One: my bed was too soft to be mine.
Two: this was absolutely not my life.
The ceiling above me was white, unfamiliar, and way too fancy for my taste. I blinked once. Twice. Then I sat up so fast my head spun.
Silk sheets.
Tall windows.
A room that screamed rich fictional character.
"Nope," I muttered. "Nope. Nope. Nope."
Before I could spiral further, a very familiar scream echoed from somewhere down the hall.
"—THIS IS NOT FUNNY."
I froze.
That voice.
I was on my feet instantly, bolting toward the sound. I didn't even stop to question why I knew the layout of the hallway. My body moved like it had done this a hundred times before.
I burst into the room across the hall.
And there she was.
Standing in front of a mirror.
Same panicked eyes.
Different face.
We stared at each other.
"Don't," she said. "Don't say it."
My throat felt dry. "Say… what?"
"That we're—" She swallowed. "—here."
I looked at her reflection again. At the expensive dress. The unfamiliar face that I still somehow recognized.
"Oh," I said weakly. "We're here."
Silence.
Then she laughed.
A short, hysterical sound. "We transmigrated. Didn't we?"
I nodded. "Into the novel."
"The one we love?"
"The one we love."
She dragged a hand down her face. "Of course."
We stood there in shock for exactly three seconds before reality dropped like a brick.
"Oh my god," she whispered. "Who are we?"
That question hit harder than anything else.
Slowly, painfully, memories slid into place. Not ours—but hers. And mine.
My stomach dropped.
"No," I said. "No, no, no."
She already knew. I could see it in her eyes.
"We're not the main characters," she said quietly.
I laughed. "Okay, but that's fine. Side characters survive all the time."
She shook her head.
"We're the stand-ins."
That word made my chest tighten.
Stand-ins.
Temporary. Replaceable. Meant to fill space until the real leads arrived.
I closed my eyes. "Tell me I don't have a terrible reputation."
She winced.
"Define terrible."
I groaned and leaned against the wall. "I was rude, wasn't I?"
"Yes."
"Bratty?"
"Very."
"And emotionally constipated?"
She tilted her head. "Actually, that's me."
I opened one eye. "You?"
She sighed. "Still hung up on my ex. Used my love interest as emotional support."
"…Wow."
"Yeah."
We looked at each other. Two best friends. Two side characters. Two disasters with pre-written personalities we did not sign up for.
"So," I said slowly. "The male leads hate us."
She nodded. "Deeply."
"And the plot expects us to—what—fade away?"
"Disappear quietly once the main characters arrive."
I straightened.
"Nope."
She looked at me. "Nope?"
"We know the plot," I said. "We know what happens. We don't have to accept it."
Her lips curved into a grin. "You're thinking plot hijacking."
"I'm thinking survival."
She took a breath. "Okay. Rule one: don't act like the originals."
"Rule two: don't fall in love."
We both paused.
"…That rule's unrealistic," she said.
Before I could reply, a knock sounded at the door.
Three sharp taps.
Her face went pale. "That's him."
My stomach twisted. "Mine's probably nearby too."
She squared her shoulders. "Game face."
She opened the door.
He stood there—cold eyes, unreadable expression, presence filling the room like he already owned it.
His gaze flicked to me briefly. Dismissive.
Then back to her.
"You're late," he said flatly. "Again."
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
And instead of snapping back—like the original would have—she said quietly, "I'm sorry."
The room froze.
His brows furrowed.
I felt it then.
The plot.
Watching.
Judging.
He studied her like she was a puzzle with the wrong pieces.
"…What are you playing at?" he asked.
She smiled—small, polite, very un-bratty.
"Nothing," she said. "I'm just… trying something new."
His eyes narrowed.
I had a feeling this story was already unhappy with us.
And we'd only just woken up.