I was born as the daughter of the villainess in a novel. By the time I arrived, my mother’s crimes had already been exposed—locked away in a tower, doomed to die at the hands of the protagonists. As she lay there, still clinging to the hope that her ex-husband would return, I took her rough hand in mine. When I told her I understood, that she should stop fighting and finally rest, a tear slipped from her eye. Then she closed them for good.
With the villainess gone, my fate was sealed—tomorrow night, those same people would come for me. After that, the second half of the story would begin, where the heroes would find love and happiness on their grand adventures.
But I had no intention of dying. And I certainly wasn’t going to let their story unfold the way it was written.
*Fine, so I’m cruel.*
In a life where death could come at any moment, why not rewrite the second half of the novel myself?
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