Yuan Ling sat at her office desk, the sterile hum of fluorescent lights overhead pressing down like a physical weight. Outside, the city pulsed with life, taxis honking and the occasional shout from street vendors drifting faintly through the glass walls of the high-rise. But inside, it was silent, save for the soft clicking of keyboards and the occasional beep of an email notification.
She rubbed her eyes, already stinging from hours of staring at spreadsheets. A sigh escaped her lips, unheeded, swallowed by the endless paper stacks surrounding her. There were reports to finish, budgets to revise, clients to answer, calls to return. Every achievement in her career, every promotion she had clawed her way to, seemed like a step toward a mountaintop she could never reach because the climb never stopped.
Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it briefly: You didn't eat lunch again. Another message from her mother. Please take care of yourself. She swiped it away, irritated, not because of her mother's concern but because she didn't have time to dwell on it. There were deadlines to meet, numbers to correct, mistakes to fix.
"You still here?" a voice said softly from the next cubicle. Zhao Mei, her colleague, peered over the partition, eyebrows raised. "You've been at it since morning. Don't tell me you're skipping lunch again."
Ling forced a smile. "I'm fine," she said. Her hands hovered over the keyboard as she typed, eyes narrowing at a particularly messy spreadsheet. "Just finishing a few things before I leave."
Mei shook her head. "Ling… you can't keep doing this. One of these days, you'll collapse from exhaustion. You've already missed so many meals, and your health… don't you want to enjoy the position you worked so hard for?"
Ling's fingers paused mid-keystroke. Enjoy the position? She had dreamed of this moment for years. Years of late nights, of skipping meals, of missing birthdays and gatherings, all for this. Yet the thought of 'enjoying it' felt foreign, almost laughable. There was always another task, another challenge, another fire to put out. And even now, on the brink of her success, she could feel the creeping weight of fatigue, of her own body threatening to betray her.
"I will… eventually," she murmured, resuming her work with grim determination.
The office emptied slowly as the evening drew on. Colleagues waved goodnight, their steps fading into silence, leaving her alone with the cold hum of the fluorescent lights and the blinking cursor on her screen. Her head began to throb, the dull pain behind her eyes turning into a sharp, insistent ache. Her fingers shook as she scrolled through yet another set of client emails.
She reached for her coffee cup, only to find it empty. A sigh escaped her lips. Another hour. One more hour and she could leave, she told herself. One more hour, one more report, one more correction, and then she would rest.
But her body had other plans.
A sudden, crushing pain seized her chest, sharp and suffocating. Her hands flew to her heart, and she gasped, struggling to inhale. The room spun violently, the fluorescent lights stretching into long, blinding lines. Her chair tipped sideways as her knees buckled beneath her.
"Ling!" Mei's voice, distant and distorted, called through the haze. "Ling, what's—"
Her vision darkened. She tried to speak, tried to call out, but her throat closed, her mouth refusing words. Pain and dizziness consumed her, erasing everything except the relentless, unforgiving ache that radiated from her chest.
And then… nothing.
When she opened her eyes, the world was no longer harshly lit, no longer filled with the sterile smell of computers and office coffee. Soft light filtered through wooden lattices, golden and forgiving. The air smelled faintly of herbs and tea, mixed with a subtle floral scent. Ling blinked rapidly, disoriented, trying to make sense of the surroundings.
Where… was she?
She lifted her head weakly, taking in the room. It was small but elegant, furnished with carved wooden furniture, delicate silk curtains, and a low writing desk. A soft rustle of silk behind a screen made her freeze.
A young maid, perhaps no older than Ling herself felt, peeked out and curtsied. "Miss Qinglian… you're awake!"
Ling's eyes widened. Qinglian?
"What…?" She tried to sit up, but the world tilted dangerously. Her hands felt strange. Small, delicate, almost impossibly soft. Her body, though light, felt fragile, and her voice came out as a small, high-pitched croak.
Her mother's voice, warm and worried, filled the room. "Qinglian! You frightened us so. Your fever… it was so high last night!"
And her father's presence, strong, commanding yet gentle, loomed beside the bed. "You must rest, little Qinglian. Don't strain yourself."
Ling's mind spun. She stared at them, at the maid hovering respectfully in the corner, at the soft linens, the warm tea tray set beside her bed. This… this isn't… She shook her head, dizzy and weak. Everything felt surreal.
Am I… dreaming? she wondered. The panic began to rise, unsteady and sharp. This can't be real. It's too… too… perfect.
Her memory, foggy and fragmented from the fever and the shock of collapse, began to stir. Images came unbidden: fluorescent lights, the endless grind of her office, the ache in her chest, the relentless work pushing her to the edge. She remembered the moment she had collapsed, the sudden, choking pain. She remembered how close she had been to… everything she had worked for.
And now she was here.
Her gaze fell on herself. Or rather, on her hands, small and delicate. Silk sleeves brushed her wrists. Her throat was scratchy, her limbs frail. A fever burned through her, but even through it, her mind fought for clarity.
A strange thought crept into her mind, one she couldn't ignore. This body… this name…
"Qinglian?" she whispered, testing the sound. Her voice was soft, high, entirely unlike the strong tones she had used in her office, commanding meetings and negotiating deals.
Her mother leaned closer, brushing a lock of hair from her forehead. "Yes, Qinglian. You must rest. Eat slowly, and drink your tea. You've been very ill."
And then, like a spark igniting dry grass, a memory came to her. One she hadn't considered until this very moment. The story she had read a week ago of a proud, sharp-tongued little girl named Yuan Qinglian who offended and alienated everyone around her, who caused misery for the heroine, and whose arrogance led to her own ruin.
The realization hit her with the subtle force of a hammer. She swallowed, her throat dry, her mind spinning with disbelief. The fever did nothing to dull the shock that washed over her.
I… I'm her.
The warning felt like a cold flash through her veins, a signal she couldn't ignore. Every arrogant word, every careless action she had read about in the story. The mistakes that led Qinglian to her tragic end flashed before her eyes. They weren't just words anymore. They were reality. And she was inside them.
The panic, the confusion, the dizziness, all of it was secondary to the overwhelming, sinking knowledge: she was living as the girl who, in the story she knew, would ruin herself.
And that knowledge, terrifying as it was, felt like a warning flashing before her.