Woranuch Rattanakorn stood at the edge of the glass wall, thirty-six floors above the city.
Bangkok unfolded beneath her in layers of steel and motion — traffic threading through streets like restless veins, buildings pressing close as if competing for space. From this height, the noise disappeared. The chaos softened. Everything looked smaller than it truly was.
She raised her coffee cup, porcelain smooth against her fingers.
Life is never predictable.
It pretends to be — just long enough for you to believe you are in control.
Then it changes course without warning, and you're left standing where certainty used to be.
She took a slow sip.
The coffee was black, unsweetened. Exactly how she liked it.
Behind her, the top floor of Woratech Communications remained untouched by time. The office was expansive, yet restrained — power expressed through discipline rather than excess. Dark wooden floors reflected the fading afternoon light. A wide executive desk stood perfectly aligned with the window, its surface immaculate, save for a closed leather folder and a flip phone resting beside it.
The walls held framed awards dated from the early 2000s, their typography unmistakably of another era. Headlines praised innovation, dominance, foresight — words that once meant the future. A silver CD player sat on a side cabinet, a neat stack of jewel cases arranged beside it, each labeled in careful handwriting. No wireless speakers. No screens glowing idly.
The past was not decoration here.
It was policy.
Woranuch lowered the cup and stared outward once more.
She wore a tailored coat over a crisp shirt, dark trousers pressed to perfection. One hand slipped into her pocket, posture relaxed yet immovable — the stance of someone who did not need to prove authority because it was already understood. The city did not intimidate her. It never had.
Light traced her face slowly as the sun dipped lower.
Her hair was cut short, just brushing her jawline — layered with intention, sharp but not severe. The front framed her face in a style that belonged unmistakably to another decade, neither trendy nor softened by time. It was not something she had updated. It was something she had kept.
Her expression was composed, almost distant. High cheekbones, eyes dark and unreadable. A face trained to reveal nothing it did not choose to give. Smiles were rare. Silence was not.
A sharp knock echoed through the office.
Chalita "Lita" Phongphan stepped in without waiting for an answer, her posture perfect, face carved in discipline.
"Boss, it's time for your medication," she said, placing a tray on the table. On it, a glass of water and a few neatly arranged pills gleamed under the soft afternoon light. Her expression was serious, unwavering — the kind that left no room for argument.
Woranuch allowed herself the faintest smirk. One corner of her lips curved, almost imperceptible, but enough to make it clear she was amused by Chalita's solemnity.
She walked toward the table with measured steps, her coat swaying slightly, each movement precise and deliberate. When she reached the chair, she sat down like a boss claiming her throne, a quiet aura of command radiating from her.
Without hesitation, she lifted the glass and swallowed the pills in one fluid motion, never breaking her gaze toward the window.
They think I am recovering from a coma,
but what they don't know is… I do not belong to their world. How nnocent. How delightfully naive!
The office remained silent, save for the faint hum of the city far below. Chalita's eyes never wavered from her charge, but even she couldn't mask a hint of respect hidden beneath that unwavering professionalism.
Woranuch set the empty glass down with a soft, deliberate thud. The afternoon light traced the angles of her face, sharp and cold, unyielding — a reminder that she had never needed anyone's permission to exist in the world she ruled.
Chalita stood in the corner, hands folded neatly in front of her, face as unreadable as ever. Every movement was precise, every muscle ready — but she stayed silent.
Woranuch's fingers found the sleek, leather-bound remote on the desk. A click, and the bulky 2000s TV sprang to life.
The screen flickered, and there she was — unmistakable. Her past self, a perfect projection from the cinematic world she had just left: dramatic hair, sharp eyes, lips poised to deliver the world's most tragic lines.
Woranuch leaned back in her chair, smirk almost imperceptible.
That's me. And no one else could ever be me in that world, she thought, eyes dark and calculating. Every gesture, every line… perfect. And I miss it.
The character on screen flung herself into a confrontation, voice cracking with intensity, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Woranuch's lips twitched. She wasn't one for expression, but… there's a charm in this absurdity.
If I hadn't transmigrated into this world… she mused internally, what would I be doing?
Still saving the world with a flick of my hair? Dancing through chaos like it was choreography? Living a life where every glance mattered?
Her gaze softened for just a fraction, almost wistful, as she admired herself — not just the image, but the power, the freedom, the drama she had left behind.