The first death flag appeared above my head at 8:17 on a Tuesday morning, just as I was stacking tins of soup. Until then, my life had been the kind people called boring: quiet shifts, familiar customers, and the soft crawl of traffic beyond the corner-store window. I had always found comfort in that routine. I would not have traded it for all the wealth or power in the world.
The corner store was small and belonged to an elderly man whose worsening health kept him away more often than either of us admitted. He had always been kind to me, so on his worst days I carried soup or stew to his house and sat with him until he insisted he was fine. That morning, with nothing more urgent than restocking the shelves, I had no reason to expect the routine to break.
Ding dong!
The bell's cheerful chime clawed through the quiet. Usually, I found it comforting. Then I saw who had walked in, and every muscle in my body tightened. My twin sister. It was a terrible thing to dread the sight of your own reflection, but we had never been alike where it mattered. I followed rules, gave what I could, and helped people who needed it. She bullied children, stole without remorse, and once beat someone bloody for staring too long. Still, she was my sister. No matter how often instinct told me to run, some stubborn part of me could not shut the door on her.
She slipped between the aisles and vanished behind a tower of cereal boxes. Our eyes met for half a second, but her gaze slid past me to the man approaching the counter. She was probably there for my friends-and-family discount. I should have been relieved that someone like her wanted nothing from me. Instead, the dismissal landed like a small, familiar bruise. I turned to the regular at the counter and reached for the comfort of habit, even if his stories about the farm could outlive the seasons.
"Thank you for your business." I returned the man's change with my usual smile. "See you tomorrow." Morning paper. Cigarettes. The same purchase, the same nod, the same safe little ritual. As he moved away, my sister stepped up to the counter. I slipped automatically into the greeting I gave every customer. "Thank you for shopping with us. Is there anything else you—"
The words died in my throat. A silver gun was levelled at my chest. I stumbled back as my heart slammed against my ribs hard enough to hurt. Was it real? Why was my sister holding it? She had hurt people before, but never like this—never with a weapon, never with that dead, fixed stare. I begged myself to believe it was a cheap imitation, another cruel joke. Then her finger curled against the trigger.
"Open the register. Give me everything!" She lunges over the counter, the barrel tracking my chest. "Touch the alarm, and I pull the trigger!"
"Listen to me." I raise my hands, forcing each breath past the knot in my throat. "You don't have to do this. Walk away now, and I won't tell anyone. I swear."
"Shut up!" Spit flashes at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes pin me in place, cold and unfamiliar. "Give me the money, or I'll shoot you!"
A chill ran through me. Whatever chance I had of reaching her was gone. I edged towards the register, moving slowly enough not to startle her, desperately searching her face for the sister I used to know. There was nothing there. I opened the till and reached for the notes, but I was too slow. She shoved me aside, dug both hands into the drawer, and snatched up every crumpled bill.
"This is it?" She crushes the notes in her fist. "Where's the rest?"
"That's everything," I say. "I swear. There's no more."
"Liar!" She jams the money into her pocket. "There has to be more."
"There isn't." I retreat until the cigarette display digs into my spine. "Most people pay by card. We barely keep anything in the till."
"No. This can't be all of it." Her gaze flicked from the empty drawer to me, wild and frantic, and the gun followed. "Where's the safe? Tell me where it is!" Before I could answer, movement burst from the aisle behind her.
Bang!
The regular I had just served exploded from the aisle and tackled her. The gun erupted between them—a white flash, a deafening crack. Something punched through my chest and hurled me to the floor. For one stunned second, there was no pain, only pressure and a terrible warmth spreading beneath my shirt. The ceiling swam in and out of focus. Across the tiles, my sister fought beneath the man who had brought her down. Then she saw me. Every part of her went still, her eyes widening at the dark stain blooming across my chest.
"No!"
Her scream reaches me from somewhere far away as darkness closes over my vision. I think I smile. After all these years, it takes dying to discover that my sister cares whether I live.
<0>
When I opened my eyes again, the shop was gone. I did not recognise the room—or remember how I had arrived there. It could not be a hospital; surely they would have placed me in a bed rather than this strangely comfortable chair. Before I could make sense of anything, I noticed the balding old man seated opposite me. I was certain the chair had been empty a moment earlier. He watched me with a gentle smile, and although I should have been terrified, an unnatural calm settled over me.
"I will be blunt," the man says gently. "You are dead."
He could have phrased that better. Yet even after hearing the devastating news, I remained completely composed. The calm was too deep to be natural. This man had to be influencing me somehow; no one should feel so peaceful after waking in a strange room and being told they were dead.
"Now, let us discuss what comes next," the old man continued. "Normally, you would pass into the afterlife. In exceptional cases such as yours, however, we offer a choice." A cup appeared in his hands, and he paused to take a sip. I stared at him. Who—or what—was he? "You lived virtuously," he went on. "You raised a considerable sum for charity, fed people experiencing homelessness, and cared for several stray cats. Those who knew you speak well of you. For all of that, you have earned a second chance."
"You mean you can bring me back to life?" I ask, hope rising despite myself.
"Not exactly." He takes another sip. "You may be reborn in a different world—one filled with magic and fantastical creatures. Because of your virtuous deeds, you will also receive enhanced magical potential. If you prefer not to be reborn, I will send your spirit into the afterlife. The choice is yours."
"I…" The promise of another life should have frightened me, but the thought of simply fading into the afterlife frightened me more. A world of magic and adventure was impossible to resist. "Yes. I want to be reborn, please."
"Very well." The man smiles, and the cup vanishes from his hands. "Close your eyes." I obey. "When you open them, your next life will begin."
This was it. Without the old man's calming influence, my stomach would surely have been twisting with nerves. I drew a deep breath and counted down. Three… two… one… Then I opened my eyes—and found myself cradled in the arms of a blonde woman.
"Darling, she is beautiful," the woman whispers. "Our daughter is a little angel."
"She is," a man agrees in a deep voice. The woman smiles down at me. "Little Angelina is worthy of her name—and of the noble blood of House Lamonia."
Angelina Lamonia. The name struck like a warning bell. Please let it be a coincidence, I thought. Please let me share only the name of the wicked woman flooding my memory. But as fragments of an old game surfaced—an arrogant noble family, a doomed villainess, and an ending soaked in blood—I understood that I should have demanded more answers before the old man sent me here.
<0>
Six Months Later
Six months later, the truth had only grown more terrifying. I was Angelina Lamonia—the heartless villainess of Freedom's Heart, the Royal Magical Academy's main antagonist, and the one character doomed to die in every route. Each morning, I hoped it had all been a nightmare. Each morning, I woke in the same crib, trapped in the same tiny body, with less room to deny reality.
There had to be a way to escape that fate, but I had not played Freedom's Heart in years, and the few details I remembered offered little comfort. My father already ruled several Cotton Ball ranches with an iron fist, caring only about profit. Cotton Balls were weak, low-level monsters that dropped cotton when defeated, but the work was still dangerous. Because he refused to provide proper equipment, injuries were common; if a worker was badly enough injured to be useless to him, he simply dismissed them.
My mother was no better. With no sense of restraint, she kept our family on the verge of bankruptcy to satisfy her appetite for extravagant, useless things. Between my father's cruelty and my mother's wastefulness, avoiding my future felt like climbing a mountain in a body that could barely sit upright. Part of me wanted to surrender and accept the ending written for Angelina—but I refused to lie down and die. If I was going to change my fate, I would first have to survive infancy and learn enough about this world to recognise my chance.
Anyone who wished they could return to infancy and start life over was an idiot. Babies could not stay awake for more than ten minutes, control their own bowels, or preserve even a shred of dignity—and that was before considering the humiliation of being breastfed. Without the memories of my old life, perhaps I could have endured it. With the mind of an adult, however, every day brought a fresh reason to die of embarrassment long before the game had its chance.
"Angelina, dear, it is time to greet our guests."
In my opinion, Mother had looked far better when I was born, bare-faced and dressed in a simple nightgown. Now, white powder coated her face, ruby lipstick sharpened her mouth, and blue eyeliner made her look more like a clown than a noblewoman. She never ignored a new fashion, no matter how wasteful. Her dress was not ugly, but the gold and silver sewn into it could have fed a family for years. So far, she had spared me from her extravagance. However, her increasingly frequent comments about which clothes would suit me suggested that mercy would not last.
Mother lifted me and held me close against her chest. Some people might have called the position heavenly; they had clearly never endured her perfume at such close range. The overpowering scent turned my stomach. Whoever had created it deserved to be imprisoned for manufacturing a weapon. Fortunately, the drawing room was only a short walk away.
"She truly is a little angel, just as you said, Lady Lamonia."
I had lived in this world for only six months, but an adult mind made my parents' social circle easy to understand. Their friends fell into two groups: those who used our family for influence, and those who encouraged my parents' extravagance. Mother's guests belonged firmly to the second group. They demanded the finest of everything and looked down on anyone who could not afford the same.
"She is certain to be engaged before long."
"There will be a line of suitors stretching out of the front door."
The women looked every bit as ridiculous as Mother, and they wore the same nauseating perfume. When they leaned over me, the combined scent threatened to suffocate me. It was strange to watch so many attractive women ruin their appearance for the sake of a trend. I had never cared much about fashion in my old life, yet even I could see that the style did none of them any favours. At last, they stepped back and took the choking cloud of perfume with them.
"We should take her shopping soon. There is a delightful little store in the town centre that sells baby clothes and accessories for only a few gold coins."
Even at six months old, I knew that was an absurd amount to spend on a baby's clothes. Some people in this world worked an entire year to earn a single gold coin. These women spent money as though tomorrow did not exist.
"What a fine idea." Mother smiled and nodded. "Rather than taking tea here next week, why don't we go shopping and reserve a table at that café Lady Hillington is always praising?"
"A splendid idea, Lady Lamonia." A plump woman returned Mother's smile. "I saw an outfit there that would look lovely on your daughter."
If they thought they could dress me in some ridiculous costume, they were in for a surprise. I could not fight them or escape, but I could still unleash a tantrum for the ages. By the time I finished, Mother and her friends would never dare show their faces in that shop again.
"It will be the perfect opportunity to buy her an outfit for the prince's first birthday celebration," Mother added, giving me still more reason to object. "She is beautiful enough for the royal family to consider her as a future bride."
Mother was right about one thing: if I attended that party, the king would indeed try to bind our families together. In the game, he arranged Angelina's engagement to the first prince and paid her family a small fortune. I could not allow that to happen. Angelina had adored the prince, but he had despised her. He manipulated her into harassing the heroine, then abandoned her to die for crimes he had ordered her to commit. Arrogant, controlling, and cruel, he was the last person I would ever marry.
"The prince is almost her age. Do you think they might marry one day?" Just try it, ladies. I wanted nothing to do with that wicked child. "They would make a beautiful couple. I hear the young prince is already very handsome."
"Nothing would make me happier," Mother told her friend as she gently stroked my head. "My little angel deserves only the finest things in life."
Only six months into my new life, I had found my first opponent. If the first prince intended to turn me into his obedient pawn, he would have a fight on his hands. My first step towards escaping Angelina's doomed fate was now clear: I had to ensure the royal family would never consider me a suitable bride for their son.