The first thing that hit me was the smell.
Not a faint whiff of something unpleasant—no, this was nuclear-level stench. The kind of odour that seemed to seep into your soul, cling to your skin, and whisper to you that life was no longer worth living.
I gagged, covering my nose with both hands as my eyes watered. Sweat. Unwashed hair. Rotten milk. Maybe a dead rat or two. It was all there, swirling in the thick, unmoving air.
When I finally dared to open my eyes, I wished I hadn't.
The ceiling above me was peeling. A faint bulb buzzed weakly, its light barely managing to illuminate the cramped room. The floor was littered with boxes, clothes, and... was that a ramen cup growing mold?
My heart pounded as I sat up, blinking in confusion. "Where—"
The voice that came out wasn't mine.
It was rough, hoarse, like I hadn't spoken in years. My body felt heavy, sluggish, foreign. My arms—thick. My thighs—massive. My stomach jiggled when I moved.
And that's when panic set in.
"No, no, no. This isn't—this can't—"
The last thing I remembered was sitting on my couch, buying an e-novel because of its ridiculous title: The Alpha King's Obsession. A cliché omegaverse romance. I'd barely reached the prologue before sleep claimed me.
Now I was here.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
I stumbled to my feet—barefoot, the floor cold and sticky—and spotted a small mirror propped against the wall. My heart dropped into my stomach.
A stranger stared back at me.
She was... large. Her face was round, cheeks flushed an angry red, dotted with angry pimples. Her brown hair was a tangled mess of curls, dry and greasy. Her lips were cracked. There was even something crusty at the corner of her mouth.
I blinked once. Twice.Then I screamed.
The sound bounced off the narrow walls. My reflection screamed back.
When the echo died, I pressed a trembling hand to my chest, trying to breathe.This wasn't a dream.This wasn't a prank.
"I— I transmigrated? Into that novel?!"
No answer, obviously.
I took one cautious sniff of myself and gagged. I smelled like something that had died, resurrected, and died again.
Without thinking, I bolted into the tiny bathroom attached to the room. The sink was cracked. The mirror had water stains and a single light flickered above it like something out of a horror movie.
I stripped down and turned the shower on. Lukewarm water trickled out, barely more than a drizzle, but I didn't care. I scrubbed like a woman possessed. Soap, shampoo, anything I could find—I used it all. My skin turned pink, then red, but at least the smell started to fade.
When I finally stepped out, dripping and exhausted, I faced the mirror again.
Under all that grime, beneath the bad skin and puffiness... there was something there.
A shape.
A jawline that wasn't half-bad. Soft lips. Large eyes.
"This face is actually pretty," I whispered, tracing my reflection with wet fingers. "But why the skin so bad?"
It wasn't much, but it gave me hope.
The room—my new home, apparently—looked like a crime scene. Empty instant noodle cups, greasy plastic bags, tissues, old receipts, and boxes stacked haphazardly.
If I had to live here, even for a week, I'd go insane. So I started cleaning.
I gathered trash into piles, swept the floor, opened the window—only for dust to explode into my face like a curse. I coughed, muttering, "Great. Just kill me again."
That's when I tripped.
My foot hit something hard under the bed.
Grumbling, I crouched and dragged it out—a small cardboard box sealed with duct tape.
Curiosity whispered: open it.
I peeled the tape off. Inside were photographs. Dozens—maybe hundreds—of glossy photos.
All of one man.
A very naked man.
"Euw!" I yelped, dropping the box as the photos scattered across the floor.
But of course, my eyes—traitorous things—landed on one particularly bold photo.
"Oh my god."
There, in full glory, was what could only be described as anatomical overachievement.
I slapped a hand over my mouth, half-horrified, half-impressed."Mr. Anaconda," I muttered weakly. "She really called him that, didn't she?"
As if answering, pain seared through my skull.
Memories—foreign and chaotic—poured into me like a flood.
A messy divorce.A failed marriage.Loneliness.A secret obsession with the man in the apartment across the street—the Alpha King.
Oh, hell no.
I clutched my head as the memories solidified. The original owner of this body had been a stalker. She had rented this miserable storage-like unit just to watch him through the window.
The Alpha King, ruler of the city's most powerful pack.Cold, untouchable, and impossibly handsome.And she'd been watching him—every day—sitting on his couch, shirtless, window always slightly open.
Almost like he knew she was there.
I sat on the floor, staring blankly. "Great. I'm inside the body of a fat, acne-ridden stalker omega. Fantastic."
I decided one thing: I wasn't living like her.
If I was stuck here, I'd make this life mine.
So I did.
I worked out, starting slow, just a few stretches each morning. I forced myself to eat real food—vegetables, meat, fruit. I studied skincare routines from the internet in this world, which thankfully still had smartphones and Wi-Fi.
It took months, but I did it.
The pimples faded. My body slimmed down. My skin glowed. My hair turned soft and bouncy. For the first time, the mirror didn't make me want to scream.
I sold the tiny storage room and bought a small two-story house on the city's edge. The backyard was big enough to start a garden, maybe even a small farm. I built my days around peace—morning tea, afternoon walks, simple joy.
Life, for a while, was good.
Until the day my world went up in flames again.
It started normal enough. I was in town, shopping for seeds. The sun was bright, the air crisp, and people milled about with their usual chatter.
Then it hit me.
A pulse deep in my stomach.Heat.
At first, I thought it was anxiety. But then my scent began to spill—thick, sweet, uncontrollable. My knees trembled. My breath quickened. The edges of my vision went blurry.
"Oh no," I gasped. "Not here—"
Eyes turned toward me. Male eyes. Alpha eyes.
Predatory.
Their pupils dilated as the air filled with my pheromones.
I panicked. I ran. My legs barely worked, but adrenaline pushed me forward. The world blurred into smears of color and noise as I sprinted through the streets, heart hammering.
I didn't know where I was going until I did.
That building.That familiar, towering structure of glass and stone.
The Alpha King's secret apartment.
Of all places—why here?
But the scent of danger behind me—the footsteps, the growls—made the decision for me.
I slammed my fist against his door. "Please—open—"
My knees gave out. My vision flickered.
The door creaked open.
And there he was.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. A black shirt stretched across his chest, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His silver eyes—cold and assessing—locked onto me.
He froze when he saw the blood running down my forehead, dripping to my lips. I must've fallen somewhere on the way.
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then his nostrils flared.
He smelled it. My heat.
Every instinct in me screamed run, but my legs wouldn't move.
"Please," I whispered, trembling. "Let me in. Just—just for a moment."
Something unreadable flickered in his eyes. Then he stepped aside.
"Get in," he said, voice deep, rough like thunder wrapped in silk.
I stumbled past him, heart pounding so hard it hurt.
The door shut behind me with a soft click.
The air inside was thick with his scent—warm spice, smoke, and danger.
And as my knees hit the floor, I realized something terrifying.
My story in this world...had just begun.