Hini

I’m going to share some infos that I don’t intend to add in the story or post in a normal day unless I was asked to, just a little fun facts that I wrote in my free time!

Duke Viandrel

A father of two children. Reader and Cassian (the brother)

His full name is Edmund Viandrel. Derived from the old English word Ēad which means wealth, fortune, and prosperity; and Mund which means protector and guardian. Though I only made a name for him for fun—I’m not going to used his name in the story and will still be referred as “The Duke”, “Duke Viandrel”, and “father” lol

He’s a stern and strict father because he has a reputation to uphold and a whole dukedom to operate, but if his children beg enough and give him puppy looks—he’ll give in. He loves both of his children. Caring if the situation needs him to be.

He married for love. Fall in love with a daughter of a Baron in his adolescence when she beat his ass in a duel of fencing, and later on married her after she made him suffered in a long process of courtship.

A tsundere.

Cassian Viandrel

His name got revealed in chapter 1 when reader’s having a panic attack.

Slightly younger from Derrick.

I originally just wanna call him just as “brother” and got tired of referring “brother” all the time when writing, so I include his name in the story.

Derived from Cassianus which means empty, hollow, or vain. I wanted to make him look like a cold and “Duke of the north” typa older brother, but actually an asshole towards his younger sibling. Y’know the type of brother that will open your room door, turn on the light, disturb you, and exit without turning off the light and closing the door.

But he’ll not actually do that, he still has a decorum due to being a noble and an heir to the dukedom, a junior duke basically.

Personality wise in private with the people he’s close with—he’ll act like Reynold minus the slurs, and in public where he needs to uphold an image—he’ll act like Derrick.

He doesn’t have a fiancé yet. (Bitchless, basically)

Duchess Viandrel

Dead, just like any other manhwa mothers.

JUST KIDDING!

She’s alive just away from the manor—visiting her maiden home and her family. There’s no day the Duke didn’t sent her a letter asking her when she’ll go home.

Her full name is Seraphine Viandrel. Refers to seraphim, a class of angels. Looks like a gentle and delicate woman, nobody would expect her to be very good in fencing.

Her trope and talent is based from Elizabeth Midford from Black Butler, to be honest.

Her and the Duke’s love story actually based from the cringey story that I wrote back in middle school.

I’m not sure if I’m going to add her to the story directly because it’s really not important to the plot. Though, she’s going to be mention in the future.

Basically, Viandrel family is just a happy spriteless family from the game Daughter of the Duke: Love Project (which is rare in historical manhwas lol)

About powers

Kinda??

But the magic didn’t belonged to you though.

I’ll talk no more, or I’ll reveal spoilers. Sorry 😅

chapter 53

Brave is based on medieval Scottish culture, so maybe Delman draws inspiration from that too? I’m not really sure, but I’m just going to headcanon it that way.

Most importantly, OG!Penelope, she’s the one I’m most intrigued by. What was her backstory before she was adopted by the Duke? What was her personality like? What exactly happened in the game Daughter of the Duke: Love Project? The novel and the manhwa only give us crumbs—I want the full story. I really hope the author makes a spin-off about it.

2. I hope, I wouldn’t get hated for this, I think it’s very obvious but my favorite character is Eckles as top 1 and “Yvonne” (Leila) as top 2 😭😭

Don’t get me wrong—I also love the other characters too. But I have a soft spot for fictional yandere characters and evil bitches by default, so I naturally gravitate toward Eckles and “Yvonne.”. If we take Eckles and Yvonne off the list, though, my favorite characters would be Callisto, Penelope, and Reynold.

3. Story and Slavery

I’m not going to strictly follow the events from the manhwa and the novel, except for major moments like [CHARACTER EVENTS] or [CHAPTER EPISODES]. For example, the second prince’s birthday banquet still happened in my story because it’s a canon event (Spider-Verse reference, lol) that was essentially “programmed” into the game Daughter of the Duke: Love Project HARD MODE. Plus, it wouldn’t make sense for a duchy not to be invited by the Imperial Palace. However, any events originally caused by Penelope (Cha Siyeon) won’t happen here—because you’re not Cha Siyeon.

About OG!reader

A lady from the Dukedom of Viandrel, a spriteless character that was only mentioned once in the game "Daughter of the Duke: Love Project" (The game Cha Siyeon played)

Fortunately, her personality is already a bit strange, and love to try out new things. Her family only brushed it off as a part of being an adolescent, so when the current reader took her place, nobody questioned her so much when she spoke modern slang.

She's not even a background character because she didn't appear at all, was only mentioned in the game, and that's it LOL.

1. About the timeloop:

Winter is the one who keeps repeating the timeline when he realized that he made a major wopsie (Penelope died, thus no one can defeat Laila/Leilla anymore, and the world is already in ruins) in hopes that Penelope can defeat Leila/"Yvonne" in the next run.

chapter 182

The apocalypse back in the prologue, that's the time where "Yvonne" (Leila) already won (obtained the golden dragon fang) and freed her family (the other Leilas) from the mirror.

When the current reader died, SHE DIED. The endless timeloop that was caused by Winter only saved her ass; she's only aware of the fact that she came back because she's an "outsider". Only three variables are aware of the loop, the other Winter (long haired winter from the manhwa), the leila clan (including "Yvonne"), and current reader.

This loop isn't the first loop that has happened. There's already a loop before the current reader arrival.

I'm not going to talk about why there's no system pop-up in the first run, it's spoilers lol. Though reader noticed it in chapter one, don't worry, there's a reason for it. We'll see…

2. About "Ethan", the thing who killed reader:

He's originally a real human, wouldn't harm anyone on a normal day. He'll appear in the future chapter, and oh boy reader will have a heart attack.

The Ethan you saw is already dead, and a freshly-freed-from-the-mirror Leila killed him was using his body just for the love of the game--thus the irregularities the reader observed about him, just like how Cha Siyeon noticed that "Yvonne" doesn't have a reflection because a Leila was using Yvonne's body.

“I’m saving you for last, you know?” he whispered, as if sharing a secret. His eyes gleamed with something unreadable. “Sister is amazing,” he went on, tone dreamy, distant. “We’re finally out of that damn mirror.”

Sister = "Yvonne"

The "kiss" was actually a reference from the manhwa when "Yvonne" killed a guy to absorb his vitality!

chapter 118

Yeah, it's safe to say that's how you died with a hole in your stomach.

This Leila said, "saving you for the last" because killing you in your sleep is boring. Yes, he's fixated because he can sense that something is also wrong with the you (bc you’re from another world) and can't point it out, but it's mostly just because of his own sadistic amusement to traumatized your ass. Yeah, he's weird.

3. Penelope and OGreader:

They only talked once at a banquet in the past, though the topic is a bit strange for Penelope--there's no hostility between them.

Duke Viandrel saw the two young ladies talking to each other back in that banquet and assumed that it was Penelope's influence (he judged quick, given Penelope has a very bad reputation) why her child suddenly wants to jump from the attic window just to check if she can fly first thing in the morning.

Penelopy and Ogreader is neutral.

Eckhart and Viandrel was both a dukedom of the Eorka Empire, so both Duke Eckhart and Duke Viandrel sometimes work with each other.

4. About Slavery and Eckles' future dynamic with the reader:

Good news for you, he's already written.

Current reader doesn't know slavery or Eckles exist (Or any other existing character because you didn't get the chance to play the otome game and legends said the game was still sitting in your playlist even to this day. You only vaguely knew Yvonne and Penelope's names because they were mentioned by your friend.)

You never heard about slavery as a thing in this world in your first run because you didn't pay much attention and fully enjoyed yourself in luxury. (who wouldn't?)

There's a chapter in the near future update named "Even If It’s Just a Game" and "Ownership Is an Illusion" (It's not chapter 3. I'm not going to reveal the chapter no. because spoilers hehe) (chapter name may or may not change when I finalize it) revolving around slavery and reader's reaction as a modern citizen, and surprise, surprise, Eckles cameo!!! (I love him too!)

Eckles will not be a villain. An obstacle or a pain in your ass, maybe? But not a villain.

You're excited to see what the reader and Eckles will be like?? I'm much more excited to show y'all!

5. Spectator Mode

You're right about your take on spectator mode. You don't have any existing built relationships with the main characters, and you also don't know them aside from Callisto, Penelope, and Yvonne.

Spectator mode only gives a very limited set of features. (Archives, Announcements, and Notices)

WOW, THAT'S A LONG POST. I'm glad you like the story, and I enjoyed your theories. You noticed so many details that I hoped someone would!

‘Oh shit.’

You remember the tidbit news from your ‘friends’ while sipping earl-grey tea. Penelope is a short-tempered young lady. What a lucky and enjoyable night, truly. 

For a brief moment, neither of you spoke. Her expression was caught between disbelief and rising irritation, but the second her gaze dropped back to her dress, that hesitation vanished completely.

Her fingers clenched slightly at the fabric.

“…Are you serious?” she said, her voice low at first, like she couldn’t quite believe what just happened.

A few people nearby turned to look.

“I had this gown prepared specifically for tonight,” she continued, her tone sharpening, irritation slipping through more clearly now. “Do you have any idea how long that takes? Or do you just walk around without looking and ruin whatever’s in your way?”

You exhaled slowly, your gaze lingering on the stain before you forced yourself to look back at her. Gathering what little energy you had left, you let your lips curve into the best apologetic smile you could manage.

“I’m sorry, it was an accident.”

You dipped your head in a polite bow.

But instead of easing the tension—

It didn’t.

“An accident?” Penelope repeated, her brows drawing together as her voice sharpened. “You weren’t even paying attention.”

Fair enough. She wasn’t wrong.

But something in you already stretched thin—tightened at the way she said it. At the way her voice carried, drawing more eyes to the two of you. At the way the room seemed to quiet just enough to listen.

“You ruin someone’s gown and that’s all you have to say?” she pressed, her patience thinning.

What’s her problem?

You already apologized. Her acting like you did it on purpose didn’t help your already souring mood. Behind you, you could feel your father and Cassian stop, the weight of their presence grounding you just enough to stay composed.

You let out a quiet breath, forcing your tone to remain steady.

“I can replace your dress with something more beautiful,” you said evenly. “I’ll send something over once I’ve had time to rest.”

A pause.

Just a second.

But in that second—

Something in Penelope snapped.

“Replace it?” she echoed, her voice rising sharply.

Before you could react, she grabbed the stained fabric of her gown and yanked it forward, the sudden force making the material crease and shift in her grip. The movement was sharp—too sharp—like she was trying to get rid of the stain by sheer force alone. 

‘Girl you could just wash it.’ You frown. 

Then, with a frustrated motion, she shoved the fabric back against herself and stepped closer, her heels striking the floor with quick, uneven steps.

“I don’t want your replacement!” she snapped, her voice cutting through the air. “Do you think this is about the dress?”

Her hand shot out—not quite to grab you, but close enough that it made people flinch.

“Do you have any idea what you just did?” she continued, her grip tightening against her own gown as if she was trying to keep herself from shaking. “You spill something on me, stand there smiling like that, and then offer to fix it later like it means nothing?”

Her composure was slipping, piece by piece.

“Do you think money fixes everything?” she demanded, taking another step forward, her voice louder now. “Do you think you can just—just replace it and walk away like nothing happened?”

‘Kinda did, back in a modern-capitalism world—money can solve almost anything.’

You’re almost certain that this girl will throw hands with you. And you’re ready to throw hands just the same to defend yourself.  Fortunately, your father interrupted just in time. 

“You do have my sincerest apologies, Lady Eckhart,” your father said smoothly, his voice calm and even, carrying that unshakable weight of authority and refinement that seemed to make the air itself bend to it. He inclined his head in a perfectly measured bow, his eyes meeting hers with genuine yet meticulously composed—regret. “It was never our intention to cause any inconvenience this evening. My daughter has been unwell and fatigued, and we were on our way to escort her home for rest when this unfortunate incident occurred. Pray, allow us to convey our most profound apologies for this unseemly disruption.”

‘You blinked slowly

‘Wow… I didn’t understand a thing. Is this how rich people apologize?’

You were almost certain the situation was about to escalate anyway.

Penelope looked like she might throw hands, and honestly? You were ready to throw hands right back to defend yourself. Childish fights back in middle school trained you for this.

But—

“Penelope Eckhart!”

A sharp, authoritative voice cut through the tension.

Everyone turned.

A young man stepped forward, black hair neatly styled, blue eyes sharp and unyielding. He looked to be around Cassian’s age—maybe older—but there was no mistaking the way he carried himself. You recognized him back in Penelope’s debutante ceremony, he was standing next to her along with another two men. 

“Penelope Eckhart!”

“Didn’t I tell you to behave this time?” he snapped, his tone laced with irritation as his gaze locked onto her. “What did you do?”

Before Penelope could even properly respond, he grabbed her arm and pulled her slightly toward him—firm, controlled, but undeniably forceful.

“Brother—she started it!” Penelope said quickly, pointing straight at you, her voice edged with urgency.

You exhaled quietly.

Well. She wasn’t entirely wrong, it is your fault in a sense even if it’s an accident. You were ready to replace her gown if it needed to be. 

But her brother didn’t even glance in your direction.

“Enough,” he cut in coldly, tightening his grip just enough to silence any further protest. “I don’t need excuses. You were warned not to cause trouble, yet here we are.”

His gaze sharpened. “Must you always bring embarrassment to the family?”

Penelope stiffen. Her lips parted slightly, like she was about to argue, about to defend herself but the moment stretched just long enough for something else to settle in.

She didn’t speak nor fight back. Instead, her fingers slowly curled into the fabric of her gown, tight. The delicate material creased under her grip as her shoulders subtly drew in, her posture shrinking in a way that didn’t match the sharp, confident woman from moments ago. Her chin dipped slightly, not quite meeting his gaze, like she was forcing herself to stay composed.

“…I didn’t mean to,” she said, quieter this time.

“Then you should learn to control yourself,” her brother replied without hesitation, already turning his attention back to your father apologizing politely with his sister’s unreasonable behavior as if she had already ceased to matter.

Penelope didn’t answer.

She just stood there, her fingers still gripping the fabric of her gown like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

The sight lingered.

Familiar.

Too familiar.

It reminded you—quietly, almost uncomfortably—of a child being scolded in public. A mother’s sharp voice cutting through a crowd, a child shrinking under the weight of it, unable to speak, unable to defend themselves. Or a child blamed without being heard, left to swallow whatever came their way because no one bothered to step in.

You’ve seen that before.

Your niece came to mind—small hands clenched in frustration, getting reprimanded after lashing out during a game, while the adults stood around, deciding who was right without ever truly listening. It wasn’t about the situation itself. It was about being the one who was always expected to take the blame, the one who had to accept it and move on.

A moment later, the atmosphere shifted again.

An older man approached—his presence commanding, his posture refined in a way that left no doubt about who he was, Duke Eckhart. Beside him walked a younger man with soft pinkish hair, he looked much more carefree and much more expressive compared towards the other two men, he frowned heavily towards the scene and glared at Penelope though not particularly surprised by the scene in front of him.

And then, unfortunately the second prince approached to see what’s going on. 

Thankfully, he didn’t approach further—just observed, his gaze calculating before he seemed to decide the situation wasn’t worth his attention.

You let out a barely noticeable breath.

Good.

The Duke, however, stepped forward without hesitation.

“I offer my sincerest apologies on behalf of my daughter,” he said, his voice calm, measured, and deeply composed. There was no rush in his words, no uncertainty—only authority and control. “This matter should not have escalated in such a manner.”

Penelope stood behind them.

Still.

Silent.

Duke Eckhart didn’t look back at her as he continued, his attention firmly on you and your family. “I understand that the situation was… unfortunate. However, as this incident has caused a disruption, we will provide appropriate compensation to ensure that your household is not inconvenienced further.”

A servant stepped forward at his subtle gesture, offering a small, elegant pouch.

You stared at it for a moment.

‘…This is compensation?’

The irony almost made you want to laugh.

You were the one who caused the mess. You were the one who ruined her gown, and yet here you were being offered compensation as though you were the injured party.

Your fingers twitched slightly, but you didn’t reach for it immediately. Your father and Duke Eckhart exchanged a brief, knowing glance, the kind that spoke of mutual understanding without needing words, before your father accepted the pouch with composed ease.

Just like that, the matter was settled.

The tension didn’t completely disappear, but it was no longer in open conflict—only lingering beneath the surface, quiet and unresolved.

And with that, the night, this disastrous, exhausting, absurd night—finally drew to a close.

This is the worst birthday party you’ve attended so far.

It had been days since that night, and your father had unceremoniously sent you out into town on a “shopping trip” despite your very clear refusal. Any attempt to argue died the moment he handed you a blank check and practically ushered you out the door. Was this how rich people forced their children to touch grass?

Under normal circumstances, you would have enjoyed this. Unlimited money, a whole town to explore, it should’ve been ideal. But this wasn’t your world. The market stalls, the boutiques, the neatly displayed goods behind glass windows… none of it held your interest. If only this place had even a fraction of modern technology, maybe you’d feel something close to excitement.

Instead, you wandered absentmindedly from one storefront to another, your gaze skimming over displays without really seeing them. Ofelia walked beside you, speaking in a light, practiced tone—something about the shops, the history, the specialties as if she were a tour guide. The knight trailing just behind remained silent, a steady presence.

You didn’t hear a word of it.

Even if you tried to listen, your thoughts kept circling back to the same thing—the pink system that had appeared after the birthday banquet, hovering at in-front of you, reminding you that this world isn’t real.

_____________________

Silence settled over the carriage as you made your way home, thick and undisturbed save for the occasional creak of wheels against the road. The two men seated across from you had already dozed off, their heads tilted at awkward angles. You couldn’t blame them—it was late. God knows what time it was, but if you had to guess, it was well past midnight. Not that you could check, you didn’t have your phone.

Your own eyelids were beginning to grow heavy when a soft ding cut through the quiet.

A familiar pink glow flickered to life beside you.

[ PROLOGUE COMPLETED! YOU’VE UNLOCKED ONE MAJOR CHARACTER: CALLISTO REGULUS. ] 

[ BONUS CONTENT! YOU’VE UNLOCKED ONE MAJOR CHARACTER: PENELOPE ECKHART. ] 

You rolled your eyes.

‘Thanks for the notice. Really great experience.’

Your lips pressed into a thin line as your thoughts drifted back to earlier.

‘Seriously, why the hell is that crown prince even a route? If this were the real world, he would’ve been arrested a long time ago.’

The interface flickered again.

[ CALLISTO REGULUS and PENELOPE ECKHART character was recorded in the archives. Do you wish to view it? Yes/No ]

You paused.

‘…Excuse me?’

There was an archive?

You had assumed this pink hologram was nothing more than an annoying pop-up, something that appeared only when it felt like it, dropped vague information, and disappeared without explanation. The idea that it actually had a function—something organized, something usable was… unexpected.

Carefully, you glanced up.

Both men were still asleep, undisturbed.

Good.

Slowly, you lifted your hand and tapped the air.

“Yes.”

The interface shifted.

CALLISTO REGULUS Age: 22  Height: 6’2” The crown prince of the Empire of Eorka is a cruel tyrant who treats humans like dirt. Maybe there is an ill-fated reason for this disposition…?  - You have not collected sufficient information to add to this archive. Earn more information via spectator mode or interact more with CALLISTO  - 

‘‘Fuck no.’

Your expression soured almost immediately.

‘I’ll just collect information as a spectator. There’s no way I’m going out of my way to interact with that tyrant.’

The memory from earlier resurfaced without warning—the smear of blood across polished floors, the lifeless weight of a dragged corpse, the sharp, metallic scent that clung to the air and crawled down your throat.

Your stomach twisted faintly at the recollection.

‘I almost threw up because of him. Fantastic first impression, by the way.’

And then—

‘…He killed Penelope.’ You don’t want to be the next.

Your gaze lingered on the screen for a second longer before you moved on.

PENELOPE ECKHART Age: 17  Height: 5’2”   The duke’s fake daughter who entered the Eckhart household in place of his lost child. Known for her sharp temper and striking presence, she moves through high society under constant scrutiny, her place in it never quite secure.  - You have not collected sufficient information to add to this archive. Earn more information via spectator mode or interact more with PENELOPE - 

You hummed and nodded slowly. ‘I can tolerate her.’ You tapped on the floating hologram as if finding something more. ‘Is there another one? A clue on my way back home or something useful?’

[ ERROR NOTICE! The character episode: “The Blood and Iron Crown Prince, Callisto Regulus.” of the character CALLISTO failed to begin due to the absence of the HARD MODE heroine PENELOPE. Spectator failed to gather sufficient information to read CALLISTO Character Story 1.” ] 

[ UNLOCK “PLAY MODE” BY FORMING A BOND WITH AT LEAST (1) MAIN CHARACTER. ]

You stared at the message for a second.

Then exhaled.

‘…Okay. And?’

Your interest dropped just as quickly as it came.

The system wasn’t telling you that you needed to unlock his story. You weren't as desperate, there’s still so many options available that you still didn’t unlock, surely Penelope and Callisto aren't the only characters in this game, right?   That just meant his route wasn’t accessible right now. Or more importantly—

Not necessary.

You didn’t need to understand Callisto as of the moment. You already made up your mind anyway.  A quiet pause followed as you stared at the message.

‘Alright, Penelope. I choose you.’

_____________________

It was the most logical choice.

If she was the heroine, then she was the center of everything. The axis the story revolved around. The so-called male leads? Replaceable variables. Important, maybe—but still secondary to the core.

Your gaze lowered slightly, thoughtful.

‘If I learn more about her… interact with her… then I can trigger the system.’

It wasn’t a guess. It was the closest thing you had to a working hypothesis.

You exhaled quietly, this is the first time you’ve used the maximum capacity of your brain cells. 

‘I’ll gather information on Callisto too… but not as a priority.’

There was no reason to rush into something unnecessarily dangerous—especially when Penelope was there, a far less volatile variable. The thought settled easily. The system had already made it clear: bond with at least one major character to unlock playmode. It never specified that it had to be a male lead. Penelope qualified just the same.

Your fingers tapped lightly against your arm as you processed it.

“Playmode…”

The word lingered.

‘If playmode starts… then that means progression.’

You couldn’t stay in spectator mode forever. As far as you understood, spectator mode didn’t allow direct intervention.

And if there was progression—

There had to be an end.

More clues. More access. More information.

A quiet beat passed.

‘A way back home.’

You didn’t say it out loud, but the thought remained, steady and grounded—no longer just a vague hope, but something you could work toward. Step by step. Piece by piece. Even if the path ahead was still unclear.

“My lady?”

The voice pulled you out of your thoughts.

Right. You weren’t alone.

You blinked, turning toward your companions, only to be met with matching looks of concern from your handmaid and the knight assigned to you.

“You’ve been walking around for nearly an hour without purchasing anything,” Ofelia said gently. “Are you still shaken from the incident at the birthday banquet, my lady?”

…Kinda.

You let out a short snort, brushing it off with a light chuckle. “No, don’t be silly. It’s just that none of the shops here caught my interest.” You tilted your head slightly, a teasing glint in your eyes. “Though you two should consider getting married—you’d look good together.”

Both of them flushed instantly.

The knight, face reddening to an almost impressive degree, shook his head rapidly. “N-No, my lady! I have a fiancée!”

Ofelia nodded just as quickly. “Yes, he does! And so do I!”

You raised both hands in mock surrender. “Oh shi— I mean, my apologies. I was just teasing, y’all. Thought I’d lighten the mood.”

The knight blinked, still recovering, his brows knitting together slightly. “…Y’all’?”

“Never mind that,” you dismissed easily, already turning away before he could question you further.

Your attention drifted back to the street, and this time, you actually took it in.

The town was more lively than usual. Children darted past you in bursts of laughter, weaving through the crowd as they played tag, their voices bright and carefree. Couples strolled side by side, some carrying freshly bought flowers, others lingering just a little too close, whispering things meant only for each other. Somewhere in the distance, music floated through the air—soft, cheerful, the kind that made everything feel warmer than it should.

Near the edge of your hearing, a small group of townsfolk stood talking amongst themselves. You hadn’t meant to listen, but their voices carried just enough to catch your attention.

“I hope every day will be like this,” one of them said, a younger voice, almost hopeful. “It’s so lively.”

His companion scoffed lightly. “They say someone went missing again.”

“Shh.”

“I’m just saying, third one this week—”

“Stop talking about it. You’ll ruin the mood.”

“But—”

Their voices faded as they walked off, swallowed by the noise of the crowd before you could hear more.

You paused for a moment, your gaze lingering in the direction they had gone, before slowly turning back to the street in front of you.

“Is there a festival?” you asked, almost absentmindedly.

“Not yet,” Ofelia replied, tilting her head slightly, a polite smile forming on her lips. “This is only a small celebration. Didn’t you know, my lady?”

You hummed, shaking your head.

“The war is over,” she continued. “Eorka has won against Delman. So everyone is celebrating.”

“…I see.”

Your voice came out quieter than before, your eyes still fixed on the movement of the crowd.

‘So… a festival.’

“Do you wish to visit the town square, my lady?” Ofelia asked gently.

You were about to answer when something caught your eye.

Through the glass of a nearby shop window, a row of dresses stood on display—rich fabrics, intricate designs, far too extravagant for your personal taste. Your steps slowed, then stopped entirely as your gaze lingered on them.

An idea surfaced.

“Actually…” you murmured, almost to yourself before turning back to them. “I think I found what I was looking for.” You gestured toward the shop window, where the dresses shimmered behind the glass. “After this, we’re heading home.”

Ofelia blinked, caught off guard. “Pardon? But it’s still early in the afternoon—”

“I’m already tired,” you cut in, letting out a small, deliberate yawn as if to prove your point. You stretched your arms above your head, shoulders rolling slightly, playing up the fatigue settling into your limbs. “And I have no interest in small celebrations. Don’t worry, I’ll attend the actual festival.” You shot her a brief glance, a hint of dry amusement slipping through. “I’m not turning into a recluse, if that’s what everyone at the manor is worried about.”

Ofelia hesitated for a moment before nodding, accepting your words without further question. “Understood, my lady.”

You waved it off lightly, already stepping toward the shop. “Oh—and write a letter for me again when we get home, will ya?” you added over your shoulder.

“Of course, my lady.”

You’ve invited Penelope for a tea afternoon. A day ago, you sent her a letter containing an invitation for this event as a form of apology for the trouble you’ve caused her along with the most beautiful and expensive gown in that shop that you could find. The amount of zero in the receipt almost made you faint. You hope your father won't be angry about the expensive purchase.

You shoved the thought aside. 

Right now, that wasn’t the problem.

Now, as you paced back and forth across the drawing room, the polished floorboards cool beneath your shoes, anxiety gnawing at you. Penelope had yet to respond, and the afternoon was fast approaching. Did the letter even reach her? Your fingers twitched slightly as you muttered under your breath, 

“What I did… was it right? Nobles in the manhwas I read… they really do like tea, don’t they?” Your voice barely carried over the quiet room. The thought of failure pressed against your chest—your chances of finding a way back home rested entirely on this one encounter. 

A soft knock at the door snapped you from your spiral of worry. Ofelia’s voice followed shortly after, calm and precise. “My lady, Lady Penelope Eckhart is here.” 

You froze for a heartbeat, your gaze sharpening. Then, the door opened, and Penelope stepped in. The moment she appeared, your breath caught slightly. She wore a deep purple dress, the fabric catching the light in delicate folds. Ribbons cascaded down her sleeves and bodice, framing her figure and complementing the sharp tilt of her shoulders and the poise in her posture. Around her neck, a delicate choker held an emerald that gleamed complimenting her eyes.

Fixing your posture, you stepped forward and lifted the most practiced smile you could manage—polished, refined, expensive in its restraint. You lowered yourself into a graceful curtsy.

“Good day, Lady Penelope.” Your voice came out smooth, carefully controlled. “I’m glad you accepted my invitation. I wanted to apologize for the trouble I caused you… and I truly mean it.”

Penelope didn’t answer right away.

She just looked at you.

Not openly hostile—but not warm either. Her eyes moved briefly over you, like she was trying to figure out your intention

She sighs and looks at the side, avoiding meeting your eyes, “I also apologize for snapping at you, Lady Viandrel. I’m… There’s just something going on during that time and I can’t help but to—” 

“There’s no need to explain. I understand.” You can’t help but think that this Penelope is very tame compared to the rumors you’ve heard in your first run. She isn’t a snake in silk, a rabid dog attacking everyone she sees, or a barbarian. To be honest, you really prepared for the worst, given your first impression of her at the banquet. 

She looked back at you then, and for the first time, there was the faintest shift in her expression—something lighter.

“…So,” she began uncertainly, tilting her head slightly, “did you finally do it?”

You blinked. “…Did what?”

Her gaze sharpened just a little, as if she was certain you’d understand.

“Grill a koi fish,” she said matter-of-factly. “To satisfy your curiosity.”

Silence.

“…What?” you asked slowly.

Penelope nodded once, as if confirming her own words.

“I remember. You’re the girl who talked to me about your fascination towards fishes—” she continued, her tone still flat but certain. “ —back at the Empress’ birthday banquet last month. You said you wanted to grill a koi fish.”

Another beat of silence.

Then, the words suddenly came out of your mouth without you realizing it.

“…She did WHAT?!”

Getting isekai’d into an otome game was never on your bucket list.

Like—sure, you’ve joked about it before. Who hasn’t? But actually living it? Being thrown into a pastel-colored, drama-infested romance simulator?

Hard pass.

Especially when the game in question had just been sitting untouched in your playlist, and you barely even knew the damn plot. What was the point of being shoved into this world if you didn’t even know what was supposed to happen?

You let out a long, frustrated groan that echoed through the dining hall.

Your voice bounced off the gold-trimmed walls and marble columns before disappearing into awkward silence.

A clink of silverware. A slow, unimpressed sigh.

“Young lady,” came the Duke’s voice—low, cold, and disapproving from the far end of the impossibly long dining table. “Watch your manners and eat your food.”

Tsk. You let out another sigh, this time quieter and much less dramatic, and muttered under your breath, “Yes, Your Grace. Whatever you say.” 

There was another pause, heavier this time.

“Why such formality?” he asked, his voice softening ever so slightly. “Call me your father.”

You froze, caught off guard.

“…Sorry. Father.”

Right. He was supposed to be your father in this world, or rather—game. You still weren’t used to that. The word felt foreign, heavy on your tongue. You miss your own real one. 

“Ahem… your brother will be back soon from his studies,” the Duke continued, breaking the silence.

Oh. Right. Him. The Junior Duke. The same guy who, in the last timeline, had scolded you within an inch of your life after you’d jumped out of the attic window in your attempt to “fly.”

“…And?” you asked absentmindedly.

“Which means,” he said, pausing to look at you pointedly, “he’s going to accompany us to the second prince’s upcoming birthday banquet. Aren’t you excited? You keep whining when he left to study.” 

You scoff. Well the problem probably is that I am not that woman. But as if I’ll tell him that, he will probably put me in a medieval asylum or something..

“Wait.” You paused. “Birthday banquet?”

A sigh slipped from his lips, quiet but steeped in disappointment. “You should have known this already. Didn’t Ofelia—your handmaid—give you the invitation?”

Ofelia?

Ofelia, that handmaid that is always with me? That background manhwa maid? Wow,  she had a name. You hadn’t bothered to learn it before.. even when she died you didn't even bother…

“Ah… yes, she did,” you replied quickly, looking away. ‘This is bad, I don't remember a thing about the letter.’ You made a mental note to look for that letter later as you try to enjoy the steak that you can barely afford back in your world.

Where is it… where is it…?”

You rummaged through the drawer, fingers flipping through a messy stack of letters. Paper brushed against paper—cream envelopes, pastel seals, wax stamps in colors. You’ve seen a red invitation with a pressed flower accent. A pink one dusted in glittering filigree. And then—

There.

The most obnoxiously elegant one of them all.

Gold-trimmed. Heavy parchment. You may not know anything about royals but this letter looks like it would cost someone’s salary from the modern world. It’s pretty obvious. 

You opened it.

“...”

“Oh… fuck me,” you muttered as a familiar pressure bloomed behind your eyes, a migraine forming with perfect timing.

Because you couldn’t read it.

Not a single fucking word.

The letters swam uselessly on the page—beautiful, curling symbols that meant absolutely nothing to you. Not English. Not Latin. Not anything your modern, university-rotted brain recognized.

You exhaled sharply and leaned back in your chair.

Right. Of course.

You were illiterate.

Illiterate in this world, at least. Courtesy of this convenient—sarcasm dripping—new alphabet belonging to this deranged otome game. You remembered now. Ofelia had always sorted through your letters before. Read them aloud. Explained them. You’d never questioned it back then. You didn’t even bother to read a book, because why would you when you can shop all day with all that money.

Because back then, you thought this was all a lucid dream.

Now?

If you were stuck here as a noble, suddenly being unable to read would be suspicious as hell. But seeking basic literacy lessons out of nowhere would be even worse.

What were you supposed to say? Sorry, I forgot the basic alphabet. Can you teach me again from the start? 

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

And it hit you all at once—how fucked you actually were.

You didn’t know the empire’s history. You didn’t know its politics. Hell, the only things you did know were random gossip scraps that caught your interest. Penelope Eckhart’s scandals, for example.

God. You were so fucking cooked.

You forced yourself to straighten up, schooling your expression into something calm. Collected. Noble.

Plan later. Survive now.

With a quiet breath, you rang for Ofelia.

She arrived promptly, hands folded, posture immaculate. You gestured for her to come closer, shifting in your chair as you passed her the letter.

“Can you… read this for me?” you asked, trying not to sound like you were about to jump out of your skin.

Why were you nervous? This was normal. Nobles delegated things all the time. You’d done this before—back when you were still enjoying all of this. Back when you thought none of it was real.

Ofelia accepted the letter, breaking the seal carefully.

“My lady,” she said gently, glancing up. “Am I permitted to continue? You seemed… deep in thought.”

Her voice snapped you out of your spiraling.

You nodded a little too fast. “Um—yeah. Yes. Please. Actually—wait. Could you read it from the start? Sorry.”

She gave you a brief, puzzled look. Just a flicker. Then she inclined her head and began.

Her voice shifted into that smooth, formal cadence servants used for important correspondence.

“Dear Lady Viandrel, It is with great pleasure and utmost sincerity that I extend to you a formal invitation to attend the celebration of my upcoming birthday, to be held at the Imperial Palace on the evening of the twenty-third day of this month. Your presence would be considered a great honor, not only to myself, but to the court as a whole. The evening shall consist of a grand banquet, live orchestral performances, and the attendance of esteemed nobles from across the Empire of Eorka. That said—”

Ofelia paused.

You frowned. “…That said what?”

She continued, her tone still polite, but there was the faintest hesitation.

“—I would also like to request a private audience with you during the event, in order to discuss a matter of personal significance.”

Oh.

You felt your stomach drop.

“Specifically, I wish to revisit the matter of the koi fish.”

The silence in the room thickened.

“…The what?” you blurted.

Ofelia blinked, then continued reading, clearly as confused as you were but far too professional to question it.

“I am confident you will recall the incident in question, as it has—unfortunately—left a lasting impression upon myself. Should you not worry, nobody saw it except for me and I have no intention of telling it to anyone. Rest assured, Lady Viandrel, this matter is not one of reproach, but rather one that I believe would benefit from clarification… and perhaps an explanation.”

Your soul left your body.

“I look forward to your attendance and to resolving this lingering curiosity in person. With anticipation, His Highness, the Second Prince of the Eorka Empire. Lucien Regulus”

What in the koi incident did she do?! Wow, I’m so cooked this time. Should i make a scene right here right now so the duke will ban me from attending this party just like in my previous run—jumping from the attic in order to fly typashit.

Alright, you made up your mind. “Ofelia.”

She carefully placed the letter down on your desk, straightening her posture as she composed herself. Professional, calm—despite the unmistakable confusion flickering across her face. “Yes, my lady?”

You looked her dead in the eye. “Break my leg.”

Silence.

“…I’m sorry?”

“I said break my leg.”

Ofelia stiffened like you’d just suggested regicide. “I can’t do that, my lady. Your father will kill me.”

You sighed, slumping back in your chair. “Yeah shit. Sorry. You’re right.”

Damn it. Worth a try.

Back when you were just a regular university student—broke, sleep-deprived, surviving on instant noodles, reading manhwas and downloading random free otome games you never finished—the idea of extravagant balls had seemed magical. Chandeliers. Music. Dresses that probably cost more than your tuition.

Even during your first run, when you still thought all of this was just some hyper-realistic lucid dream, the spectacle had dazzled you.

But now?

Now it just felt exhausting.

Physically. Mentally. Existentially.

You groaned under your breath as you walked into the Imperial Palace alongside your so-called family. Your shoes clicked too loudly against the polished floors, each step another reminder that you were very much awake and very much stuck here.

Thankfully, your “father” didn’t hear the unlady-like noise you made. He was too busy speaking in low tones with your “elder brother,” deep in whatever noble conversation they were having. If he had noticed, you were certain a lecture would’ve followed—something about posture, decorum, and dignity.

You dragged yourself forward instead, shoulders stiff, face carefully neutral.

I should’ve broken something, you thought bitterly. A leg. An arm. A nose. Anything.

Ahead of you, the unnecessarily twenty-foot-tall palace doors loomed open, spilling warm golden light and the distant swell of music into the hall. The sound alone made your temples throb.

The moment you stepped into the ballroom, a translucent pink screen flickered into existence right in front of your face.

[ SPECTATOR MODE: PROLOGUE ONE — THE SECOND PRINCE’S BIRTHDAY BANQUET ]

[ COMPLETING THIS SCENE WILL UNLOCK ONE MAJOR CHARACTER ]

…Huh?

You slowed your steps, barely registering that your family continued forward as your thoughts tangled.

This is part of the plot?

Come to think of it, the screen hadn’t appeared during your first run. Not once. And you’d lived here for months before everything went to hell. Granted, you hadn’t attended this banquet last time—your father had banned you after the whole attempted human flight from the attic incident—but even after that, nothing like this had ever shown up.

So why now?

You frowned, staring through the floating text as nobles passed right through it, blissfully unaware. Maybe you’d missed it before—too dazzled by the luxury, too distracted by the novelty when you still believed this was just some overindulgent lucid dream.

Or maybe…

Maybe your ignorance was what caused that… thing. The cave, blood, shadowless boy. Your body drying out, hollowed, brittle—

The memory slammed into you without warning, sharp and nauseating. Your stomach twisted.

No. Don’t.

You forced your gaze upward, away from the intrusive images clawing their way to the surface.

Focus.

The ballroom stretched wide before you, a masterpiece of calculated excess. Massive crystal chandeliers hung overhead, scattering warm light across polished marble floors so pristine they reflected the crowd like distorted ghosts. Gold filigree traced every column and arch. Velvet drapes framed towering windows that showed nothing but darkness beyond.

The music was elegant—violins gliding smoothly over a steady rhythm, refined and distant. Laughter rose and fell in measured waves. The air smelled faintly of expensive perfume, aged wine, and something sweet drifting from the banquet tables.

It was beautiful and yet suffocating.

You’d only been here for a minute, and already your shoulders felt heavy. Your carefully neutral expression strained, your jaw tight. Just one minute in this place was already draining you. And the worst part is that the night was still young.

You recognized too many faces—faces you had already memorized from your previous run.

The lady with greenish hair, always ready with a sharp remark about Penelope. The other one, quietly obsessed with collecting insects and dissecting them—equally fond of dissecting Penelope’s reputation just the same. You remember them providing you juicy gossip during tea parties before you died. 

You kept your distance.

Instead, you clung to your “family” like a lifeline, staying close without question. Not because you wanted to—but because you had priorities tonight. And none of them involved idle conversations or polite smiles.

Avoid the second prince.

More importantly, avoid whatever it was he meant in that damn letter.

…This is bad.

You didn’t even know what he looked like. You didn’t give a shit about him in your previous run. 

Well—fine. Then you’d just have to avoid any man who gave off that unmistakable princely air. Refined, composed, probably surrounded by attention.

Easy. Simple.

“…Hey.”

Your brother’s voice cut cleanly through your thoughts.

You blinked, only then realizing your father had already slipped away, now deep in conversation with another noble in an expensive suit—no doubt discussing politics or something equally tedious.

“Are you not going to go do your usual?” your brother asked, eyeing you curiously. “You normally disappear the moment you get the chance and run off to your friends.”

You let out a small breath, glancing lazily toward the crowd.

“Which friends?” you muttered. “The one who collects bugs… or the one who collects gossip?”

A pause.

“…What?” your brother said, completely thrown off.

“…Never mind.” You smiled lightly. “I just wanted to spend time with my big bro, that’s all.”

After all, he did protect you back then—during that bizarre apocalypse. The least you could do was show a little appreciation.

He grimaced instantly. “Disgusting.”

‘…Right. Gratitude revoked. Go die in a ditch, then.’

The next few minutes dragged on painfully as your brother got swallowed up by a group of his friends—classmates from that prestigious noble academy he attended. They kept throwing you awkward glances, like they didn’t quite know what to do with your presence.

You didn’t care.

Eventually, you grabbed your brother by the arm and dragged him toward the long banquet table, ignoring his protests. If you had to suffer through this, he was coming with you.

At least one of you should enjoy the food. (It wasn’t him.) 

And finally, the main event is happening. All of the nobles were gathered in the center part of the large ballroom, just beneath the thrones. 

“Announcing Her Highness, the Empress—and the Second Prince!”

The voice rang clear and commanding, cutting through the lingering chatter like a blade. Conversations died instantly. Every head turned toward the massive doors.

So the birthday boy wasn’t wandering around entertaining guests like in your world’s parties.

‘…Great. So I really did waste my time clinging to this woman’s brother just to avoid him.’

A young man and a woman emerge from the large door as everybody bows to respect them. Both of them have the most beautiful shade of blonde hair you have ever seen. Most of the people with blonde hair you have interacted with so far don’t have this shade of hair. They are different..

Refined. Radiant.

Almost blinding.

“Just look at that hair…” someone whispered behind you. “It’s beautiful,” another voice replied softly.

You found yourself nodding along without meaning to.

“That shade—it’s the mark of royalty.”

Ah. That explains it.

You watched as the Empress and the Second Prince ascended the platform and took their seats.

‘As far as I remember, the large throne belonged to the emperor and his heir. The second prince is not an heir, so why is he casually sitting on it? Or maybe because it’s his birthday so his big brother let him sit on his throne? Quite cute, if you think about it.’

“Everyone may rise now.” The prince has a surprisingly gentle voice. “I thank you all for attending my birthday banquet in the midst of your busy days. It is a modest event, but I hope that you all enjoy your time here.” 

…Modest?

You glanced around at the glittering chandeliers, the endless tables of food, the sea of nobles dressed in gold and silk.

Right. Modest.

He looked around as if looking for someone and locked eyes with you. Oh shit. He smiled gently, you smiled back politely whilst looking for an escape route. 

“Now, then, let the banquet—”

A deafening crash cut him off.

The grand doors slammed open so violently the sound echoed across the entire hall, silencing the prince mid-sentence. Conversations died instantly, replaced by a ripple of startled murmurs.

Your head snapped toward the entrance.

‘What the hell was that…?’

“It—That’s…!” someone near the front stammered.

A beat.

“His Highness—the Crown Prince!”

Your breath hitched.

That Crown Prince?

‘That’s the prince who killed Penelope…?!’

You had never seen him yourself—not properly. Everything you knew came from whispers, from rumors traded behind fans and wine glasses. And you weren’t even allowed near most royal events before. Not after your father banned you for that “I believe I can fly” incident.

So this—

This was your first time.

And just like that, you quietly took back every compliment you had given earlier. The Empress, the Second Prince… their hair wasn’t the most beautiful shade of blonde you’d ever seen anymore. Not even close. Whatever shine and elegance they had felt almost dull now, like imitation gold next to the real thing. Because the man standing at the entrance didn’t just have bright hair—it looked like it had been spun from gold itself. If the Second Prince was twelve-carat, then this one was twenty-four. No hesitation. No doubt.

For a moment, you found yourself staring.

Then you smelled it.

Blood.

“Happy Birthday, little brother.”

The realization hit fast, sharp enough to make your stomach drop. Your eyes shifted downward almost on instinct, and the second you saw it, your body went rigid.

He was dragging a corpse. Not injured. Not unconscious. Dead.

The body scraped against the polished floor as he moved, leaving behind a dark trail that stood out too clearly against the pristine surface. The metallic scent thickened in the air, heavy enough to make your throat tighten. You nearly gagged, one hand twitching uselessly at your side.

It wasn’t just the sight that got to you. It was how familiar it felt.

And before you could stop it, the ballroom faded.

For a split second, you weren’t here anymore. You were back there—surrounded by bodies, by blood, by that same suffocating smell. You could almost see it again, that thing standing in the middle of it all, unmoved, untouched, as everything around you died.

As you died.

Your breathing turned uneven without you noticing, each inhale too quick, too shallow. Your chest tightened painfully, like something was pressing down on it, not letting you breathe properly.

Then suddenly—

Darkness.

A gloved hand covered your eyes, firm and immediate, blocking everything out before the memory could fully swallow you. At the same time, you were pulled back against someone, your body pressed into something solid and warm.

The smell of blood disappeared, replaced by something sharp but clean—citrus perfume. 

Familiar.

Your brother.

You recognized it almost instantly, the same scent you caught earlier when you dragged him around the ballroom. The realization grounded you, pulling you back piece by piece into the present. Only then did it register how hard you were breathing, your chest rising and falling too fast, like you had just run a marathon.

“You don’t need to look,” he muttered, his voice low, almost casual—but his grip on you didn’t loosen.

His arm stayed around you, steady and firm. You could hear his heartbeat faintly where you leaned against him—slow, even, completely different from yours. It gave you something to focus on, something real to hold onto while everything else felt like it was slipping.

And for now, that was enough to keep you standing.

Voices rose somewhere in the distance—sharp, overlapping. You caught the Second Prince’s tone, strained but controlled, and another voice—angry and commanding. The Empress, most likely. But the words didn’t register. They felt far away, like you were listening through water.

“Come on,” your brother murmured.

He didn’t wait for you to respond. He shifted his hold, guiding you away from the center of the ballroom, his hand firm at your arm as he steered you through the crowd. You barely noticed the way people moved aside, or the glances that followed. Your legs felt unsteady, but he didn’t let you falter, matching your pace without rushing you.

He led you to a chair near the edge of the hall and gently pressed you down onto it.

“Sit.”

You sank into the seat, your hands still trembling slightly in your lap. The noise of the ballroom remained distant, muffled by the lingering echo of your thoughts.

“Breathe properly,” he said, crouching slightly in front of you. His usual irritation was gone, replaced by something quieter, more focused. “Slow down. You’re fine.”

You didn’t realize you were still breathing too fast until he said it.

A hand came into view—his. He reached out, hesitated for a fraction of a second like he wasn’t sure if you’d push him away, then rested it lightly over yours. Warm. Steady.

“Look at me,” he added.

You did.

“Nothing’s happening to you. You’re here. Just breathe.”

Another presence approached, footsteps more measured, heavier.

“Cassian, what happened to your sister?”

Your father’s voice.

Cassian didn’t look away from you when he answered. “She’s fine. Just startled.”

“Startled?” your father repeated, but there was no irritation in it—only concern, threaded carefully beneath his usual composure. Why is he confused? There’s a dead body there, goddamnit!

You felt his presence beside you, closer now. A hand—gloved, familiar—lifted your chin slightly, just enough for him to properly see your face.

“…You’re pale,” he said quietly.

You tried to speak, but your voice didn’t quite come out right. “I’m fine.”

It sounded unconvincing even to you.

Your father’s brows drew together, just slightly. Not enough for most people to notice but you did.

“Bring her water,” he said, already straightening.

Cassian clicked his tongue under his breath but didn’t argue. “I was going to.”

He stood, but not before giving your hand a brief, reassuring squeeze—quick enough that anyone else might’ve missed it.

“Don’t move,” he muttered.

As Cassian stepped away, your father stayed beside you, his presence steady and grounding in a way that didn’t press too hard but never left your side either. He didn’t speak at first. Instead, he simply sat down next to you, close enough that you could feel the quiet weight of his attention, and began gently rubbing your back in slow, even circles.

The motion was careful, almost instinctive, like he had done it a hundred times before. It wasn’t rushed, not forced—just calm, patient, and familiar.

And for a moment, it reminded you of something else entirely.

Your real father.

Back home, whenever you got scared—whether it was from a nightmare or after watching something too unsettling—he would sit just like this, rubbing your back the same way, saying little but staying close until your breathing evened out. You never questioned it back then. You just knew you felt safe.

Now, sitting here, you realized how much you missed that feeling.

How much you missed them.

‘Just when am I going back…?!’

The thought lingered longer than you expected, heavier than you wanted.

A few moments later, Cassian returned, a glass of water in hand. He didn’t say anything—just held it out to you, watching quietly as you took it.

Your hands were still a little unsteady, but you managed to hold the glass and take a slow sip. The water helped, grounding you further, cooling the tightness that still clung to your chest. Bit by bit, your breathing began to steady, your thoughts no longer spiraling quite as much.

Then—

A soft pink hologram flickered into existence beside your face.

You went still.

[ SCENE SUMMARY: “Callisto, who does not have a good relationship with the second prince, left the banquet hall in a bad mood after a small disturbance.” ]

Your eye twitched.

‘Small disturbance, my ass! This fucking game…’

You grit your teeth, irritation pushing past the lingering fear. The system made it sound like nothing had happened—like you hadn’t just watched a corpse being dragged across the ballroom floor.

Meanwhile, your father’s hand paused briefly on your back.

“…Still overwhelmed?” he asked, his voice quieter now, as if he was carefully choosing his words.

To him, it probably looked like you were on the verge of tears.

You stiffened slightly.

‘Wait—no, I’m not—’

But before you could correct him, his hand resumed its slow, steady motion, softer this time, as though he was trying to calm you further without saying too much. He didn’t press you for answers, didn’t question your reaction—he just stayed.

Cassian let out a quiet breath, leaning slightly against the chair beside you. “You’re fine,” he said, though his tone wasn’t dismissive—more like he was reassuring himself as much as you. “Just breathe properly.”

You let out a slow exhale, trying to settle yourself again, your grip tightening slightly around the glass as the last of your racing thoughts began to quiet down.

‘Okay… this is getting a little embarrassing…’

Your shoulders tensed just a bit.

‘I feel like a toddler.’

“Do you want to go home early?” your father asked gently.

You nodded.

You were tired more than you wanted to admit and leaving early had its advantages. Less people. Less noise. Less chance of running into a pain in the ass… especially the second prince—Lucien.

You glanced around the ballroom one last time. The nobles had already begun to recover, laughter returning in forced waves, conversations picking back up as if nothing had happened. The servants had cleaned everything with terrifying efficiency—the blood, the body, all of it gone without a trace. The polished floor gleamed under the lights, spotless.

Like the incident never happened. 

Your chest tightened faintly.

Cassian and your father moved to escort you out, one on each side. Your father’s hand rested lightly on your back, guiding you through the crowd.

“Stop it,” you muttered, brushing his hand away. “I’m not a kid. I’ll be fine walking on my own.”

He sighed but let you go ahead.

You walked a little too fast, your thoughts dragging you somewhere else entirely. The lunatic Crown Prince and the corpse. The smell of blood that wouldn’t leave your nose. That stupid system calling it a small disturbance like it was nothing.

And beneath all that—

Home.

Your real home.

‘I wanted to go back home, I miss everyone…’

Your vision blurred slightly as your thoughts spiraled, and you didn’t notice where you were going—

Until you slammed into someone.

The impact made you stumble, a soft gasp following immediately after. There was the sound of liquid spilling, fabric rustling, and when you looked down you saw a hand holding a empty glass of—

Wine.

Of course, your typical manhwa-conflict-starter.

Dark red seeped into expensive fabric, spreading across the front of a carefully tailored gown like a stain that didn’t belong—and wouldn’t come out. It would’ve been fine if the wine had stained your dress; you would’ve just brushed it off and moved on.

Unfortunately, yours was spotless.

“…You—”

The voice was sharp.

You looked up.

Curly magenta hair. Bright turquoise eyes—clear enough to rival real jewels. You recognized them immediately. How could you not? You’d seen that exact combination before, etched into your memory whether you liked it or not.

You remembered how that same hair once complemented an even grander gown, the centerpiece of a debutante ceremony meant to mark her beginning. You remembered how those same eyes, so vivid now, had turned hollow by the end of it. Empty. Lifeless.

All because of a man in a rabbit mask.

Penelope Eckhart.

Enough yandere x reader. Imagine, how about instead of you being the darling–you are the “rival” that the yandere wanted to kill so badly?

You led a peaceful—albeit boring—life. No drama, no chaos. And honestly? You weren’t complaining. You were content. Everything about you was just... average. You weren’t popular on campus, but you had enough friends to never feel lonely. You weren’t a genius, but your grades were decent—good enough to pass, and not bad enough to get a lecture from your parents. Sometimes, it felt like you were just an NPC in your own story, blending into the background. But you know what? You were fine with that.

Then, out of nowhere, weird things started happening.

First, you slipped on the school staircase and nearly broke your neck. Luckily, you walked away with just a few bruises. Then came a rumor—something completely made up, but still unpleasant to deal with. Thankfully, it died down just as quickly as it spread. But the worst of it? A huge flower pot nearly crushed you while you were just minding your own business, walking home from school. You only ended up with scratches and a bruised shoulder, but still—what the hell?

You laughed it off at first, even joked that maybe this was karma for all those furry memes you liked back in 2017. Or maybe the universe was just targeting you for fun. Either way, the streak of bad luck was starting to get under your skin. Every night, you found yourself lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering: What did I do to deserve this?

You didn’t get your answer until you stumbled across a book during a secondhand sale with your friend. It looked too good to be true—hardbound with elegant gold detailing, like something straight out of a historical drama. The cover promised a sweeping romance, and the whole thing was still wrapped in plastic, like it had never been touched. And the price? Ridiculously cheap.

As a book lover, you couldn’t resist. Of course you bought it.

What could possibly go wrong, right?

When you got home, you wasted no time tearing the plastic off the book. The cover had that satisfying texture of new pages, and you flipped it open with excitement, settling into your favorite reading spot.

Chapter One introduced a typical schoolboy hopelessly in love with his classmate. He was shy, awkward, completely whipped—and it was endearing, in a cliché sort of way. You almost laughed at how predictable it was. Still, you devoured every word like it was your favorite guilty pleasure.

Then came Chapter Two.

It detailed how the two slowly grew closer—his nervous gestures, the bashful glances, the innocent, awkward attempts to impress her. It was sweet in a cheesy way, like the kind of fluff your best friend always gushed about during lunch. But as you kept reading, a strange feeling settled in your chest.

Because every moment in the story… mirrored her stories exactly.

You frowned.

Halfway through the chapter three, the tone changed. Lighthearted romance gave way to something colder, darker. The narrative shifted focus to a nameless extra—just some background classmate the male lead couldn’t stand. Someone who kept interrupting his moments with his beloved. Someone always there, always in the way.

Someone he quietly started to hate.

Then he began to act.

It started small: removing a “Caution: Wet Floor” sign from a freshly mopped stairwell.

Your stomach twisted.

Then came the rumors—petty lies, whispered just loud enough to spread.

Your breath caught.

You reread the paragraph slowly, heart pounding in your ears. Every “accident,” every “coincidence” the book mentioned… you’d lived through them. Slipping on the stairs. The whispers. The almost fatal fall from a flower pot that came out of nowhere.

These weren’t fictional events. These were yours.

And the worst part? The book recounted it all with a disturbing ease, like it was nothing more than a plot device. The nameless extra—you—was painted as a clingy nuisance. An obstacle. A disposable character not worth a name.

With shaking hands, you flipped to Chapter Four.

It opened to a list of names. Some you didn’t recognize. Others made your blood run cold. They were classmates—students who’d quietly transferred, dropped out, or disappeared without much explanation. The class president’s name was there too—the one who’d been hospitalized last month after a “freak accident.”

You turned the page.

Blank.

The next one? Still blank.

But that wasn’t the part that terrified you most.

What did—what truly froze you to your core—was that at the very top of that list…

Was your name.

“Ugh…" The obnoxiously bright sunlight streaming through your window rudely yanks you from the depths of your precious beauty sleep. You groan, burying your face into the pillow, already dreading the day ahead.

Class. You have class today.

Maybe you could call in sick? Just this once?

No, no—bad idea. You’ve already missed enough days, and if you push your luck any further, your professor might actually drop you from the course. With a resigned sigh, you force yourself to roll out of bed, still half-asleep…

And that’s when you notice it.

The bed beneath you feels huge, far bigger than your tiny dorm mattress. The duvet is impossibly soft, smoother than anything you’ve ever owned. And the scent—fresh linen with a hint of lavender—completely unfamiliar.

Wait a second…

This isn’t your bed.

Your grogginess vanishes in an instant. Heart pounding, you sit up, eyes darting around the lavish room, the grand canopy, the ornate furniture—none of it yours.

Where the hell are you?

You blink rapidly, rub your eyes, and even give your cheek a light pinch—just to be sure.

Nope. Still here.

The massive canopy bed, the velvet curtains, the chandelier glittering overhead—it’s all real. Or at least, it feels real.

Confirmed: not hallucinating.

Dreaming? Oh, absolutely. One hundred percent. What else could explain waking up in a place straight out of a royal fantasy?

Your fingers graze the impossibly soft duvet, marveling at its quality. Even the air smells different—clean, floral, expensive.

“Wow…” you murmur, still in awe. “What kind of fever dream is this?”

Maybe all those late-night historical manhwa binges finally caught up to you. Your brain must’ve absorbed one too many palace storylines and decided to throw you headfirst into fantasy.

You yawn and slide out of the king-sized bed. As soon as your feet touch the floor, you freeze. Your body feels light—weirdly light. Like thirty percent of your stress weight disappeared overnight.

It bothers you. A lot. You stare down at your arms.

Slender. Pale. Unfamiliar.

This… isn’t your body.

It feels foreign. Off. Wrong. But—whatever. This is clearly a dream anyway.

You shrug.

Wandering through the room, you open a random door—and nearly trip over your own feet.

A walk-in closet. A giant one. You step inside, stunned.

Row after row of gowns in every color and style imaginable: day dresses, ballgowns, evening gowns, summer silks, lacy frilly things you don't even know how to name. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think you stumbled into a boutique straight out of Versailles.

“All right…” you whisper, grinning. “Let’s try one of these before I wake up—”

Then you catch sight of the mirror.

And you choke.

The reflection staring back isn’t you—or at least, not exactly.

She’s tall. Graceful. Glowing.

The kind of girl who drinks fancy tea and never experiences deadlines, stress acne, or midnight existential dread. Her skin is flawless. Her posture elegant. Her waist unfairly snatched.

And her face…

No eyebags. No dark circles. No tiredness. Just radiant, princess-core beauty.

But the longer you stare, the more the resemblance creeps in. She almost looks like you. Just—refined. Sculpted. Like Aphrodite herself woke up one day and decided, “Yeah, let’s bless this girl.”

You blink.

“...Yeah. I got yassified in this dream.”

Before you could say anything else to the mirror—or to your suspiciously flawless new reflection—a soft knock echoed through the room, followed by a gentle voice:

“Young lady, please excuse me. It’s time to wake up.”

The door creaked open.

You quickly peek out from the walk-in closet, just in time to spot a brown-haired maid stepping inside. She looks like every background generic maid character you’ve ever seen in a manhwa—neat uniform, tidy bun, soft features.

Her eyes scan the room until they land on you half-hidden behind the closet door. There’s a flicker of surprise on her face, but it disappears quickly, replaced by a warm, practiced smile.

“There you are,” she says gently. “Young lady, it’s time to get ready for the day.”

You nod wordlessly, still trying to wrap your head around everything. She walks over and gestures for you to follow, and you do—half in a daze—as she leads you toward a grand bathroom.

Before you can take in the details of the marble floors and gold fixtures, more maids begin filing into the room like a well-rehearsed routine. A few begin tidying up the bed and curtains with practiced ease, while others gently guide you through the morning preparations.

You don’t even have time to protest before warm water, floral soap, and soft hands are washing away every last trace of sleep from your skin. You’re being bathed like a porcelain doll.

This dream is getting way too detailed.

They styled your hair into something you’ve only ever seen on Disney princesses—elegant, intricate, and definitely not achievable without professional help and magic hairspray.

Then they dressed you in a lavender gown so luxurious you’re certain just one yard of the fabric probably costs more than your family’s entire savings.

The same brown-haired maid from earlier beamed at you with pride.

“My lady, you look beautiful as always!”

You stare at your reflection again, stunned.

And you do.

You really do.

You look like one of those Disney princess mascots—the expensive kind—that loving mothers hire for their daughter’s fifth birthday party. The kind that sings in perfect pitch and never breaks character, even when asked uncomfortable questions by toddlers.

Once the maids finish their pampering parade, they quietly excuse themselves, leaving you alone with your thoughts. You wave them off awkwardly, still half-dazed.

Well… lucid dreaming is a rare occurrence. You never thought it would actually happen to you. Heh. What kind of idiot would I be if I didn’t enjoy it?

“Everything I ever wanted to happen in a lucid dream, right?” you mutter to yourself. “That’s what TikTok said.”

You cackle like a madwoman, stroking your chin as if you had an imaginary beard, fully embracing your sudden descent into fantasy.

Well then… let’s try flying. Some even said they can transform into anything in their lucid dream so flying wouldn’t be a problem.

Without hesitation, you kick off your expensive-looking sandals, climb onto the nearest table… and jump.

Nothing.

Frowning, you climb up again and jump, harder this time.

Still nothing.

“Seriously?” you grumble, groaning so dramatically that somewhere in the distance, a cow might file a copyright claim for vocal impersonation.

Maybe the table wasn’t high enough?

Then suddenly—click.

Something shifts in your brain like a lightbulb going off.

“THAT’S RIGHT!” you yell, eyes lighting up. “IT WASN’T HIGH ENOUGH!!”

You let out a triumphant laugh, like you just discovered a new law of physics. Reinvigorated, you slide your sandals back on and sprint out of the room like a Disney villain on a mission.

It takes a while. You get lost—twice. Almost enter someone else’s bedroom. But finally…

You find it.

The attic floor.

High. Dusty. Perfect.

You grin.

You stand triumphantly in the attic, chest puffed out, arms akimbo like a low-budget superhero. Wooden beams cream above your head, and motes of dust dance in the golden light streaming through the narrow window. You open the largest window, the fresh gush of wind refreshed your mind, and the view outside shows endless trees, rooftops, and sky–ahh this is perfect place for a perfect takeoff.

Your heart pounds in your chest, filled with the kind of adrenaline only reserved for rollercoaster drops and purchasing something new that your poor ass usually cannot afford.

This is it. This is the moment where your childhood dream will finally come true. You’re going to fly. You’re going to experience your Sakura Cardcaptor dream and break free from gravity and soar across the sky like a majestic magical girl!

You climb to the open window, practically vibrating with anticipation.

Oh god, you're so excited that you might actually pee.

You step one foot on the ledge, arms stretch wide. “Come on, brain,” you whisper, trembling with anticipation. “Don’t let me down now.”

Then–

“MY LADY!!”

The voice comes from behind you, panicked and shrill. You whip your head around and see the brown-haired maid from earlier at the top of the stairs, eyes wide with absolute horror. Behind her, a small army of servants scramble in, gasping and clutching their skirts like they just caught you mid-sacrifice.

“My lady, please step away from the window!!” she cried, her voice trembling. “W-what are you doing up there?!”

“I'M GOING TO FLY!” you declare proudly, striking a pose like you’re about to shoot a music video.

The maid looks like she’s about to faint. One of the younger servants drops a book he was holding, and it hits the floor with a thud so dramatic it deserves background music.

“I read on TikTok that if you believe and affirm hard enough, you can do anything!” you say, one foot already dragging out the window.

“My lady, please–NO! Get down from here, I beg you!” another maid shrieks. “You’re not well? Should we fetch the physician? The priest? The exorcist?!”

You sigh, “Well I’m—”

A younger servant suddenly broke into tears and sobbing at you dramatically as if he were in a K-drama finale. “Young lady, we didn't know you felt something like that! I promise, we will be at your side, so please don't do it!!”

“...” You look at him incrediously.

Whatever. You’ve already committed.

“LET’S GOOOOOOO–”

“NO–!” “MY LADY!!”

You jump.

And fall.

And then immediately land with a horrifying CRASH on a pile of empty unattended storage boxes just below the place below the window where you jump.

The servants scream. You groan. No bones cracked, but something somewhere definitely cracks (probably your dreams.)

There’s a beat of silence. You’re staring up at the sun–bathing from it warm rays, hair disarray, skirt flipped over your knees, surrounded by smashed boxes.

“...okay?” you wheeze, your body hurts surprisingly in a dream. “So maybe lucid dreaming has… limits. Or probably I didn't do my affirmation enough?”

The maids descend upon you in panic, fussing and sobbing and checking your limbs like you're Humpty Dumpty after a really dramatic fall. One of them is actually crying. Another keeps muttering prayers under her breath.

Meanwhile, you lie there, dazed, blinking up at the sun.

Still no flight powers..

What a pity.

“At least, I'm rich..” you mumble.

The physician had barely finished fussing over your bruises and blotchy cheeks when a knock echoed through the hall—sharp, precise, like it belonged in a courtroom rather than a hallway. The butler stood there, rigid as a statue. He didn’t say the Duke requested your presence. No. He said the Duke summoned you.

And now here you are, sitting in a chair that’s way too soft in a room that smells like old books and even older money—there’s a distinct scent of expensive tobacco hanging in the air. Across from you, a black haired middle-aged man, presumably the Duke, stares at you like you personally offended every generation of his ancestors.

‘Wow’, you think. ‘My dream really went the extra mile to generate a father Duke NPC for me, huh?’

He doesn’t speak. Just watches you with his purple eyes.

You clear your throat, awkwardly. “Soo… what’s up?”

“Do you understand why you’re here?” His voice is calm, but there's a thread of tension running beneath it.

You blink. “I jumped from the window?”

His jaw tightens like he’s restraining the urge to throw his chair through the stained glass behind him. “You were found—witnessed—standing on a windowsill. Arms out. Ready to jump from a fifteen-story-high window.”

You nod slowly. “That’s what I said…”

He leans back, picks up a porcelain teacup, and sips with the kind of deliberate calm that only someone seconds from losing it would muster. “Do you have any explanation?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again.

“...Would ‘I thought I could fly’ be an acceptable answer?”

He stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. A very stupid second head. He doesn’t say anything for five excruciating minutes, just sips his tea in absolute silence like it’s the only thing keeping him from combusting.

Finally, he speaks. “You were laughing while dangling from the attic window,” he says flatly. “Do you realize how that looked to the servants? What they thought you were attempting?”

Oh. Right. The crying footman. The prayers. The shrieking. That tracks.

He sets the cup down with mechanical calm. “Well? What possessed you?”

You hesitate. “...TikTok?”

Wrong answer.

He slams his gloved hands onto the table with a thunderous crack. “I should’ve known! The moment I saw her lurking at the banquet like a snake in silk and conversed with you... Penelope Eckhart.”

He spits the name like a curse. “The adopted stray the Duke of Eckhart insists on calling daughter. Of course it’s her influence!”

Penelope…? You squint. “Penelope? As in… from The Odyssey?”

He pauses. “Odyssey what?”

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

He side-eyed you. “...She’s always been unhinged. Reckless. A disgrace to noble etiquette. And now you—you, of all people, fall under her sway from that banquet three weeks ago!”

You don’t even know what "sway" means in this context, but you nod dutifully. “Yes. Very swayed.”

He narrows his eyes. “So you admit it?”

You still have no idea what he’s talking about, but whatever. “...Absolutely.”

“I knew it. She’s corrupted you with her savage nonsense. What’s next? You’ll be swearing, fencing with footmen, or—heaven forbid—riding a horse astride?!”

You raise a hand, tentative. “That… actually sounds kind of cool—”

“ENOUGH!”

The room goes quiet. You flash him your most innocent smile, eyes darting around like maybe you’ll spot a “How to Handle a Dream Duke 101” manual tucked between the bookshelves.

He leans forward again, steepling his fingers. “You are never to speak to that girl again. Do you understand?”

You give him two enthusiastic thumbs up. “Crystal clear, Your Grace.”

He frowns at your oddly cheerful compliance but doesn’t question it. “Good. I expect better behavior from the lady of House Viandrel.”

You freeze. House what now?

“...Right. Of course. House Van…del.”

He stares.

“Viandrel,” he corrects slowly.

“Totally what I said.”

He narrows his eyes. “You’re not taking me seriously.”

“Not at all,” you say, beaming. “I take my dream dukes very seriously.”

He gives you one long, tired look—and sighs. “You’re dismissed.”

You nod and rise from the chair, leaving the room without another word.

Penelope Edward–whatever it is… it sounds familiar…

After being nagged by the Duke, the Junior Duke (your elder brother in this Dreamworld) just came home from a trip that you couldn't care less about, and headed about the stunt you made—and obviously nagged you about the incident as well. Like father, like son, huh?

Anyway, It’s taking way too long for you to wake up.

But honestly? That’s fine. You’re not exactly in a rush. You’ve been thoroughly enjoying your new life as a pampered noble, and who wouldn’t?

The food alone makes it all worth it. Lavish meals served on silver trays, flavors so rich and complex you’re pretty sure even your real-world favorite café couldn’t compete. What really surprises you is how this supposedly “historical” dream isn’t stingy with the seasoning—like, did they have paprika back then? Nutmeg? Garlic oil?

Not that you're complaining.

You chalk it up to your subconscious being considerate. “Don’t worry about bland medieval chicken, bestie,” your dream-brain seems to say. “We’re doing luxury fantasy fine dining here.”

And honestly? Slay, subconscious, slay.

As expected, a mountain of banquet and tea party invitations started piling up at your door. You only managed to attend half of them—your social battery couldn’t keep up.

Surprisingly, mingling with nobles turned out to be easier than you thought. All it took was a bit of historical manhwa knowledge—years of reading about ballrooms and etiquette finally paid off. Just copy the mannerisms you binge-read at night to de-stress, and boom: perfect noble lady impersonation.

Still, you kept your appearances limited to events hosted by high-ranking nobles. Which brings you to today—Penelope… Eggtart… Ekcart… Edward’s–whatever her last name is, invited you to her coming-of-age ceremony.

Anyway, that’s why you’re here now.

Hah… finally. The ceremony’s starting, you think, slumping a little in your seat. Your social energy is hanging by a thread, but this event is tolerable enough. At least the organizers had the good sense to host it in an open garden. Fresh air, pretty flowers, and best of all—space to breathe.

The nobles are seated at the sides of the garden in orderly rows along a long, lavishly set table, and for once, you're genuinely thankful for the rigid structure of aristocratic events. In the center, a long red carpet stretches toward an ornate altar draped in flowers and silk. Honestly, if no one told you this was a coming-of-age ceremony, you would’ve assumed it was a fancy garden wedding.

The music started.

The nobles settle.

Which means, finally, no more small talk.

Thank the stars. Silence at last.

From the far end of the garden, a figure appeared—fuchsia-haired and radiant, stepping onto the red carpet as if the earth itself had unfurled to greet her. She moved with the grace of a falling petal, light and deliberate, like someone who had never once known the weight of uncertainty. The sunlight kissed her gown, a fabric so ethereal it seemed less like cloth and more like the moment right before dawn—soft, shimmering, impossible to hold.

Even your yassified self in this dream can’t compete to such beauty.

Three men escorted her, but none could draw your gaze away from her. She was striking in the kind of way that made you forget how to blink. Her smile wasn’t delicate, nor was it regal—it was too full of life for that. It was the kind of smile that kids made when handed a carnival balloon and told they could keep it forever.

You looked around you. Some of the nobles hold the same look.

You blink. ‘Okay. Wow. My subconscious really went off this time.’

Because there’s no way she’s real. No way your brain just casually came up with a character design this good while you were asleep. What is this, a premium limited-edition lucid dreaming?

So… this was Penelope?

The girl the Duke ranted about months ago? The mad dog?

She looked more like a fairy godmother’s favorite goddaughter than someone with a nickname fit for a gladiator. There wasn’t a single thing unhinged about her. No growling. No eye twitch. Not even a suspiciously sharp hairpin.

You squint, vaguely recalling the Duke’s furious tirade. Was it… Penelope Eclair? Ekhart? Eggcart? You shake your head. Eh. Something German-sounding, probably.

You lean back, still watching her glide forward like a poem in motion. Whatever her last name was, she certainly didn’t look like a threat.

You slump a little further in your seat, still watching in awe. Either your dream was getting too detailed, or your imagination was putting in overtime. Either way, props to your brain. Ten out of ten character designs.

The rest of the event? Boring.

First, some stiff-looking official stood up and read a long, flowery letter from the emperor, officially recognizing Penelope as an adult. Then, the elder from the House of… Edward—Eck-something—gave a heartfelt speech about Penelope’s growth, honor, blah blah blah. You tuned out halfway through.

After that, Penelope had a sherry toast with her family. Her entire family—which, thankfully, was just her father and two older brothers. Still took a while.

She looked so genuinely happy, though. Laughing softly as her father said something only she could hear, smiling brightly when her eldest brother raised his golden goblet, and even nudging the grumpy-looking pink-haired second brother into a reluctant toast.

Watching her surrounded by family like that… It was sweet.

You missed yours.

You slump in your seat a little. How long is this dream going to last anyway?

Just as that thought crosses your mind, a low murmur begins to ripple through the crowd.

You blink, snapping out of your haze. Something’s happening.

A man appears near the garden entrance—tall, with striking white hair, and a rabbit-shaped mask obscuring his face. He’s dressed in black, formal and crisp, and beside him stands a girl with pale pink hair and an unreadable expression.

She looks… eerily familiar.

You glance at Penelope’s family standing at the head. The resemblance is uncanny—especially to the two brothers.

The Duke is already on his feet, face pale, voice sharp. “W-Who are you?! How dare you interrupt the ceremony?!”

The masked man bows with impeccable grace. “I apologize for the intrusion, Your Grace. As a gift for Lady Penelope Eckhart’s coming of age… I present her sister—your true daughter.”

The pink-haired girl steps forward with eerie calm.

“Father… Brothers...”

You stare.

What.

WHAT.

WHAT. THE. HELL?!?!

A secret sibling reveal? At this ceremony? Is your dream trying to win an award for Most Dramatic Plot Twist in a lucid dream history?!

But why..? Why in the middle of Penelope's coming-of-age ceremony?

You glance at Penelope.

Oh..

Her face is blank—like someone just took the light out of her.

After that mess, the entire ceremony was canceled—ball included. Honestly, you were kind of relieved. One less event to pretend you enjoyed. You finally got a chance to rest.

But… you couldn't help feeling bad for Penelope.

The pink-haired girl—Ivonne—was taken in for questioning, and yep, turns out she really was the long-lost daughter of House Eckhart. The maids filled you in like clockwork. Apparently, Ivonne vanished during a festival when she was a child, and after years of no trace, the Duke adopted another girl to fill the empty space.

That girl was Penelope.

Now? The Duke has his biological daughter back… and still has Penelope.

Yay. Surprise bonus daughter.

Months went by, and nothing major happened. That is, until a tea party where the noble ladies really let their tongues loose. You were just sipping your tea, minding your own business, when you overheard them praising Ivonne like she was some kind of divine blessing to the empire.

“Oh, isn’t it just fate that the true lady of Eckhart returned right in time to be engaged to the crown prince?”

“She just radiates elegance. Unlike that… other girl.”

You didn’t even need to ask who they meant.

They spoke about Penelope like she was some defective stand-in, laughing behind their fans and calling her a disgrace for embarrassing herself during her own coming-of-age ceremony. Some even said the Duke should’ve “corrected his mistake” the moment Ivonne reappeared.

It was catty. Like watching bored rich girls cosplay Mean Girls in lace and corsets.

You tuned out halfway through.

The pastries and tea turned bitter.

The third week of the month, Penelope died.

You were surprised to hear about it. Not devastated. Not even upset. Just... surprised. Like finding out a background NPC in a dream had a tragic storyline you weren’t expecting.

Still, for formality’s sake, you asked one of the literate servants to draft a letter of sympathy to House Eckhart. You signed it half-heartedly, sealed it, and went back to your tea. Because really—this was all just a dream, wasn’t it?

Apparently, Penelope had poisoned Ivonne during the quarterly hunting tournament last month. Jealousy, they said. Ivonne had been bedridden for weeks, and just now, the Crown Prince—Ivonne’s perfect fiancé—found out. And in the name of justice or whatever, he forced Penelope to drink the same poison she’d used.

Poetic, sure. Dramatic, definitely. But you couldn’t bring yourself to care too deeply.

It’s not real. Just another wild twist from your subconscious—probably patched together from half-watched soap operas, three webnovels, and a stress nap after finals week.

So the dream continues.

A day passes. Then another. Then another.

Life in a noble estate is… dull. Sure, the ceilings are painted gold and the pastries come stacked like tiny towers, but without internet, memes, or even bad Wi-Fi, luxury becomes lonely real fast. You’ve spent two hours naming the decorative swords in the drawing room and nearly a week ranking all the wallpaper patterns by emotional impact. (The powder room wins. That wallpaper haunts you.)

At this point, you're just waiting to wake up.

Everything is peacefully normal… until it’s not.

It begins subtly. You notice some of the maids—usually chatty and cheery—start fidgeting more. They flinch at little sounds. Their whispers become shorter, sharper. You hear snippets—“went missing”—“not supposed to happen”—But no one will tell you anything directly. Every time you ask, the servants smile too tightly and say, “Just a little staff matter, my lady.” as if they were instructed not to tell you.

You chalk it up to your dream's flair for drama. Probably setting up the next twist. Maybe someone’s eloping. Or there’s a cursed jewel. That’d be fun.

But then the atmosphere begins to… sour.

The sky turns overcast and stays that way. No birds chirping. No laughter in the halls. Just a heavy, suffocating stillness.

The Duke—your dream-Duke father—becomes tense, always looking over his shoulder. Your older brother, the Junior Duke, swaps his usual elegant coat for armor. Actual armor. Indoors.

He patrols the manor like he's expecting something to leap out from the shadows. You make a joke once—something about a monster apocalypse. He doesn’t even blink.

Neither does the Duke, your dream-father. He’s buried in meetings behind closed doors, the kind where no one is allowed in or out. You glimpse a map one evening—something scrawled with runes and red ink—but the door slams before you can get a proper look.

You overhear one of the footmen whispering to another:

“It’s getting stronger. The wards won’t hold much longer.”

“We were told it was under control…”

Under control? Oh, great. Now your brain’s tossing in a mystery plotline.

Soon, guards are stationed at every hallway. Curtains stay drawn. Rooms once open for lounging are suddenly locked. You hear screaming one night, muffled and far away. No one talks about it the next morning.

You start keeping a candle by your bedside.

Then… it happens.

Late in the afternoon, while you’re lounging in the library with a cup of tea and a boring book about something and letters that you couldn't understand, the ground suddenly shudders beneath your feet.

A deep, unnatural boom echoes across the estate—followed by a tremor that knocks books off shelves and sends your tea crashing to the floor. Shouts erupt. Horns blare. The air thickens with smoke.

You race to the hall.

From the far end of the estate—the west wing—black smoke rises in curling waves. People scream. Footsteps thunder past. A young footman nearly knocks you over as he runs.

“They’ve breached the manor!” someone yells.

The Duke storms through the corridor, face grim, issuing orders with terrifying precision. Your brother follows close behind, sword drawn, expression unreadable.

“What is going on?!” you shout, trying to catch his sleeve.

He pauses—just for a second.

“…Stay inside,” he says. Then he’s gone.The west wing is a burning ruin. The crackle of fire is loud, but not loud enough to drown out the howl that follows—something inhuman, guttural, distant yet crawling under your skin.

You freeze.

Your body screams to move, to run, but your legs feel nailed to the floor. The corridor twists with smoke. Shadows flicker and stretch across the walls. Your breath catches, heart pounding too loud in your ears.

Then—a hand grips yours.

Firm. Cold with sweat.

It’s her—the maid who’s always been by your side since the moment you woke up in this strange place. No words. Just a desperate glance. Her eyes wide with fear.

She pulls you hard.

You stumble after her, down the servant’s hallway, through twisting passages filled with shouting and ash. Past panicked maids and fallen trays. Down stone steps slick with moisture. The walls close in. The noise above fades.

She drags you into the kitchen, and then down further—into the underground pantry.

It’s cramped. The air is damp and cold.

Dozens of servants are huddled there, shaking, whispering prayers under their breath. Someone sobs. Another vomits into a basket of spoiled roots.

The door shuts behind you with a heavy thud.

You’re still gripping her hand.

She looks at you—face pale, lips trembling.

“…My… my lady…”

But she doesn’t finish the sentence. You let go of her hand, and so her too. Your legs turned jelly, instantly.

Before you can process anything, another servant—an old woman with soot smudged across her cheeks—rushes over. She kneels in front of you, her hands gently cradling yours.

“My lady, are you hurt? Are you—did anything happen to you?”

You blink at her.

She pulls you into a tight embrace before you can respond. Her arms wrap around you protectively, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re safe now. We’re here. Nothing’s going to hurt you. I swear it…”

She sounds like she’s trying to convince herself just as much as you.

You slowly raise your arms to return the gesture, not quite sure what to do.

Everything feels surreal. Too heavy. Too detailed. Too loud.

But it’s just a dream.

It’s just a dream.

None of this is real.

No matter how vivid the panic is in their eyes, or how tight her arms are around you, or how sharp the air feels in your lungs—

Calm down. It's okay.

A dream can’t hurt you.“When are we getting out of here..?” you ask her, your voice small, barely above a breath.

She looks at you.

There’s soot clinging to her lashes. Her eyes shimmer—not with hope, but with something closer to dread.

“...Later,” she says softly, like she’s afraid to be overheard.

“The Duke and the Young Master will take care of it.”

Her words are meant to soothe.

But the silence that follows is too loud.

Too long.

And her arms don’t let go.To everyone's luck, they’re in the underground pantry.

Meaning, there's enough food. But not enough to last forever.

At first, there was chaos—shouts, boots pounding on the floor above, the crack of something—wood? Bone?—splintering. Screams muffled by stone walls. Then a strange, rhythmic thudding against the door above.

Then nothing.

The quiet didn't bring relief.

Only dread.

Each hour without noise stretched thinner and thinner, until even the softest breath felt like it echoed too loud.

Then came the knocks.

Not hurried.

Not human.

The pantry door boomed under the weight of it, once, twice—steady and wrong. The maids scrambled, dragging shelves, crates, anything heavy, against the stairwell entrance. You joined them, moving numbly, stacking sacks of grain, shoving boxes against the frame.

No one spoke. No one dared.

Eventually, the knocking stopped.

But the silence that followed wasn’t peace.

It was waiting.

The food ran out on the fifth day.

No one volunteers. No one argues either, when the steward finally whispers, “We’ll have to go.”

You’re handed a coat. Your handmaid wraps a scarf around your neck like it’s winter, even though the air is stifling. She ties it too tight.

The door creaks open.The pantry door creaked open like a coffin lid.

The manor above was dark. Broken.

The corridor that once led to the ballroom reeked of rust and rot. The wallpaper peeled in long strips, soaked in something dark. The chandeliers had fallen. The portraits had their faces clawed through.

The front door was left hanging open. The moon outside bled red across the shattered tiles. Its light spilled like a wound, revealing—

Bodies.

Servants, soldiers… torn apart, slumped in corners, sprawled across the stairs. Some were missing limbs. Others looked like they had been trying to crawl away.

One maid vomited. Another sobbed.The cold night air wrapped around you like a damp shroud, but you didn’t flinch.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Your eyes stayed locked on the sky above, where the moon—no longer silver, no longer gentle—hung swollen and blood-red.

It was a sickly, heavy thing, like a dying sun choking on its own light. The kind of moon that didn’t glow, but watched. It made the air feel thinner. Meaner. Like something terrible had crawled into the sky and made itself a home there.

You said nothing.

Behind you, one of the older servants tried to hush the crying maids. Their muffled sobs quivered through the silence like glass on the verge of shattering. The sound was small, but it felt loud in a world that had fallen completely still.

No one dared to speak above a whisper now. Even footsteps were quiet—careful not to disturb whatever it was that might be listening.

The manor, once bright and filled with noise and pride, now sat like a corpse.

Empty.

Ransacked by something unseen.

And the worst part? It wasn’t over.

They wandered the halls in tight, silent groups—eyes hollow, hands trembling—opening every door they hadn’t yet touched. Hoping for a miracle.

Even just one sack of rice. A few cans. Dried herbs. Anything. But everything was rotting. The meat had turned green and sour. The fruits were sagging and blackened, thick with flies. Even the bread was crawling, infested with tiny white worms burrowed into every crack. The storerooms stank of death—sweet and bloated, the scent of time running out. And when someone opened the last cellar and found nothing but mold and darkness, no one screamed.

They just… stopped.

No one asked about the Duke. Or the Young Master.

Not anymore.

Their absence weighed heavier than any answer.

No one needed to say it. The silence already had.

You didn’t ask either. You simply stayed still—like a ghost in your own body—watching this dream unfold around you like a play you’d forgotten auditioning for.

You were detached. Numb.

Suspended in something that should’ve been fear, but wasn’t.

Because the only thing anchoring you—the only reason you hadn’t collapsed onto your knees in the middle of all this decay—was the whisper you kept feeding yourself over and over again–this is just a dream.

All of them agreed—it was time to leave the manor. There was no point in staying any longer. It was either starve to death or start considering which corpse looked the "freshest." No one wanted to say it aloud, but the choice hung in the air like a stench.

The footmen who had stayed alive this long quietly armed themselves. Their weapons came from the remains of an unidentified knight—his body mangled, twisted at an unnatural angle, left abandoned in one of the bloodstained hallways.

You weren’t even sure how you ended up outside. Just that someone had taken your hand and guided you through a narrow corridor that wasn’t there before. A servant leaned in close and whispered, “It’s the secret exit. We used to sneak out here when we wanted to slack off… or buy extra snacks.” She gave a sheepish chuckle.

Under any other circumstance, you might’ve laughed too. Might’ve teased her. But not today.

Not with what you’d seen.

The journey into the forest was strangely… smooth. Too smooth. Every step you took, you kept waiting for something awful to happen.

Nothing did.

And then—

A soft gasp from beside you.

One of the maids darted forward toward a tree. You followed her gaze and saw him: a young man with black hair and greenish orbs, slumped against the base of the trunk. His skin was pale, his arm bloody and trembling. He looked up as the group rushed to him.

The servants reacted instantly. The maids and footmen surrounded him, some dropping to their knees, others calling his name in hushed panic. It was clear they recognized him—maybe another worker from the manor, long thought lost.

Someone suggested they rest nearby, and the group settled into a shallow cave not far from where they’d found the boy.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

In the corner, a few maids were already tending to the boy’s wounds with trembling hands and whatever herbs they had left. No one spoke. There wasn’t much to say.

You stepped forward, unsure of what exactly you could do, but needing to do something. “Hey…” you called softly.

They looked up. One of the maids gave you a tired, grateful smile. “Ah… My Lady—”

A loud tearing sound cut her off.

You were ripping your gown. The cleanest part you could find. You tore it into long, thin strips.

“Here,” you said, holding them out. “Use these for bandages.”

Her eyes softened. She didn’t thank you—not with words—but the way her hands accepted the fabric said enough.

The boy though—looked at you blankly, you couldn’t tell what he’s thinking with the look he’s giving you. He almost looks like a doll.

The fire’s glow cast dim light across the cave, making the stone walls flicker like they were breathing. The boy sat in a far corner, huddled beneath a thin, dirt-smudged blanket. He looked your age—sixteen, maybe seventeen—close to the age of the body you now inhabited. And yet, despite the bruises and scraped skin, he didn’t look like someone who’d barely survived alone in the forest.

Too unscathed. Too still.

You approached him slowly, coat and scarf in hand. You didn’t say much—just knelt beside him and wordlessly draped the worn coat over his shoulders, letting your fingers linger a moment longer than needed as you wrapped the scarf carefully around his neck.

His skin was cold.

Not cold like someone caught in the wind, or someone left without a fire. It was the kind of cold that seeped deep. The kind that made your fingertips twitch. Cold like… a corpse..

Still, you said nothing. You kept your face neutral, your voice soft.

“You need it more than me.”

He looked up, and his eyes—large, solemn, unnervingly calm—met yours. “Why are you so kind to me?” he asked quietly. “Even like this?”

You didn’t answer. Just smiled, stiffly, and started to rise to your feet.

But before you could take a step, his hand shot out and grabbed your wrist.

“Don’t go.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

His grip wasn’t tight, not exactly—but it was firm. Anchoring. His touch felt ice-cold against your skin, and you fought the urge to yank your arm away.

You forced your voice to stay steady. “I just need to speak with my maid about something that happened to me earlier. I’ll be right back.”

His head tilted slightly. “Why not let her come here instead?” he asked, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s warmer by the fire. Safer, too.”

Your heart was thudding in your chest now, painfully loud. But you didn’t let it show. You kept your eyes blank, your tone even.

“I’ll only be a moment.”

Silence stretched.

His eyes didn’t move from yours.

Then, slowly—reluctantly—he released your wrist.

You stood and turned away at once, forcing your steps to remain measured and calm. You walked back toward your handmaid without glancing over your shoulder.

Only when you were a few feet away did you exhale, quietly.

Your handmaid looked at you with faint concern. “My lady…?”

You leaned closer to her and whispered, “Something’s wrong with him.”

She frowned. “What do you mean? Ethan?”

So he has a name.

“He’s too calm. Too perfect. Not a scratch bad enough to explain how he made it this far. And he’s cold. Like a corpse.”

Your maid’s brows furrowed slightly. “You’re scaring yourself, my lady. Maybe he’s just in shock.”

“No,” you shook your head. “That’s not it. His wounds are shallow. His clothes too clean. And he doesn’t speak unless spoken to. When he does, it’s… like he’s copying something. Too polite. Too perfect.”

She frowned. “You think he’s dangerous?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “But when I touched him just now… his skin was cold. Like ice. Like—” a corpse

You stopped yourself. “Never mind.”

She gave a small, uneasy laugh. “Maybe we’re all just on edge.”

“Maybe,” you echoed. But neither of you sounded convinced.

The two of you shared a tense glance. No more words were exchanged, but something shifted in her gaze—she didn’t dismiss you, not this time.

Eventually, the fire’s warmth called you both back, and you returned to the main group in the cave. Most had already dozed off, exhausted. The boy, however, was awake. Waiting.

He stood as you approached, eyes fixed on you.

“My lady,” he said, a soft, oddly serene tone in his voice. “Thank you for earlier… for the coat. And the scarf.” He tugged it gently, as if to emphasize the point. “They smell like you.”

You forced a polite smile, heart dropping a little in your chest. “You should rest. It’ll be a long day tomorrow.”

He stepped closer.

“Still… you didn’t have to help me,” he continued, his voice low, like the flicker of the fire. “No one else would’ve. You’re kind. Too kind for this world.”

You glanced around, your pulse pounding. You just wanted to get away.

Something strange caught your eye.

The fire behind him was bright enough to cast deep shadows across the cave floor—jagged and moving with every flicker.

But he had none.

Not a single trace of a shadow beneath his feet.

Your blood ran cold.

You stared at the empty ground behind him, then slowly lifted your gaze back to his face.

He was watching you closely. Still smiling.

You tried to keep your voice level. “I… should rest.”

You turned to walk—slow, casual—but you barely made a step before he moved, quietly slipping beside you. His hand brushed against your sleeve.

“Stay with me, just a little longer,” he said gently, tilting his head. “It’s warmer here. And I feel safer when you’re near.”

Your body tensed. Every instinct screamed at you to run. But your face remained carefully blank.

You offered a faint chuckle. “Another time, maybe. I really should—”

His fingers curled lightly around your wrist again. Not forcefully, but enough to hold you in place.

His voice was softer this time, almost coaxing. “It’s cold when you’re not here—“

You snapped. You're about to say something awful but then one of the young maids who path him up earlier intervenes.

“I know all of us are quite shaken up, but I think we should let the young lady rest.”

Ethan let go of you without any further comments.

You turned sharply on your heel, your movements jerky and ungraceful, speed-walking toward the sleeping cluster of maids without daring to look back. You wedged yourself into their midst, forcing your breathing to even out. One of the girls stirred, murmuring something in her sleep, but otherwise, no one noticed.

You forced yourself to sleep after that. Maybe.. when you wake up, you’ll wake up in your cheap yet comfortable tiny form mattress instead of the cave floor.

You woke up in red.

Not warmth. Not light.

Red.

Thick, glistening, and wet.

The once-dusty cave was now painted with it—walls slick with splatter, stone floors coated in gore. The scent of blood hung heavy in the air, sharp and metallic, clinging to your nose and throat like rusted chains.

And in the middle of it all stood Ethan.

The servant boy everyone had tried to save.

His back was to you.

He held one of the footmen by the collar, dangling him off the ground like a broken marionette. The man struggled weakly at first—arms twitching, mouth opening as if to scream.

Then it started.

Slow. Horrifying. Wrong.

The footman’s skin began to pale, graying at the fingertips. His veins bulged, pulsing unnaturally, as if something inside him was being sucked away. His face hollowed. His cheeks collapsed inward. His eyes dimmed, sinking back into their sockets.

And still, Ethan stood there—silent, unmoving—as the man in his grasp crumbled.

First the extremities—fingers curling like dried leaves, blackening and cracking apart. Then his limbs, deflating like rotting sacks of flesh, bones showing through paper-thin skin before they, too, dissolved into brittle fragments.

It wasn’t just death.

It was erasure.

As if his life was being devoured. Drained. Piece by piece.

Until nothing remained but dust, falling from Ethan’s hand in delicate, ash-like wisps.

Gone.

Like he had never existed at all.

You couldn't move.

Your breath was a trapped thing in your throat, your heartbeat pounding like war drums against your ribs.

Then you turned.

And what you saw made your stomach lurch—

A maid. Familiar. Her mouth frozen mid-scream. Her torso split open, as though something savage had torn through her. Organs spilled out messily, steaming in the cold cave air. Her lifeless eyes stared into the void.

You choked back the bile rising in your throat.

Don’t scream. Don’t scream.

Think. Think, damn it.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

The pounding of your heartbeat filled your ears, drowning out everything else.

You forced down the scream clawing up your throat.

No time. No time.

You had to escape.

But Ethan—that thing—still stood by the exit, shadowless, surrounded by blood.

And the only other way?

The dead.

Your limbs trembled as your eyes flicked toward the torn bodies scattered around the cave. Mangled, piled like discarded dolls. You didn’t want to be near them. You didn’t want to touch them. But right now, they were your only chance.

Hide. Hide, and pray.

You took one shaky step—

“You’re finally awake?”

The voice was calm. Almost cheerful. As if he were welcoming you to breakfast.

“Good. I was just finishing with the others.”

You stopped cold.

Something cracked.

Slowly—so slowly—you turned to look at him.

He hadn’t moved.

Still facing away from you. Still standing among the gore.

But his head… his neck…

It was twisted all the way around—a full circle—his face now staring directly at you, upside down, while the rest of his body remained unnaturally still.

He smiled.

Not wide. Not crazed.

Just a small, pleasant smile.

Like he was greeting an old friend.

He began to walk toward you—slowly, as if savoring each step—and with every movement, the wet crunch of bone snapped faintly beneath the quiet.

As he drew closer, his twisted neck gave a crack, snapping back into place with a sharp, unnatural jerk.

Like nothing had ever happened.

Your body screamed to run, but your limbs were frozen. Useless.

Then he crouched down—calmly, casually—his face now level with yours.

“I’m saving you for last, you know?” he whispered, as if sharing a secret.

His eyes gleamed with something unreadable.

“Sister is amazing,” he went on, tone dreamy, distant. “We’re finally out of that damn mirror.”

He wasn’t even speaking to you anymore. Just murmuring, like he was lost in some private world. A child, reminiscing fondly.

Your mouth opened—but no sound came out.

Only a faint, strangled whimper.

He tilted his head.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears like war drums.

He leaned closer.

“Well now…” he whispered, breath cold as winter against your cheek. “Now… this won’t hurt, I promise.”

He smiled again—sweetly.

He leaned closer.

Closer still.

His breath touched your cheek, like a breeze dragged up from the bottom of a grave. Cold. Wrong. His face hovered inches from yours, head tilted ever so slightly—as if admiring you, or studying the way your fear clung to your skin like a second coat.

Then, slowly… without fanfare, without tension… he kissed you.

It wasn’t passionate.

It wasn’t tender.

It wasn’t anything a kiss should be.

It was like a hand pressing down on your chest in the middle of the night. Silent. Suffocating.

And the moment your lips touched, you felt something inside you snap. Not your bones—not yet—but something deeper. Something invisible. A thread. A wall. A veil.

The world shifted.

And in that split second of silence, you knew.

This wasn’t a dream.

This wasn’t a hallucination.

You were awake.

You were living this.

And something inside you snapped.

With a broken gasp, your body surged forward on pure instinct, your arm swinging upward, your fist colliding with his chest in a wild, panicked blow. Not precise. Not strong. But real—and for a fleeting second, it made you feel alive again.

But the reaction was immediate.

You didn’t even see his arm move.

You felt it.

A sudden burst of pain—white-hot, blinding—erupted through your gut.

You looked down.

His hand was buried in you. Not on you. In you.

Straight through your stomach like you were made of paper. You couldn’t even scream. Your throat seized up, choking on a dry rattle.

And still, he didn’t look angry. Or enraged. Or rabid.

Just… mildly annoyed.

“Stay still, you fucking pest,” he muttered, as though disappointed by a broken toy.

Then—he kissed you again.

Deeper.

Slower.

Not possessive. Not obsessive. Just… final.

Your limbs convulsed as something invisible and vital began to flow out of you. You felt it immediately. A pull from deep inside—like your blood was evaporating, like your bones were collapsing in on themselves.

Your lips tingled, cracked.

Your breath caught and never returned.

And still, he held you, that kiss anchoring you like a nail to a coffin.

You could feel your skin shriveling.

Fingers curled into claws as they dried and tightened, your joints locking up. The feeling of your body—your self—began to slip. Your weight lessened. Your skin hollowed. Your thoughts grew thinner and thinner, like smoke in the wind.

You whimpered, the only sound you could manage.

Your legs wouldn’t move. Your hands were already too stiff.

Your chest—

No rise. No fall.

The cave darkened at the edges. Not because the light had changed… but because you were leaving it.

Your vision collapsed inward. You couldn’t feel your tongue. Couldn’t feel your heart.

He was still there. Watching you.

As the last remnants of you withered away beneath his gaze.

It felt suffocating. Cripplingly so.

Like drowning in silence. Like falling into an endless void, alone and weightless, with nothing to hold on to—just the echo of your own heartbeat growing fainter and fainter. It was cold. Not the kind that pricked your skin, but the kind that sank deep into your bones. The kind that made you feel like you were already gone.

And then—

Like lightning in your spine—

Something snapped.

A violent, electric jolt ripped through your body, dragging you up—up and out of that abyss.

You gasped awake.

Your body jolted upright, lungs seizing, muscles locking.

You were hyperventilating—sweat clung to your skin, your nightclothes stuck to your back, tears streaked your face, your lips slick with spit and snot and panic.

Everything still hurt.

Your stomach burned. Your chest ached. You could still feel his arm inside you, the phantom of it, the memory burned into your nerves.

It took you nearly an hour to calm down—just sitting there, curled up in bed, hands trembling violently as you tried to remember how to breathe. One inhale. Two. Three.

You counted each one. It didn’t help much.

And then, once the worst of it passed, you dared to look around.

You froze.

This room.

The elegant bed. The silk curtains. The huge goddamn wardrobe. That ridiculous canopy overhead.

No… no, no, no.

This wasn’t your dorm room.

You weren’t back home. You weren’t in your tiny, cramped-but-cozy bed with the peeling stickers on your wall and the stack of untouched ramen by the desk.

You were back here.

In that room. The one you first woke up in. The fancy hellhole.

Your breath caught again.

“What the fuck,” you whispered, barely audible. “Why? Why is this happening again? I—I died. I fucking died, didn’t I?!”

Your hands curled into fists, fingernails digging into your palms. You couldn’t stop shaking. You wanted to scream, to sob, to claw at your own skin just to feel real again.

“Why?! What is this?! What the actual fuck is going on?!”

And then—because the universe wasn’t done screwing with you—something blinked into view.

A faint little pop.

Your vision snapped to it.

A pink, translucent window hovered in the air in front of you, just like the ones in those cheap visual novels you sometimes played. It even had a cute border. You hated it on sight.

[ WELCOME TO: “DAUGHTER OF THE DUKE – LOVE PROJECT!” ]

Your brain short circuited.

[ CURRENT MODE: SPECTATOR. IN THIS MODE, YOU CAN ONLY OBSERVE WITH THE GAME EVENTS AND CANNOT INTERVENE.]

[ UNLOCK “PLAY MODE” BY FORMING A BOND WITH AT LEAST (1) MAIN CHARACTER. ]

“What.”

You stared.

Daughter of the Duke?

And then everything clicks to you. Penelope… Villainess… Yvonne… Crown Prince… Eckhart…

This… this was that new otome game. The one your friends wouldn’t shut up about. The one they begged you to try. The one you downloaded but never played because college was eating you alive and finals were around the corner.

You were supposed to play it over break.

Not live in it.

Not fucking die in it.

IT’S THAT GAME?!—

Knock knock.

A gentle, too-familiar knock tapped at the door.

“Young lady, please excuse me,” a soft voice called. “It’s time to wake up.”

The door creaked open before you could even react.

And there she was… The same handmaid. The one who always tended to you before—before all that shit went down.

She walked in, smiling sweetly like nothing ever happened. Like her guts wasn’t sprawled in the open a moment ago..

“Good morning, milady,” she said with a curtsy. “It’s time to prepare for the day.”

You just stared at her, heart pounding, mind blank.

Back to square one.. You swallowed hard, throat dry and raw.

…Shit.