The room felt like a coffin with velvet trim.

No glowing footprints. No tutorial pop-ups. No floating exclamation mark telling me where to go next. Just a cursed name, a blood-soaked dress, and the ticking countdown to my first Bad End.

If I sat still, the script would catch up and kill me.

I pushed to my feet. My body lagged behind the decision like it needed a reboot. Muscles stiff. Cuts flaring. The crash after adrenaline hit hard—just blood, bruises, and borrowed bones.

No potions. No healing spells. Just me.

And the pain that came with still being alive.

The dresser was closest. Gold-trimmed, carved with ivy like it was trying to strangle itself. I yanked the top drawer open.

Ribbons. Gloves. Lace threaded with pearls. A perfume vial clinked against my knuckles. Teardrop-shaped glass, delicate as regret. I popped the stopper.

The scent hit like a slap.

Powdered flowers. Lavender, sharp beneath the sugar. Sweet like poison. My stomach twisted. A memory flickered—not mine. Hers.

Seven years old. Small hands clutched around the same bottle. A woman—her mother, maybe—smiling with her mouth, not her eyes.

“Live, my little lily. That’s all you need to do.”

A week later, they burned her for birthing a demon.

I slammed the drawer shut. Hard. The wood jolted like it flinched.

The desk under the window gleamed like it wanted to be a mirror. Too polished. Too clean. Ink pot. Feather quill. Blank parchment.

And tucked under a stack of unopened letters—

A leather-bound book.

I didn’t hesitate.

The cover was soft with age. Corners curled, pages warped from water damage. I cracked it open. The binding creaked like bones. Ink smeared beneath fingers that had hovered too long, pressed too hard.

Liliane’s diary.

The early pages were too neat. Letters small. Careful. A girl trying to take up less space.

Then the script shifted.

The handwriting sharpened. Strokes darkened. Lines bled like wounds that refused to close.

March 13: The servants whisper when I enter. I found the maid changing my bedding again—twice this week. She wouldn’t meet my eyes.

April 7: Father summoned me. Not to speak—just to remind me. I am not to disgrace the family again. I wonder what counts this time. Breathing?

April 20: The tea smells wrong again. Too sweet. Syrup-thick. I haven’t touched it in three weeks.

My grip tightened. Pages fluttered under my thumb. Faster now. The pattern unfurled in jagged ink.

Poison in the tea. Servants too afraid to meet her eyes. A father who didn’t need to hit to hurt. A house that watched you like it wanted you gone.

Liliane hadn’t gone mad.

She’d been driven there. Piece by piece.

And that scene earlier—the one where I woke up bleeding on the floor?

It wasn’t a breakdown.

It was retaliation.

She snapped. Probably at the maid. Maybe at the tea. And someone made sure she paid the price for it.

I slammed the book shut. The sound cracked through the room like a pistol shot. My hands trembled—not from fear.

From rage.

Tight. Focused. The kind you don’t scream with.

They’d built this world to be her coffin. Wrapped her in silk. Starved her of love. Then dropped her into the role of villain like it was the only costume that fit.

And now?

They wanted me to wear it. Walk the same steps. Die the same way.

Die beautifully.

I dragged in a slow, shaking breath.

They’d be disappointed.

I shoved the diary into the drawer like it might bite. The wood slammed shut with a thud that echoed like a verdict.

Then I reached for the parchment.

Thick. Expensive. The kind nobles used for love letters and death threats.

I dipped the quill. The tip shook—just a hair. Not from nerves.

From weight.

One word carved the silence open.

POSSIBLE BAD ENDS

• Saint rises. Liliane falls. Crowd favourite. Clean. Symmetrical.

• Pact with the Demon Lord. Possession. Corruption. Madness. Sometimes all three.

• Duel at the Academy. Killed by the Hero. Or spared. Publicly.

• Civil unrest. Her house burns. She swings.

• Arranged marriage to a noble sadist. Murder in silk and smiles.

• War. Used like a weapon. Discarded like one.

• Exile. Disgraced. Hunted down for sport, if she’s lucky.

• Suicide. Quiet or messy. Dealer’s choice.

I paused.

Let the ink bleed into the page like it had something to confess. Then tapped the quill against the wood. Once. Twice. Three times.

The sound echoed like a countdown.

My lips curled into something crooked. Not quite a smile. More like a scar.

I remembered these routes.

Every one.

Dad and I, hunched over whiteboards and flowcharts. Caffeine in one hand, moral detachment in the other. Arguing whether she'd die screaming or silent. Whether the Hero would weep or walk away.

We diagrammed Liliane’s death like it was art.

Red string. Branching choices. Consequence trees with no fruit—just nooses.

Not one of them led to peace.

No redemption arcs. No healing. No happy endings.

Just cruelty, wrapped in perfect narrative symmetry.

I looked down at the page again. Ink still glistening. Still fresh.

My own handwriting looked like it belonged to someone else. Clinical. Detached.

Like I was still pretending this wasn’t mine.

Maybe I wanted to.

Because who the fuck designs a story like this and thinks anyone deserves to live it?

Not Liliane.

Not even the worst monsters who deserved not .

And now here I was—draped in the skin of the girl I’d made to bleed for drama.

No plot armour.

Just bruises, blood, and a quill full of karma.

A knock broke the silence.

I jerked upright. The quill dragged a jagged line across the parchment like a wound.

Perfect.

Right when I was starting to forget this place had witnesses.

“Enter,” I said, voice clipped, cold. Not forced—calculated.

The door creaked open. A girl stepped inside. Couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Thin wrists. Hollow cheeks. She held a silver tray like it was a shield and she knew it wouldn’t save her.

Steam curled from the teapot. Sweet. Innocent. Hiding poison in plain scent.

“I—I brought your replacement tea, my lady,” she stammered. “And I’m terribly sorry again about before—the tray, I mean—I tripped and—”

She didn’t finish.

I was already standing.

One step forward, slow and deliberate, and she froze like prey in a lion’s shadow.

She thought I was going to hit her.

I didn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, I leaned in and took a breath.

Fruity. Cloying. Syrup-thick.

Wrong.

Same perfume-sweet rot I’d smelled earlier. The kind of smell that tried too hard to be palatable.

Liliane’s diary hadn’t lied.

I smiled.

Sharp. Intentional. The kind you sharpen, not wear.

I lifted the teacup with two fingers, turned to face her, and held it out like an offering.

“Drink.”

Her face drained of colour. The tray rattled in her hands.

“I—I can’t, my lady,” she whispered. “I—I only serve—I’m not allowed to—”

“Are you refusing me?” I asked.

The smile didn’t shift. But my tone did.

Steel wrapped in silk.

“N-no! I just—please, I—”

“Oh, but I insist.”

Another step. No rush. Just gravity, dressed in silk.

Then I tipped the cup.

Hot liquid poured over her scalp, steam curling off her skin. It soaked her apron, dripped from her hair like sugared blood. She gasped but didn’t move. Didn’t dare.

+15 VILLAINY POINTS
New Title Acquired: CRUEL NOBLE

The system chimed in my skull like a slow clap.

I laughed—flat, deadpan.

“That’s all it takes?” I said, eyes still locked on hers.

The girl was shaking now. Eyes glassy, lip trembling.

I stepped closer. Let her see it in my face—the chill, the calculation.

Bent slightly.

Whispered, “Who’s trying to kill me?”

She inhaled. Froze. Held it like air might protect her.

I straightened. Let her watch me think.

She said nothing.

The empty cup was still in my hand.

I threw it.

It shattered against the wall beside her head—porcelain exploding like it wanted to be part of the show.

She shrieked and dropped to her knees, arms flying up to shield her face.

+10 VILLAINY POINTS

“Who’s trying to kill me?” I asked again. No louder. Just lower.

Cut sharp like a knife under the rib.

She crumbled.

“I—I don’t know,” she sobbed. “I swear—I just follow orders—I don’t know anything, please—”

One step. Then another.

She didn’t run. Couldn’t. She folded down further, shaking so hard it made her silhouette ripple.

I raised a hand.

She flinched, bracing.

But I didn’t strike.

I touched the crown of her head. Gently. Slowly. Let my fingers rest there, feather-light.

A mock benediction.

“You’re not the one I’m angry at,” I said, voice soft. Almost kind.

She looked up, eyes wide, rimmed red. Like she couldn’t believe I hadn’t broken her.

I held her gaze a moment longer.

Then turned away and returned back to the vanity. I picked up the brush. Ran it through my hair like the chaos didn’t matter.

Then paused.

Turned just slightly.

“And your name?” I asked without looking.

A beat.

Then, quietly: “Seren.”

“Seren,” I repeated, letting the syllables linger like a verdict. “Clean this up. Then prepare a bath. I want it hot.”

She didn’t move.

I glanced back.

“Well?”

Seren jumped, bowed too fast, and bolted. The door snapped shut behind her like it was slamming the moment out of existence.

+5 VILLAINY POINTS

I flexed my fingers. Dried blood cracked across the joints.

Then I smiled. Real this time.

Not because it felt good.

Because it worked.

“I can use this,” I murmured.

Then—soft, quiet, certain—

“I’m going to survive.”