, I changed my face, took his identity, and stayed by the boy’s side as his father.
His wife was arrogant, cruel, and constantly cheating. For the child—and to protect my cover—I endured all of it.
Until today.
She drugged me.
When I woke up, a doctor was holding a blade over my chest. They were about to take my heart.
Lying on that operating table, I finally learned the truth: her family had been trafficking organs all along.
That man died three years ago because he discovered it, and she arranged the crash that killed him.
She murdered the man who saved me. Now she wants to kill me too.
She still thinks I’m the same weak doctor who gets out of breath after a short run.
She doesn’t know I’m resistant to anesthesia.
And she definitely doesn’t know these hands have held scalpels—and snapped far too many necks.





