My eyelids were heavy, but the weight pressing against my chest felt heavier. It was not pain exactly. It felt more like restraint, as though something unseen had settled over me and dared me to move. When I tried to breathe, the air came thin and shallow, unwilling to fill my lungs properly, as if my body itself had forgotten how.
"She's waking," someone murmured nearby. The voice sounded far away, stretched thin by distance. "Get the physician."
I drifted upward slowly, dragged toward consciousness like a body hauled from deep water. My limbs felt sluggish and wrong, as though they belonged to someone else entirely. My thoughts followed just as slowly, thick and heavy, refusing to line up into anything coherent. Every breath scraped through my chest, fragile and deliberate, as if breathing itself required focus.
When I opened my eyes, pain bloomed behind them immediately. It throbbed hot and sharp, forcing a low sound from my throat before I could stop it. I lifted a hand to my temple on instinct, fingers trembling as the low murmur of voices around me suddenly swelled into motion.
Footsteps shifted. Fabric rustled. Someone inhaled sharply.
"Are you alright?" a voice asked, layered with concern.
I blinked once. Twice.
A knock echoed through the room, firm and impatient.
"My lady, the physician has arrived."
My lady?
The words scraped against my thoughts, unfamiliar and deeply wrong.
My vision cleared slowly, not all at once but in fractured pieces. Tall windows draped in red silk. Pale white walls polished to a sterile gleam. Figures hovering at my bedside, close enough that I could feel their presence without recognizing their faces. They moved with a familiarity that made my skin prickle.
I did not speak. I did not even attempt to sit up until unfamiliar hands slid beneath my shoulders and gently lifted me, propping me against an absurd pile of cushions. The room smelled faintly of roses, polished marble, and ink, a scent too clean, too deliberate to feel real.
A man stepped into my line of sight. Silver hair streaked neatly back. Eyes sharp and observant. He pressed something cold to my chest.
"How are you feeling, my lady?"
The question barely registered. My pulse roared in my ears, drowning everything else out. My gaze drifted past him, drawn by something I could not name, until it caught on the vanity mirror across the room.
And then the world tipped.
The girl staring back at me was not mine.
Long black hair fell in glossy waves around a face I did not recognize. Red eyes stared back, wide and distant, as though they belonged to someone half awake. Her skin was pale, untouched by warmth, and her lips were painted a vivid red that looked almost violent against the rest of her.
She was beautiful.
Not softly. Not kindly.
Beautiful in a way that felt sharp, like something meant to cut.
"Lady Eris?" someone said from behind me. "You've gone pale."
The name struck deep.
Eris.
It echoed in my skull, hollow and loud, like a bell rung too close. I could not respond. My mouth refused to move. Because memory did not arrive gently. It crashed into me.
That name. That face. The woman in the mirror was not a stranger pulled from nowhere. She was familiar in the worst possible way. I knew her. I knew what happened to her.
Eris Winehouse.
In the story, she does not survive.
She is dismantled first. Piece by piece. Her reputation is stripped in public, not through one great scandal, but through relentless humiliation. Whispers become laughter. Laughter becomes cruelty. By the time she falls, no one sees a noblewoman anymore, only a spectacle that overstayed its welcome.
Her death is not grand. It is pitiful. She dies alone, soaked and shaking, dignity already torn away long before her life is. When she begs, no one listens. When she reaches out, no one reaches back. Her body is discovered later, treated not as a tragedy but as a conclusion.
A fitting end, they call it.
And now I was her.
My chest tightened violently, breath stuttering as the realization settled with sickening weight. This was not a dream. Not a coincidence. Not some elaborate hallucination.
I was inside a story.
No, worse.
I was inside a game.
"Eris!"
Hands grabbed my shoulders suddenly, grounding me with startling force. I gasped, body jerking upright on pure instinct.
"I'm so glad you're awake," a girl said, her voice trembling with relief. It was light and airy, almost musical, as though hope came easily to her.
My lips parted, but nothing came out. My throat felt tight, constricted, as though fear had wrapped itself around my vocal cords.
"Lilith," another voice said, calm and measured. "Give her space."
I turned my head.
A woman stood beside the bed, posture flawless, expression carefully neutral. Her brown hair was pulled back neatly, her dress bearing an unfamiliar crest.
Duchess Nazneen Winehouse.
The knowledge slid into place without resistance.
Eris' stepmother.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Eris," the girl said, stepping back.
Lilith Cromwell.
The protagonist.
The world's favorite.
She stood there bathed in light, every movement effortless, every smile natural. She looked like someone the world had already decided to protect.
My heart dropped so hard it made me dizzy.
The physician adjusted the covers with practiced care, then ran a thoughtful hand along his jaw. His gaze lingered on my face, sharp and searching.
"My lady," he said quietly, "your skin is cold, but your pulse is strong. Your breathing is even. Try to rest. Sometimes the mind takes longer to recover than the body."
He bowed and stepped back.
My fingers twitched beneath the blanket, the fabric suddenly too heavy against my skin. The unease in my chest did not fade with his reassurance. It sharpened, tightening until it was difficult to tell whether I was afraid or simply bracing for something worse.
"I appreciate your concern," I said, forcing my voice into something steady. "But I would like to be alone."
"Of course," someone replied.
The room emptied slowly. Shoes whispered against marble. Fabric brushed softly. Polite bows and shallow curtsies followed, gestures that felt rehearsed rather than sincere. I barely noticed any of it. My thoughts were tangled, drifting somewhere between waking and whatever fragile denial I was clinging to.
Only one person remained.
The duchess did not look at me at first. She adjusted the bracelet at her wrist instead, fingers precise, unhurried, as if the state of her recovering stepdaughter carried no more weight than the balance of her jewelry.
"I expect this foolishness will not repeat itself, Eris," she said. "We have endured enough whispers for one season."
There was no venom in her voice. No anger. No disappointment.
Only expectation.
The kind reserved for something useful, but replaceable.
Then she turned and left. The doors closed behind her with a soft, final sound.
I blinked once.
The room felt larger without witnesses. Too quiet.
I stayed very still.
If this was a dream, then moving too quickly might break it. Dreams frayed at the edges when you pushed them. They skipped. They blurred. They collapsed under scrutiny.
I lifted my hand slowly and watched it as if it did not belong to me. The fingers trembled, but they obeyed. I pressed my thumb into my palm.
Pain bloomed, sharp and unmistakable.
I sucked in a breath and tried again, harder this time, nails biting into skin until it stung properly. The sensation did not fade. It did not soften into something dull and distant the way it did in nightmares.
"Okay," I whispered. My voice sounded too real in the quiet room. "Okay."
I looked around, searching for something wrong. The kind of detail a mind might forget. The way light bent through the window. The faint crack in the marble near the wall. Dust clinging to the edge of the curtains. Nothing wavered.
I stood and paced the length of the room, bare feet brushing cool stone. Each step landed exactly where I expected it to. I knocked my shin lightly against the leg of a chair on purpose.
The jolt shot cleanly up my leg.
I hissed and bent over, gripping the wood until the ache settled.
Dreams were not usually this cooperative.
I pressed my forehead against the windowpane. Cold seeped into my skin, grounding, undeniable. Outside, the garden stretched out in perfect stillness. Leaves stirred in the breeze. Somewhere far off, a bell chimed.
Time was moving forward.
That scared me most of all.
I squeezed my eyes shut and counted under my breath, the way I used to before stepping onto a stage. One. Two. Three. When I opened them again, the room was still there. The mirror. The bed. The body that felt too light and too heavy all at once.
"This has to end," I whispered. "Any second now."
I waited.
Nothing happened.
My heart began to race, faster now, uneven. The idea that this might not dissolve on its own crept in slowly, like cold water rising around my ankles.
I thought of everything that should wake me. Fear. Shock. The weight of knowing how this story ended. If this was a dream, then it was cruel in a way my mind had never been before.
I walked back to the mirror and stared into Eris Winehouse's eyes.
"Wake up," I told her. "Wake up."
She stared back at me, unblinking.
And for the first time since opening my eyes, I felt something crack.
Because if this were a dream, it was far too patient.
And if it was not, then I had already wasted precious time pretending it was.
My hands curled into fists at my sides.
Whatever this was, I would not survive it by waiting to wake up.
I leaned forward until my breath clouded the glass and studied the reflection staring back at me.
She looked untouched by everything I felt.
The woman in the mirror was composed, elegant, devastatingly beautiful. Shadows and pale light seemed woven into her features, giving her an almost unreal stillness. She did not look like someone despised.
She looked untouchable.
"I was pretty in my past life," I said quietly. "But this is something else."
Eris Winehouse was beautiful in a way that felt wrong. Not warm. Not inviting. Her beauty was distant and serene, edged with something sharp, like glass polished until it gleamed.
Strangely, it steadied me.
There was comfort in it. The small, dishonest comfort of believing that if I held onto something flawless, I might also hold onto control.
I exhaled and sat down at the vanity, rubbing my hands over my face carefully, as though too much pressure might break the illusion. I was not sure who I was trying to impress. The duchess was gone. The servants had scattered. Lilith was likely somewhere nearby, being exactly where the story wanted her to be.
Dwelling on my past life would not change anything.
That life felt far away now. Like a stage long cleared. The lights off. The seats empty. No applause left to echo. Just me, standing in the body of a woman written to die in every ending this story could offer.
And yet something about that refused to settle.
Why bring me here at all?
The question sat heavy in my stomach. The game had never given Eris a happy ending. Only scandal, isolation, and a death that took its time stripping her of dignity.
Well, she was a villainess afterall.
I drew in a slow breath.
I had read enough stories to recognize the pattern. When someone woke up inside a game, something usually followed. A guide. A voice. A system that explained things whether you wanted it to or not.
Slowly and with hesitance, I muttered. "System?"
As if on cue, the air shifted.
A soft, hollow sound rang out, like a notification chiming in an empty room.
Light gathered in front of me.
A translucent screen unfolded in midair, hovering at eye level with quiet confidence.
…Of course.
INITIALIZING SYSTEM.
A thin bar appeared.
LOADING… 1%
My shoulders tensed.
LOADING… 10%
I reached out without thinking. My fingers passed through the light, leaving behind a faint chill.
Right. That tracks.
LOADING COMPLETE.
STARTING GAME.
WELCOME TO LOVE & LEGACY.
The words lingered.
PRESS ANYWHERE TO CONTINUE.
"Skip," I said, already tired.
SKIPPING INTRO.
The screen complied.
MAIN MENU.
CHARACTER INFO
DIARY LOGS
INVENTORY
ACTIVE QUESTS
SHOP
LUCK SHARES
I selected Character Info.
OPENING CHARACTER FILE.
NAME: ERIS WINEHOUSE
TITLE: LADY OF HOUSE WINEHOUSE
STATUS: NOBLE
AGE: 18
RELATION: ONLY DAUGHTER OF DUKE WINEHOUS.
The description followed.
'Once celebrated as the pride of House Winehouse, Eris Winehouse has suffered a decline in public reputation due to volatile behavior, alleged cruelty, and obsessive attachment to her fiancé, Crown Prince Kallias Erix.
Her engagement is now considered a political inconvenience.
Though noble by title, she is widely regarded as a villain within aristocratic society.
Public consensus refers to her as "the scandal in a corset.'
I stared at the words.
PERSONALITY RATING: BAD.
I blinked.
"That's it?"
And then a chime rang.
NEW OBSERVERS REGISTERED.
'Huh?'
God of Happiness:Observing.
God of Sadness:Observing.
God of Anger:Observing.
I blinked. Slowly. Once. Twice.
"Wait." My voice cracked. "…God of what? No. What— Gods?"
The screen did not answer.
I pressed my palms to my face and leaned back, trying to make sense of it. My heart raced, my stomach tightened, and my brain simultaneously screamed this is impossible and this is happening right now.
"Was there even something in the game like Gods observing me? Oh my days.. I don't know.. I don't know anymore."
A part of me wanted to laugh at the absurdity, but it felt hollow. The idea that three divine entities were sitting somewhere—somewhere—watching my every twitch, my every reaction, my every thought, sank in slowly, like ice into my chest.
I took a shaky breath. "Well. Okay. Fine. Guess… I'm officially on display. Fantastic."
I forced a dry, humorless smile. The kind you make when you're about to be humiliated in front of an audience, except this audience was immortal, incomprehensible.
Before I could dwell on it any further, the doors burst open.
I jumped. A maid wandered in, disheveled and indifferent, dropping a tray onto the table with a sharp clang. Stew sloshed dangerously over the edge.
"Dinner," she said flatly. Then she sank into a nearby chair like the place belonged to her, stretching her legs and picking at her nails.
"Eat," she added without glancing at me. "Not like you can afford to skip meals again."
I stared. At her. At the tray. At the spilled stew.
This was a noble estate.
And I was being treated like an afterthought in my own life.
My chest tightened. The gods. The hovering screen. The floating menus. All of it still there, bright and impossible. I swallowed hard, eyes darting around to make sure no one else was watching. If anyone saw me fiddling with that glowing nonsense… well, I wasn't sure what they'd think, but it would not be good.
"Okay. Calm. Calm," I muttered under my breath.
I swayed my arms in a wide, hurried arc, hands moving quickly, deliberately, over the hovering text. Fingers skimmed the menus, tapping, swiping, muttering commands I barely understood. "Close, hide, vanish," I whispered, fast and clipped, trying not to let my voice carry.
The screen flickered at my touch, resisted, then blinked obediently once. My heart hammered. My movements were jittery, but I made sure they looked like fidgeting rather than tampering with an impossible, magical interface.
The maid didn't look at me. Good. That was all I needed. She didn't notice, didn't comment. My hands hovered a second longer, making one final sweep, muttering "Close… go away… please…" until the glow dimmed to a faint shimmer.
I exhaled slowly, letting my hands fall into my lap. The faint humorless realization came again: gods, a system, and me, hiding like a child with a secret in the middle of a noble estate. Somehow, this was real. Somehow, Eris Winehouse had been erased.
I had to stay alive. That was all that mattered right now. The gods, the hovering screen, the maid who didn't care—none of it could make me falter. Not yet. Not if I wanted another chance to make sense of everything.
A faint chime broke the tense silence. My eyes darted toward the source, and the screen flickered once, then erupted with a new message in bold, pulsing letters:
QUEST: Teach Them Right
Objective: Even villains deserve their dignity.
Your title may be noble, but your reputation is in ruins. The staff no longer respect you—some even dare to mock you openly.
It's time to remind them why the name Winehouse once commanded fear and reverence.