Chapter 1: I Died Reading a Comic
The worst way to die, she decided, was not heartbreak.
Not betrayal.
Not illness.
Not even falling dramatically off a tall building like a tragic side character.
No.
The worst way to die was getting hit by a car because you were too busy reading a comic.
"Just one more chapter," she muttered, eyes glued to her phone as she crossed the road.
On the screen, the panels glowed brightly despite the afternoon sun. Her favorite college romance comic—Campus Crown Prince—was at its climax. The male lead stood under the rain, eyes filled with pain, while the villainess knelt before him in a pitiful confession that would—once again—end in humiliation.
She scoffed.
"Girl, stand up. He doesn't like you. He never will."
The villainess cried beautifully. The male lead looked coldly handsome. The original female lead watched from afar, innocent and glowing like the universe's favorite child.
Classic.
The light turned red.
She didn't notice.
A horn blared—loud, sharp, furious.
She looked up.
Too late.
White light exploded in her vision, her phone flying out of her hand. For a split second, there was weightlessness—like time itself paused to mock her.
Then pain.
Then nothing.
Darkness.
No tunnel.
No life flashing before her eyes.
No mysterious voice asking if she wanted a second chance.
Just… silence.
So this is it, huh? she thought vaguely.
Killed by my own obsession.
When consciousness returned, it did so rudely.
Her head throbbed. The scent of something floral filled her nose—not the sterile smell of a hospital, but something soft and expensive. She frowned and tried to move.
Rustle.
Fabric.
…Why does the afterlife have silk bedsheets?
She opened her eyes.
Sunlight poured through tall, sheer curtains. The room was wide, elegant, and painfully unfamiliar. Crystal chandeliers sparkled above her. A vanity table sat in the corner, covered in cosmetics she could never afford in real life.
This was not a hospital.
This was not her apartment.
This was—
"Miss?"
A soft voice spoke.
She stiffened.
A woman in a maid's uniform stood beside the bed, eyes wide with relief. "Thank goodness you're awake! You collapsed earlier and scared everyone."
Collapsed?
Her heart pounded violently as she sat up, ignoring the dizziness.
"M-Mirror," she croaked.
The maid blinked. "Yes, Miss?"
She practically lunged toward the vanity.
The face staring back at her from the mirror was breathtaking.
Long, glossy hair. Pale skin. Sharp, delicate features. A beauty that felt unreal—like it had been carefully drawn rather than born.
Her breath hitched.
No.
No, no, no.
She knew this face.
She had cursed this face. Mocked it. Pitied it.
This was—
"The villainess," she whispered.
Her knees gave out, and she gripped the edge of the vanity for support.
This was her.
The obsessive girl from Campus Crown Prince.
The rich, arrogant villainess who loved the male lead desperately.
The girl who sabotaged others, embarrassed herself publicly, and—
Who died.
Killed by the male lead's beloved.
Her phone buzzed on the table.
She froze.
Slowly, mechanically, she picked it up.
The screen lit up with familiar colors.
The same comic.
The same title.
The same characters.
Her heart sank.
She scrolled with trembling fingers until she found the chapter number.
Chapter 12.
Her memory screamed.
This was the chapter where the villainess humiliated herself by confessing publicly to the male lead.
The beginning of the end.
Her stomach dropped.
"I… I transmigrated?" she whispered.
Of all the characters.
Of all the worlds.
Of all the choices the universe could have made.
She was reborn as the villain who dies miserably.
A laugh bubbled up from her chest—soft, shaky, borderline hysterical.
"I died reading this thing," she muttered. "And now I'm trapped inside it?"
She looked at her reflection again, eyes burning with disbelief.
"…Absolutely not."
Her lips curled into a determined smile.
If this was her second life—
Then she would not chase the male lead.
She would not play villain.
And she would definitely not die for someone else's love story.
"This time," she said quietly, eyes sharp with resolve,
"I'm living for myself."
Outside the window, the campus bell rang.
The comic's story had begun.
But this time—
She wasn't following the script.