His eyes cracked open.
A ceiling fan rotated above him lazily, covered in a thin veil of dust.
The beige walls looked like they hadn't been painted since color television was invented. A single window filtered in weak morning sunlight.
The view outside showed rusted balcony railings and the smoggy skyline of a lower-end apartment complex.
His neck twitched.
"This… this is the old apartment."
He sat up sharply and felt the rough texture of the secondhand mattress beneath him.
His hands trembled as he reached for the cheap side-table and spotted a photo frame. His heart stuttered.
It was them—him and his mother. She had one arm wrapped around him in the picture, smiling like she had all the love in the world to give.
He looked miserable, but even back then, there had been warmth.
"No freaking way."
He touched the frame gently, reverently.
He was now sitting in that hell of a traumatising rollercoaster.
Yup, the sh*tty novel he just reviewed.
The novel was titled Unbound from Lovebound, but readers agreed it should've been called One Man's Journey into Emotional Masochism.
It followed the life of a pitiful protagonist named Aris Bloodheart, a soft-spoken young man with all the spine of a boiled noodle and a talent for getting emotionally stomped on like he owed the universe rent.
In the original novel, Aris was dragged to the city under the naive notion of attending college with his beloved mother.
The woman was the only soul who ever truly cared for him, warm like a fireplace on a snowy day—until the author decided she needed to die for "emotional stakes."
Classic.
Once in the city, they encountered the mother's side of the family—rich, conniving, and the human embodiment of a car crash you couldn't look away from.
Aris, in a baffling display of selflessness and sheer idiocy, never fought back as they trampled over him and his mom.
He was ridiculed, insulted, falsely accused, dumped by a girlfriend who thought she could do "better", and was even blamed for her mother's eventual death.
Oh, and did he ever rage? Nope. The author apparently believed in the power of "stoic silence" and lured the readers by the hints of an unsightful rebirth.
It was the emotional equivalent of watching a puppy get brutalled up for 300 straight chapters.
And now?
Aris—no, not the old Aris. The new Aris, who used to be a guy leaving one-star reviews and sipping vanilla espresso before coughing up blood—was back.
In the flesh. Inside the very novel he had once verbally annihilated.
And he was already planning to nuke the plot.
...
Just then, a soft voice called out from the kitchen.
"Aris! Breakfast is ready, honey!"
He froze.
It was her voice. Alive. Warm. Still filled with that tired, motherly tone. A tear rolled down his cheek before he could stop it.
He launched out of bed and stormed to the kitchen, heart thudding.
There she was.
Elaine Bloodheart. His mother. Wearing a faded apron, Silvery hair tied up in a bun with several escapee strands swaying as she moved around the kitchen.
Her back was turned, but he could already tell—this was no illusion.
She looked up as he appeared in the doorway.
"Why are you staring at me like that?" sl
She asked, smiling.
His voice cracked.
"I… I just missed you."
"Missed me?"
She blinked, puzzled.
"You just saw me last night, silly."
He stepped forward, wrapped his arms around her from behind, and squeezed tight.
Elaine tensed, then laughed softly.
"Okay, okay, now I know you're up to something. What did you break?"
"Nothing," he whispered.
"And I'm not letting anything break again. I swear."
She patted his hands.
"Alright, Mr. Mysterious. Now go sit, before the rice gets cold."
He nodded and shuffled to the table. The worn wooden chair creaked under his weight, but he didn't care.
In front of him was a plate of steaming rice, eggs, pickled vegetables, and a tiny miso soup bowl.
Aris inhaled sharply.
"Damn. Your cooking truly hits like divine intervention."
Elaine raised an eyebrow.
"Are you practicing lines for a drama play?"
"Sure," he said, smirking. "Let's go with that."
As they ate, the memories flooded in.
In the original arc, this breakfast had been the start of the "City Migration."
A letter from one of Elaine's estranged relatives had arrived. She had hesitated, unsure whether to reconnect with the family that had cast her aside.
Aris had encouraged her, wanting to chase the idea of a "better future" in the city.
Biggest mistake of their lives.
The family hadn't wanted them. They wanted leverage. Control.
They had money and used it like a leash. What followed was humiliation after humiliation.
And Elaine, forced into dependence, withered away. Aris lost her because he didn't have the guts to say "no".
But this time?
"Oh hell no," Aris muttered. "We're not going to that damn city."
Elaine blinked.
"What?"
He cleared his throat.
"I mean, what i told you before, let's not move to the city. I have a weird feeling about it. Like, bad gut vibes. Let's pick another place. Somewhere cozy. Calm. Full of kind people and nature trails."
She squinted.
"Are you having another one of your prophetic dreams?"
"Yes. And in this one, everyone in the city is allergic to decency."
Elaine laughed, genuinely amused.
"Alright, alright. We'll look into some options. You're lucky I trust your weird instincts."
As breakfast wrapped up, he retreated to his room.
Sitting on his bed, he opened a drawer.
Inside was a sealed envelope. He knew what it was without opening it: the letter from Elaine's family.
In the novel, this was the letter that pulled them into the plot. It was the start of Aris's martyrdom arc.
He picked it up, stared at it, then set it on fire in the ashtray.
"Not this time, b*tches."
As the flames crackled and consumed the invitation to hell.
He sighed, knowing full well what the b*tch of a goddess had send him to do.
This wasn't just transmigration. It was a game. A performance. A live-action roast of the very story he had hated.
He muttered.
"Okay… Step One: Don't be a spineless jellyfish. Step Two: Don't trust rich women who wear perfume that smells like inherited trauma."
A knock came at his door.
"Aris?"
His mother called.