#vadd

[apeiron69]

Hereby an updated version of this

[eloise175]

THEY’RE SO STINKING CUTE *AUGHAUGHAUGH*

THE CONFESSION IS COMING SEDATE ME *implodes*

it’s giving girlfailure and boyfumble, someone help them please they have no idea what they’re doing, one shared braincell between these two 😭✋

Callisto looks like he’s about to panic so bad, while also being on the receiving end of a cuteness overload attack—and Penelope has probably never looked more like a sopping wet cat (affectionate)

they’re so cute disaster coded *holds gently*

[cjrae]

Repressed Love. Or: Derrick Eckhart and deconstructing the "Duke of the North."

Apologies if you're used to Apothecary Diaries content from me, but I'm currently reading "Villains Are Destined To Die" and Derrick Eckhart has me in a bit of a chokehold.

Because he's such a trainwreck. And he's allowed to self-destruct in a perfectly logical way that follows from his character archetype - an archetype that is usually portrayed as someone to be Healed By Love. Instead, Derrick Eckhart's story is a classic tragedy. He is doomed by the qualities that define him.

(image credit; Ep. 38)

Here's a 30 second recap of the setup for Villains Are Destined To Die. The main premise is that our heroine is suddenly thrust into the world of the romance dating game she was playing on hard mode as the villainess, Penelope Eckhart, who is the adopted daughter of Duke Eckhart after his biological daughter tragically disappeared. The goal? Get one of the five male leads to 100% affection score and achieve an ending before the true daughter reappears at Penelope's coming of age ceremony and the regular game begins with the Duke's True Daughter as the heroine. Because the villainess always dies in the end.

Our five male leads are as follows:

Derrick Eckhart - the eldest son and heir of Duke Eckhart.

Reynold Eckhart - the younger son of Duke Eckhart and a knight.

Callisto Regulus - the Crown Prince and a war hero.

Winter Verdandi - a mysterious nobleman and sorcerer.

Eckles - a fallen noble of a conquered nation, now enslaved, but secretly a swordmaster.

If this looks like a list of tropes, congratulations! That's the point. Each romance-able character fits into a neatly defined trope, but since we're focusing on Derrick Eckhart, we're looking specifically at the following archetype:

"The Duke Of The North."

(image credit: Ep. 37)

Derrick Eckhart hits almost every single bullet point on a list of this trope. Colored in cold tones; black hair and blue eyes, with an angular, cutting beauty that is indicative of his matching aloof and logical demeanor? Check!

While their duchy is not physically in the north, it is isolated in that the Eckhart duchy is neutral, not throwing their support to either candidate in the succession struggle between the Crown Prince and his younger brother. Check!

He's the captain of the Eckhart duchy's knights (20,000 strong), so his military prowess and power is acknowledged. Check!

He is the heir of the duchy and is very aware of it's responsibilities, fettering many of his actions through the lens of those duties. Check!

Traumatic past? Check, check and check!

If Derrick were the male lead of this story, his story would likely follow the typical tsundere path of learning that there is strength in the trust that accompanies vulnerability and intimacy - that the balance between the duties of his position and the desires of his heart is not only possible, but desirable. The female lead's love would either be a redemptive object or, in better written stories, an example that propels him to better himself in order to be worthy of her.

But the author did something interesting. They broke the trope down and deconstructed it. What might actually happen when that traumatized, emotionally stunted man falls in love for the first time? Is this something he is able to handle with grace and maturity or is he motivated by his underdeveloped emotional ego? (I'll let you guess...)

Let's look at the two primary emotions that represent Derrick's two "sisters" and drive his actions: guilt and shame.

Guilt

So, the backstory behind Derrick's trauma is both very simple and heartrendingly realistic. The three original siblings, Derrick, Reynold and Ivonne sneak out to a large festival one night. Derrick, being the oldest, has Ivonne's hand in his, but the parade begins and as the crowd swells, his little sister is swept away.

Ivonne is never seen again.

His little sister's disappearance proceeds to tear the already grieving family apart (the mother has succumbed to Dead Mom Syndrome). It's now only the male members left - and while Reynold is allowed to act out and grieve openly to a degree, Derrick is not. He is the heir and he is already expected to control his emotions and conduct himself appropriately. Because his actions reflect on his name.

It doesn't matter that his little sister is just gone, with no leads or even the closure of finding her body.

It doesn't matter that it's his fault; for taking them to the festival without asking permission or guards, for letting Ivonne's hand slip out of his, for failing to find her.

In that crucible of pain, sorrow and guilt, Derrick learns that there is no possible justification for losing control. Because to do so is to make everything even worse. Ivonne and his mother are both gone. If he shames their name and proves himself to be an unworthy successor, Derrick will lose his father too. Everything in his life must now revolve around being the perfect heir - because it's all he has left.

(image credit, Ep. 152)

Callisto makes a similar observation about the weight of being an heir. "The Emperor must be flawless." (Ch 73). We'll actually circle back around to this, because Derrick and Callisto are narrative foils for each other.

Neither Callisto nor Derrick are allowed to show emotions such as fear or grief - because those are potential weaknesses that people could use to try to take advantage of their family's power to advance agendas that likely do not have the best interest of either the imperial family or the Eckharts in mind. Indeed, Callisto's position is weakened because of his brutal reputation, which he encourages in order to express his anger.

Derrick doesn't have that outlet. Anger isn't something he's allowed to feel; rage will only compromise his judgment and threaten the only identity he has left. The most he is allowed to express is irritation and contempt.

Penelope vs Ivonne

And then the Duke does the most insane thing possible - he adopts a street beggar that has a passing resemblance to Ivonne and makes her the new daughter of the house.

**cough** Does anybody see a problem here?!

Oh, here's one. Penelope is so much more vibrant a character than Ivonne. You can see the surface similarities, but that's where they end. Ivonne, is described as "angelic" and painted in the same pastel tones as Reynold (pale pink hair and light blue eyes that link her to Derrick, Reynold and the Duke). Gentle, kind, quiet. An "easy" child.

Penelope is not easy. She's tempestuous and emotional before abruptly going silent after hitting a certain point. She's painted in jewel tones, her eyes "turquoise" or "emerald", her hair a deeper magenta with wild curls. She demands attention (and justice) through bad behavior and no matter how many times she's knocked down, she keeps fighting back. In short, she is uncontrollable.

(image credit, Ep. 134)

Because Derrick cannot allow himself the luxury of anger or disgust at his father for bringing this strange girl into their home, he deals with her presence by simply ignoring her and shutting away his emotions per the status quo. Or, at least, he attempts to.

But Penelope forces her her way into Derrick's life because she is NOT like Ivonne.

She does everything that Derrick is never allowed, while his father seemingly indulges Penelope with material goods that she demands because it's the only way anyone in the house will actually acknowledge her existence. Except for one person- Derrick. Derrick, as the heir, has to clean up the aftermath of Penelope's tantrums. Messes that, in his mind, there is absolutely no justification for. If he can deal with Ivonne's disappearance with dignity befitting the Eckhart name, then by god this girl can stand to control her own behavior!

And it's good to remember that, until the story starts with our version of Penelope, Derrick's perception of her behavior is spot on. Penelope herself comments on it multiple times - how OG Penelope had turned everyone against her. Reynold may have started the household's ostracism by framing Penelope for theft of Ivonne's necklace, and Derrick and the Duke exacerbated it with their willful ignorance, but OG Penelope was her own worst enemy.

(As an aside, I can tell that some readers have never dealt with a 'problem child' in their own family. As someone who did have a sibling who acted out, sometimes in seemingly unforgivable ways at the time, I can say that both Derrick's resentment and the perpetual cycles of blame are rooted in emotional realism).

This is the static pattern until hard mode starts and OG Penelope is replaced with the current Penelope, who already escaped a eerily similar toxic family dynamic. She has no attachment to these men, therefore she is able to do what OG Penelope could never do - she lets go of them. Which is exactly what is needed to smash the current dynamic to smithereens and force Derrick to contend with Penelope's presence in his life.

Because here's the thing. Penelope's behavior forces Derrick to feel. Penelope evokes a response from Derrick - annoyance, resentment...

...and desire.

(image credit, Ep. 19)

Shame

Penelope is not Derrick's sister. He utterly rejects that role, even as the Duke forces him to play it in public. He repeats this rejection multiple times; "I have only one sister and her name is Ivonne," (ch. 75)

But when Derrick expressed cold contempt, Penelope responded with hot rage. Where Derrick is aloof, Penelope is passionate. Derrick must always be in control, whereas Penelope lets control go freely. It's very much an attraction of opposites. Penelope represents everything Derrick is not allowed to have or be - but desperately wants.

If Penelope had chosen Derrick's romance path, then there's an old trope at play here; Kissing Cousins. Depending on your perspective, the incest angle is eliminated due to the fact that Penelope is adopted and Derrick never once thinks of her as his sister. Penelope's primary game conflict is that she's not truly accepted as a daughter of the house. A way to resolve that is to step out of Ivonne's shadow, tempering her extreme emotional reactions with adult self-control that allows Derrick to see and accept her in a new light - not as a living embodiment of his guilt, but as her own person. That, in turn, could give him the opportunity to process his guilt and grief, while also allowing him a safe space to allow himself the emotions he was denied by his trauma. With this conflict resolved, it clears a path for Penelope's true acceptance by the Eckharts, not as a ghost of Ivonne, but as their daughter-in-law, becoming Duchess Eckhart.

(Look, you don't have to like it, but consanguinity is a romance trope that's alive and well. I'm looking at you, Cyrano de Bergerac, Eight Cousins, Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon...shall I go on? Honestly, Derrick and Penelope is pretty tame. Diet Consanguinity, shall we say?)

But Penelope rejects this path immediately, therefore opening up the chance to explore Derrick's first love in a much more realistic sense - this is not a relationship that brings him joy, but instead fills him with shame. I didn't need to read spoilers of the light novels to realize that he was attracted to her from the beginning- it's right there in his affection score; he doesn't want to be addressed as 'Brother.' Her earliest death event with Derrick is when she implies that he's sleeping with her maid.

It's baked in.

And that shame will propel Derrick to stay stuck in his old pattern with Penelope because he cannot reconcile duty and desire. He cannot even recognize what he is feeling consciously. The easiest thing for Derrick to do is live in denial, blaming Penelope for everything, to continue being the put-upon heir of the family who constantly bails her out of trouble. Because the alternative is to acknowledge the unthinkable.

Is it admirable? No.

Is it likely to get him what he wants? Absolutely not.

Is it realistic psychology? Yes.

He is so caught up in the old dynamic with Penelope that he's too slow to realize that it's gone - the new Penelope reflects his own coldness back at him. The more she retreats, the more he chases her, looking for that source of warmth, her unyielding, continuing affection that he thought he couldn't bear. But without it, his world has become utterly cold and full of nothing but his guilt, shame and duty.

And then Derrick destroys what little attachment Penelope had to him with the trial, when he repeats this pattern for the last time by refusing to hear her defense privately and trying to simply get her to plead guilty to an attempted assassination with the assumption that Derrick will simply be able to use the Eckhart name to help her escape the consequences. Season 2 ends with, 'I had no expectations."

That's a death blow to their relationship. Derrick is defined by the expectations of others, which is why he, in turn, defines Penelope by her reputation. For Penelope to tell him that she has no expectations of him is to tell Derrick the agonizing truth - that he is nothing to her.

Not her brother.

Not the future duke.

He's not even a man that she respects.

(image credit, Ep. 85)

This confrontation is different than the Season 1 conclusion, when Penelope's finally willing to risk Reynold's affection score dropping in order to confront him with the truth and consequences of his own actions. In the aftermath of that fight, Reynold realizes that he is the one who needs to reflect on his behavior, not Penelope.

But where Reynold is able to eventually confess the truth about Ivonne's necklace to his father, Derrick is so ashamed of himself that he spirals. The old relationship is gone, leaving him with only her ringing condemnation of his behavior and her justified indifference toward him.

And he does offer an apology - but it's an apology so steeped in the only identity he has left - the Heir - that even though Penelope recognizes it as a genuine attempt at apologizing, it fails to move her. He is not capable of simply saying "I was wrong - at least, not without a bunch of modifiers about why being wrong wasn't his fault.

The Prodigal Daughter Returns

And then, of course, Ivonne makes her inevitable return - not brought in by an outsider (Winter Verdandi) as in the original game, but by Eckles, Penelope's personal guard. A man whom Derrick is already jealous and suspicious of. And, when Penelope understandably starts to lose her shit, Derrick treats it as a return to the status quo - the absolute worst thing he could do.

Especially because he now appears to have a way to expunge his guilt. He can help restore Ivonne to the family.

Derrick is the easiest target for Ivonne to subvert away from the respect Penelope has been painstakingly building from the beginning of the story, because she yokes his conscious guilt and his unconscious shame into a team that drives his actions all the way to Penelope's critical coming-of-age ceremony and the start of the original game, where Penelope's role of villainess is to be cemented.

Derrick desperately wants his little sister back. He also wants to do right by Penelope in the wake of the hunting arc. This is his tragedy, because the two goals are at odds. There is no way to restore Ivonne and win Penelope's affection.

Especially not playing against this magnificent son of a bitch.

(image credit, Ep. 58)

Like all the best character foils, while Derrick has been wrestling with shame and guilt, Callisto Regulus has been busy actually listening to Penelope, thinking critically and making judgments about her based on facts, both old and current. Unlike Derrick, he learns about Penelope and isn't shackled by what people think of either him or her. Indeed, Callisto understands the power of a bad reputation and how it can be harnessed just as easily as a sterling one.

Winter and Callisto are the ones to spring to Penelope's aid at the ruined coming-of-age ceremony, while Derrick is frozen in brainwashed confusion. Even Reynold manages to be the voice of reason in the chaos of her poisoning, pointing out that if they don't let Winter treat Penelope, she's going to die before the doctor can get to her.

(As an aside, when Reynold Eckhart is your voice of reason, you know things have gone sideways!)

Finally, only after Derrick has temporarily broken free of Ivonne's manipulation, having thoroughly soiled his own reputation and the Eckhart name by bringing Ivonne to the ceremony against the orders of their head of house and causing a public spectacle (everything he's accused Penelope of doing), he is left wandering the halls of the estate, desperate to make sense of what's happened and his own feelings.

He can't even go into Penelope's room to check on her - because that spot by her side has already been claimed. He's too late.

(image credit: Ep. 159)

This panel encapsulates Derrick's character in one shot.

The cool tones and shadows, echoing Derrick's symbolism as he's shut away from the warm light representing Penelope. The longing, the jealousy, the self-hatred as he can only peer through the crack in the door. The eerie green light of Ivonne's control has faded from his pupils, leaving him clearheaded for the first time in days as he slowly pieces his fragmented memory together to view the consequences of what he has done.

Meanwhile, a rival Derrick cannot challenge - Callisto - has the right to ask about her condition from the doctor and sit by Penelope's beside, begging her to wake up, not to leave him alone in hell. A hell that Derrick has helped create.

Derrick has had every opportunity through the end of Season 4 to change course - and each time, he is tripped up by those archetypal qualities that define his trope.

The tragic past and hidden vulnerability? These are the qualities Ivonne uses to manipulate and brainwash Derrick into betraying not only Penelope, but himself.

The emotional coldness? It means that Derrick is unable to even understand what he feels, let alone express it coherently, whether to be accepted or rejected. Instead, he's trapped in a self-destructive cycle, alienating the very person he yearns for, unable to ease his loneliness and self-hatred.

The devotion to duty shackles Derrick to a role that is his only identity that outside forces shatter for him - and Ivonne cares nothing for Derrick's well being in the process.

Rather than either the male lead or even a positive force in the narrative, Derrick's traits destroy everything he cherishes, leaving him utterly alone.

The fate of the Duke of the North is to be on the outside looking in.

[the-regulus-family]

[eonslice]

they did NOT look like this after almost drowning. here is my rendition

[hinikou]

Restart, Repeat, Regress (Prologue)

→ Villains Are Destined to Die [ Fem!reader insert ]

- Warning: Depictions of death, Discrimination towards someone (not on you), Characters’ death, Gore, Body horror, Body mutilation, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

- Characters: Penelope Eckhart, Derrick Eckhart, Reynold Eckhart, Duke Eckhart, Winter Verdandi, Laila, "Ivonne Eckhart", Callisto Regulus, Eckles Khan Delman, Emily, you, and Ocs.

- Note: There will be no Cha Siyeon, meaning the Penelope Eckhart in this fic will be the Og!Penelope Eckhart. Romance will not be prioritized in this fic, this fic will be tackling more on the lore and the story, and plus the reader will be prioritizing more on getting out of the game instead of romancing characters.

- Yes, this is horror disguised as a pinkish cute thing. Please enjoy!

- Synopsis | Prologue | 1 | 2

- Word count: 8.9k

Divider by hyuneskkami

“Ugh…" The obnoxiously bright sunlight streaming through your window rudely yanks you from the depths of your precious beauty sleep. You groan, burying your face into the pillow, already dreading the day ahead.

Class. You have class today.

Maybe you could call in sick? Just this once?

No, no—bad idea. You’ve already missed enough days, and if you push your luck any further, your professor might actually drop you from the course. With a resigned sigh, you force yourself to roll out of bed, still half-asleep…

And that’s when you notice it.

The bed beneath you feels huge, far bigger than your tiny dorm mattress. The duvet is impossibly soft, smoother than anything you’ve ever owned. And the scent—fresh linen with a hint of lavender—completely unfamiliar.

Wait a second…

This isn’t your bed.

Your grogginess vanishes in an instant. Heart pounding, you sit up, eyes darting around the lavish room, the grand canopy, the ornate furniture—none of it yours.

Where the hell are you?

You blink rapidly, rub your eyes, and even give your cheek a light pinch—just to be sure.

Nope. Still here.

The massive canopy bed, the velvet curtains, the chandelier glittering overhead—it’s all real. Or at least, it feels real.

Confirmed: not hallucinating.

Dreaming? Oh, absolutely. One hundred percent. What else could explain waking up in a place straight out of a royal fantasy?

Your fingers graze the impossibly soft duvet, marveling at its quality. Even the air smells different—clean, floral, expensive.

“Wow…” you murmur, still in awe. “What kind of fever dream is this?”

Maybe all those late-night historical manhwa binges finally caught up to you. Your brain must’ve absorbed one too many palace storylines and decided to throw you headfirst into fantasy.

You yawn and slide out of the king-sized bed. As soon as your feet touch the floor, you freeze. Your body feels light—weirdly light. Like thirty percent of your stress weight disappeared overnight.

It bothers you. A lot. You stare down at your arms.

Slender. Pale. Unfamiliar.

This… isn’t your body.

It feels foreign. Off. Wrong. But—whatever. This is clearly a dream anyway.

You shrug.

Wandering through the room, you open a random door—and nearly trip over your own feet.

A walk-in closet. A giant one. You step inside, stunned.

Row after row of gowns in every color and style imaginable: day dresses, ballgowns, evening gowns, summer silks, lacy frilly things you don't even know how to name. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think you stumbled into a boutique straight out of Versailles.

“All right…” you whisper, grinning. “Let’s try one of these before I wake up—”

Then you catch sight of the mirror.

And you choke.

The reflection staring back isn’t you—or at least, not exactly.

She’s tall. Graceful. Glowing.

The kind of girl who drinks fancy tea and never experiences deadlines, stress acne, or midnight existential dread. Her skin is flawless. Her posture elegant. Her waist unfairly snatched.

And her face…

No eyebags. No dark circles. No tiredness. Just radiant, princess-core beauty.

But the longer you stare, the more the resemblance creeps in. She almost looks like you. Just—refined. Sculpted. Like Aphrodite herself woke up one day and decided, “Yeah, let’s bless this girl.”

You blink.

“...Yeah. I got yassified in this dream.”

Before you could say anything else to the mirror—or to your suspiciously flawless new reflection—a soft knock echoed through the room, followed by a gentle voice:

“Young lady, please excuse me. It’s time to wake up.”

The door creaked open.

You quickly peek out from the walk-in closet, just in time to spot a brown-haired maid stepping inside. She looks like every background generic maid character you’ve ever seen in a manhwa—neat uniform, tidy bun, soft features.

Her eyes scan the room until they land on you half-hidden behind the closet door. There’s a flicker of surprise on her face, but it disappears quickly, replaced by a warm, practiced smile.

“There you are,” she says gently. “Young lady, it’s time to get ready for the day.”

You nod wordlessly, still trying to wrap your head around everything. She walks over and gestures for you to follow, and you do—half in a daze—as she leads you toward a grand bathroom.

Before you can take in the details of the marble floors and gold fixtures, more maids begin filing into the room like a well-rehearsed routine. A few begin tidying up the bed and curtains with practiced ease, while others gently guide you through the morning preparations.

You don’t even have time to protest before warm water, floral soap, and soft hands are washing away every last trace of sleep from your skin. You’re being bathed like a porcelain doll.

This dream is getting way too detailed.

They styled your hair into something you’ve only ever seen on Disney princesses—elegant, intricate, and definitely not achievable without professional help and magic hairspray.

Then they dressed you in a lavender gown so luxurious you’re certain just one yard of the fabric probably costs more than your family’s entire savings.

The same brown-haired maid from earlier beamed at you with pride.

“My lady, you look beautiful as always!”

You stare at your reflection again, stunned.

And you do.

You really do.

You look like one of those Disney princess mascots—the expensive kind—that loving mothers hire for their daughter’s fifth birthday party. The kind that sings in perfect pitch and never breaks character, even when asked uncomfortable questions by toddlers.

Once the maids finish their pampering parade, they quietly excuse themselves, leaving you alone with your thoughts. You wave them off awkwardly, still half-dazed.

Well… lucid dreaming is a rare occurrence. You never thought it would actually happen to you. Heh. What kind of idiot would I be if I didn’t enjoy it?

“Everything I ever wanted to happen in a lucid dream, right?” you mutter to yourself. “That’s what TikTok said.”

You cackle like a madwoman, stroking your chin as if you had an imaginary beard, fully embracing your sudden descent into fantasy.

Well then… let’s try flying. Some even said they can transform into anything in their lucid dream so flying wouldn’t be a problem.

Without hesitation, you kick off your expensive-looking sandals, climb onto the nearest table… and jump.

Nothing.

Frowning, you climb up again and jump, harder this time.

Still nothing.

“Seriously?” you grumble, groaning so dramatically that somewhere in the distance, a cow might file a copyright claim for vocal impersonation.

Maybe the table wasn’t high enough?

Then suddenly—click.

Something shifts in your brain like a lightbulb going off.

“THAT’S RIGHT!” you yell, eyes lighting up. “IT WASN’T HIGH ENOUGH!!”

You let out a triumphant laugh, like you just discovered a new law of physics. Reinvigorated, you slide your sandals back on and sprint out of the room like a Disney villain on a mission.

It takes a while. You get lost—twice. Almost enter someone else’s bedroom. But finally…

You find it.

The attic floor.

High. Dusty. Perfect.

You grin.

You stand triumphantly in the attic, chest puffed out, arms akimbo like a low-budget superhero. Wooden beams cream above your head, and motes of dust dance in the golden light streaming through the narrow window. You open the largest window, the fresh gush of wind refreshed your mind, and the view outside shows endless trees, rooftops, and sky–ahh this is perfect place for a perfect takeoff.

Your heart pounds in your chest, filled with the kind of adrenaline only reserved for rollercoaster drops and purchasing something new that your poor ass usually cannot afford.

This is it. This is the moment where your childhood dream will finally come true. You’re going to fly. You’re going to experience your Sakura Cardcaptor dream and break free from gravity and soar across the sky like a majestic magical girl!

You climb to the open window, practically vibrating with anticipation.

Oh god, you're so excited that you might actually pee.

You step one foot on the ledge, arms stretch wide. “Come on, brain,” you whisper, trembling with anticipation. “Don’t let me down now.”

Then–

“MY LADY!!”

The voice comes from behind you, panicked and shrill. You whip your head around and see the brown-haired maid from earlier at the top of the stairs, eyes wide with absolute horror. Behind her, a small army of servants scramble in, gasping and clutching their skirts like they just caught you mid-sacrifice.

“My lady, please step away from the window!!” she cried, her voice trembling. “W-what are you doing up there?!”

“I'M GOING TO FLY!” you declare proudly, striking a pose like you’re about to shoot a music video.

The maid looks like she’s about to faint. One of the younger servants drops a book he was holding, and it hits the floor with a thud so dramatic it deserves background music.

“I read on TikTok that if you believe and affirm hard enough, you can do anything!” you say, one foot already dragging out the window.

“My lady, please–NO! Get down from here, I beg you!” another maid shrieks. “You’re not well? Should we fetch the physician? The priest? The exorcist?!”

You sigh, “Well I’m—”

A younger servant suddenly broke into tears and sobbing at you dramatically as if he were in a K-drama finale. “Young lady, we didn't know you felt something like that! I promise, we will be at your side, so please don't do it!!”

“...” You look at him incrediously.

Whatever. You’ve already committed.

“LET’S GOOOOOOO–”

“NO–!” “MY LADY!!”

You jump.

And fall.

And then immediately land with a horrifying CRASH on a pile of empty unattended storage boxes just below the place below the window where you jump.

The servants scream. You groan. No bones cracked, but something somewhere definitely cracks (probably your dreams.)

There’s a beat of silence. You’re staring up at the sun–bathing from it warm rays, hair disarray, skirt flipped over your knees, surrounded by smashed boxes.

“...okay?” you wheeze, your body hurts surprisingly in a dream. “So maybe lucid dreaming has… limits. Or probably I didn't do my affirmation enough?”

The maids descend upon you in panic, fussing and sobbing and checking your limbs like you're Humpty Dumpty after a really dramatic fall. One of them is actually crying. Another keeps muttering prayers under her breath.

Meanwhile, you lie there, dazed, blinking up at the sun.

Still no flight powers..

What a pity.

“At least, I'm rich..” you mumble.

The physician had barely finished fussing over your bruises and blotchy cheeks when a knock echoed through the hall—sharp, precise, like it belonged in a courtroom rather than a hallway. The butler stood there, rigid as a statue. He didn’t say the Duke requested your presence. No. He said the Duke summoned you.

And now here you are, sitting in a chair that’s way too soft in a room that smells like old books and even older money—there’s a distinct scent of expensive tobacco hanging in the air. Across from you, a black haired middle-aged man, presumably the Duke, stares at you like you personally offended every generation of his ancestors.

‘Wow’, you think. ‘My dream really went the extra mile to generate a father Duke NPC for me, huh?’

He doesn’t speak. Just watches you with his purple eyes.

You clear your throat, awkwardly. “Soo… what’s up?”

“Do you understand why you’re here?” His voice is calm, but there's a thread of tension running beneath it.

You blink. “I jumped from the window?”

His jaw tightens like he’s restraining the urge to throw his chair through the stained glass behind him. “You were found—witnessed—standing on a windowsill. Arms out. Ready to jump from a fifteen-story-high window.”

You nod slowly. “That’s what I said…”

He leans back, picks up a porcelain teacup, and sips with the kind of deliberate calm that only someone seconds from losing it would muster. “Do you have any explanation?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again.

“...Would ‘I thought I could fly’ be an acceptable answer?”

He stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. A very stupid second head. He doesn’t say anything for five excruciating minutes, just sips his tea in absolute silence like it’s the only thing keeping him from combusting.

Finally, he speaks. “You were laughing while dangling from the attic window,” he says flatly. “Do you realize how that looked to the servants? What they thought you were attempting?”

Oh. Right. The crying footman. The prayers. The shrieking. That tracks.

He sets the cup down with mechanical calm. “Well? What possessed you?”

You hesitate. “...TikTok?”

Wrong answer.

He slams his gloved hands onto the table with a thunderous crack. “I should’ve known! The moment I saw her lurking at the banquet like a snake in silk and conversed with you... Penelope Eckhart.”

He spits the name like a curse. “The adopted stray the Duke of Eckhart insists on calling daughter. Of course it’s her influence!”

Penelope…? You squint. “Penelope? As in… from The Odyssey?”

He pauses. “Odyssey what?”

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

He side-eyed you. “...She’s always been unhinged. Reckless. A disgrace to noble etiquette. And now you—you, of all people, fall under her sway from that banquet three weeks ago!”

You don’t even know what "sway" means in this context, but you nod dutifully. “Yes. Very swayed.”

He narrows his eyes. “So you admit it?”

You still have no idea what he’s talking about, but whatever. “...Absolutely.”

“I knew it. She’s corrupted you with her savage nonsense. What’s next? You’ll be swearing, fencing with footmen, or—heaven forbid—riding a horse astride?!”

You raise a hand, tentative. “That… actually sounds kind of cool—”

“ENOUGH!”

The room goes quiet. You flash him your most innocent smile, eyes darting around like maybe you’ll spot a “How to Handle a Dream Duke 101” manual tucked between the bookshelves.

He leans forward again, steepling his fingers. “You are never to speak to that girl again. Do you understand?”

You give him two enthusiastic thumbs up. “Crystal clear, Your Grace.”

He frowns at your oddly cheerful compliance but doesn’t question it. “Good. I expect better behavior from the lady of House Viandrel.”

You freeze. House what now?

“...Right. Of course. House Van…del.”

He stares.

“Viandrel,” he corrects slowly.

“Totally what I said.”

He narrows his eyes. “You’re not taking me seriously.”

“Not at all,” you say, beaming. “I take my dream dukes very seriously.”

He gives you one long, tired look—and sighs. “You’re dismissed.”

You nod and rise from the chair, leaving the room without another word.

Penelope Edward–whatever it is… it sounds familiar…

After being nagged by the Duke, the Junior Duke (your elder brother in this Dreamworld) just came home from a trip that you couldn't care less about, and headed about the stunt you made—and obviously nagged you about the incident as well. Like father, like son, huh?

Anyway, It’s taking way too long for you to wake up.

But honestly? That’s fine. You’re not exactly in a rush. You’ve been thoroughly enjoying your new life as a pampered noble, and who wouldn’t?

The food alone makes it all worth it. Lavish meals served on silver trays, flavors so rich and complex you’re pretty sure even your real-world favorite café couldn’t compete. What really surprises you is how this supposedly “historical” dream isn’t stingy with the seasoning—like, did they have paprika back then? Nutmeg? Garlic oil?

Not that you're complaining.

You chalk it up to your subconscious being considerate. “Don’t worry about bland medieval chicken, bestie,” your dream-brain seems to say. “We’re doing luxury fantasy fine dining here.”

And honestly? Slay, subconscious, slay.

As expected, a mountain of banquet and tea party invitations started piling up at your door. You only managed to attend half of them—your social battery couldn’t keep up.

Surprisingly, mingling with nobles turned out to be easier than you thought. All it took was a bit of historical manhwa knowledge—years of reading about ballrooms and etiquette finally paid off. Just copy the mannerisms you binge-read at night to de-stress, and boom: perfect noble lady impersonation.

Still, you kept your appearances limited to events hosted by high-ranking nobles. Which brings you to today—Penelope… Eggtart… Ekcart… Edward’s–whatever her last name is, invited you to her coming-of-age ceremony.

Anyway, that’s why you’re here now.

Hah… finally. The ceremony’s starting, you think, slumping a little in your seat. Your social energy is hanging by a thread, but this event is tolerable enough. At least the organizers had the good sense to host it in an open garden. Fresh air, pretty flowers, and best of all—space to breathe.

The nobles are seated at the sides of the garden in orderly rows along a long, lavishly set table, and for once, you're genuinely thankful for the rigid structure of aristocratic events. In the center, a long red carpet stretches toward an ornate altar draped in flowers and silk. Honestly, if no one told you this was a coming-of-age ceremony, you would’ve assumed it was a fancy garden wedding.

The music started.

The nobles settle.

Which means, finally, no more small talk.

Thank the stars. Silence at last.

From the far end of the garden, a figure appeared—fuchsia-haired and radiant, stepping onto the red carpet as if the earth itself had unfurled to greet her. She moved with the grace of a falling petal, light and deliberate, like someone who had never once known the weight of uncertainty. The sunlight kissed her gown, a fabric so ethereal it seemed less like cloth and more like the moment right before dawn—soft, shimmering, impossible to hold.

Even your yassified self in this dream can’t compete to such beauty.

Three men escorted her, but none could draw your gaze away from her. She was striking in the kind of way that made you forget how to blink. Her smile wasn’t delicate, nor was it regal—it was too full of life for that. It was the kind of smile that kids made when handed a carnival balloon and told they could keep it forever.

You looked around you. Some of the nobles hold the same look.

You blink. ‘Okay. Wow. My subconscious really went off this time.’

Because there’s no way she’s real. No way your brain just casually came up with a character design this good while you were asleep. What is this, a premium limited-edition lucid dreaming?

So… this was Penelope?

The girl the Duke ranted about months ago? The mad dog?

She looked more like a fairy godmother’s favorite goddaughter than someone with a nickname fit for a gladiator. There wasn’t a single thing unhinged about her. No growling. No eye twitch. Not even a suspiciously sharp hairpin.

You squint, vaguely recalling the Duke’s furious tirade. Was it… Penelope Eclair? Ekhart? Eggcart? You shake your head. Eh. Something German-sounding, probably.

You lean back, still watching her glide forward like a poem in motion. Whatever her last name was, she certainly didn’t look like a threat.

You slump a little further in your seat, still watching in awe. Either your dream was getting too detailed, or your imagination was putting in overtime. Either way, props to your brain. Ten out of ten character designs.

The rest of the event? Boring.

First, some stiff-looking official stood up and read a long, flowery letter from the emperor, officially recognizing Penelope as an adult. Then, the elder from the House of… Edward—Eck-something—gave a heartfelt speech about Penelope’s growth, honor, blah blah blah. You tuned out halfway through.

After that, Penelope had a sherry toast with her family. Her entire family—which, thankfully, was just her father and two older brothers. Still took a while.

She looked so genuinely happy, though. Laughing softly as her father said something only she could hear, smiling brightly when her eldest brother raised his golden goblet, and even nudging the grumpy-looking pink-haired second brother into a reluctant toast.

Watching her surrounded by family like that… It was sweet.

You missed yours.

You slump in your seat a little. How long is this dream going to last anyway?

Just as that thought crosses your mind, a low murmur begins to ripple through the crowd.

You blink, snapping out of your haze. Something’s happening.

A man appears near the garden entrance—tall, with striking white hair, and a rabbit-shaped mask obscuring his face. He’s dressed in black, formal and crisp, and beside him stands a girl with pale pink hair and an unreadable expression.

She looks… eerily familiar.

You glance at Penelope’s family standing at the head. The resemblance is uncanny—especially to the two brothers.

The Duke is already on his feet, face pale, voice sharp. “W-Who are you?! How dare you interrupt the ceremony?!”

The masked man bows with impeccable grace. “I apologize for the intrusion, Your Grace. As a gift for Lady Penelope Eckhart’s coming of age… I present her sister—your true daughter.”

The pink-haired girl steps forward with eerie calm.

“Father… Brothers...”

You stare.

What.

WHAT.

WHAT. THE. HELL?!?!

A secret sibling reveal? At this ceremony? Is your dream trying to win an award for Most Dramatic Plot Twist in a lucid dream history?!

But why..? Why in the middle of Penelope's coming-of-age ceremony?

You glance at Penelope.

Oh..

Her face is blank—like someone just took the light out of her.

After that mess, the entire ceremony was canceled—ball included. Honestly, you were kind of relieved. One less event to pretend you enjoyed. You finally got a chance to rest.

But… you couldn't help feeling bad for Penelope.

The pink-haired girl—Ivonne—was taken in for questioning, and yep, turns out she really was the long-lost daughter of House Eckhart. The maids filled you in like clockwork. Apparently, Ivonne vanished during a festival when she was a child, and after years of no trace, the Duke adopted another girl to fill the empty space.

That girl was Penelope.

Now? The Duke has his biological daughter back… and still has Penelope.

Yay. Surprise bonus daughter.

Months went by, and nothing major happened. That is, until a tea party where the noble ladies really let their tongues loose. You were just sipping your tea, minding your own business, when you overheard them praising Ivonne like she was some kind of divine blessing to the empire.

“Oh, isn’t it just fate that the true lady of Eckhart returned right in time to be engaged to the crown prince?”

“She just radiates elegance. Unlike that… other girl.”

You didn’t even need to ask who they meant.

They spoke about Penelope like she was some defective stand-in, laughing behind their fans and calling her a disgrace for embarrassing herself during her own coming-of-age ceremony. Some even said the Duke should’ve “corrected his mistake” the moment Ivonne reappeared.

It was catty. Like watching bored rich girls cosplay Mean Girls in lace and corsets.

You tuned out halfway through.

The pastries and tea turned bitter.

The third week of the month, Penelope died.

You were surprised to hear about it. Not devastated. Not even upset. Just... surprised. Like finding out a background NPC in a dream had a tragic storyline you weren’t expecting.

Still, for formality’s sake, you asked one of the literate servants to draft a letter of sympathy to House Eckhart. You signed it half-heartedly, sealed it, and went back to your tea. Because really—this was all just a dream, wasn’t it?

Apparently, Penelope had poisoned Ivonne during the quarterly hunting tournament last month. Jealousy, they said. Ivonne had been bedridden for weeks, and just now, the Crown Prince—Ivonne’s perfect fiancé—found out. And in the name of justice or whatever, he forced Penelope to drink the same poison she’d used.

Poetic, sure. Dramatic, definitely. But you couldn’t bring yourself to care too deeply.

It’s not real. Just another wild twist from your subconscious—probably patched together from half-watched soap operas, three webnovels, and a stress nap after finals week.

So the dream continues.

A day passes. Then another. Then another.

Life in a noble estate is… dull. Sure, the ceilings are painted gold and the pastries come stacked like tiny towers, but without internet, memes, or even bad Wi-Fi, luxury becomes lonely real fast. You’ve spent two hours naming the decorative swords in the drawing room and nearly a week ranking all the wallpaper patterns by emotional impact. (The powder room wins. That wallpaper haunts you.)

At this point, you're just waiting to wake up.

Everything is peacefully normal… until it’s not.

It begins subtly. You notice some of the maids—usually chatty and cheery—start fidgeting more. They flinch at little sounds. Their whispers become shorter, sharper. You hear snippets—“went missing”—“not supposed to happen”—But no one will tell you anything directly. Every time you ask, the servants smile too tightly and say, “Just a little staff matter, my lady.” as if they were instructed not to tell you.

You chalk it up to your dream's flair for drama. Probably setting up the next twist. Maybe someone’s eloping. Or there’s a cursed jewel. That’d be fun.

But then the atmosphere begins to… sour.

The sky turns overcast and stays that way. No birds chirping. No laughter in the halls. Just a heavy, suffocating stillness.

The Duke—your dream-Duke father—becomes tense, always looking over his shoulder. Your older brother, the Junior Duke, swaps his usual elegant coat for armor. Actual armor. Indoors.

He patrols the manor like he's expecting something to leap out from the shadows. You make a joke once—something about a monster apocalypse. He doesn’t even blink.

Neither does the Duke, your dream-father. He’s buried in meetings behind closed doors, the kind where no one is allowed in or out. You glimpse a map one evening—something scrawled with runes and red ink—but the door slams before you can get a proper look.

You overhear one of the footmen whispering to another:

“It’s getting stronger. The wards won’t hold much longer.”

“We were told it was under control…”

Under control? Oh, great. Now your brain’s tossing in a mystery plotline.

Soon, guards are stationed at every hallway. Curtains stay drawn. Rooms once open for lounging are suddenly locked. You hear screaming one night, muffled and far away. No one talks about it the next morning.

You start keeping a candle by your bedside.

Then… it happens.

Late in the afternoon, while you’re lounging in the library with a cup of tea and a boring book about something and letters that you couldn't understand, the ground suddenly shudders beneath your feet.

A deep, unnatural boom echoes across the estate—followed by a tremor that knocks books off shelves and sends your tea crashing to the floor. Shouts erupt. Horns blare. The air thickens with smoke.

You race to the hall.

From the far end of the estate—the west wing—black smoke rises in curling waves. People scream. Footsteps thunder past. A young footman nearly knocks you over as he runs.

“They’ve breached the manor!” someone yells.

The Duke storms through the corridor, face grim, issuing orders with terrifying precision. Your brother follows close behind, sword drawn, expression unreadable.

“What is going on?!” you shout, trying to catch his sleeve.

He pauses—just for a second.

“…Stay inside,” he says. Then he’s gone.The west wing is a burning ruin. The crackle of fire is loud, but not loud enough to drown out the howl that follows—something inhuman, guttural, distant yet crawling under your skin.

You freeze.

Your body screams to move, to run, but your legs feel nailed to the floor. The corridor twists with smoke. Shadows flicker and stretch across the walls. Your breath catches, heart pounding too loud in your ears.

Then—a hand grips yours.

Firm. Cold with sweat.

It’s her—the maid who’s always been by your side since the moment you woke up in this strange place. No words. Just a desperate glance. Her eyes wide with fear.

She pulls you hard.

You stumble after her, down the servant’s hallway, through twisting passages filled with shouting and ash. Past panicked maids and fallen trays. Down stone steps slick with moisture. The walls close in. The noise above fades.

She drags you into the kitchen, and then down further—into the underground pantry.

It’s cramped. The air is damp and cold.

Dozens of servants are huddled there, shaking, whispering prayers under their breath. Someone sobs. Another vomits into a basket of spoiled roots.

The door shuts behind you with a heavy thud.

You’re still gripping her hand.

She looks at you—face pale, lips trembling.

“…My… my lady…”

But she doesn’t finish the sentence. You let go of her hand, and so her too. Your legs turned jelly, instantly.

Before you can process anything, another servant—an old woman with soot smudged across her cheeks—rushes over. She kneels in front of you, her hands gently cradling yours.

“My lady, are you hurt? Are you—did anything happen to you?”

You blink at her.

She pulls you into a tight embrace before you can respond. Her arms wrap around you protectively, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re safe now. We’re here. Nothing’s going to hurt you. I swear it…”

She sounds like she’s trying to convince herself just as much as you.

You slowly raise your arms to return the gesture, not quite sure what to do.

Everything feels surreal. Too heavy. Too detailed. Too loud.

But it’s just a dream.

It’s just a dream.

None of this is real.

No matter how vivid the panic is in their eyes, or how tight her arms are around you, or how sharp the air feels in your lungs—

Calm down. It's okay.

A dream can’t hurt you.“When are we getting out of here..?” you ask her, your voice small, barely above a breath.

She looks at you.

There’s soot clinging to her lashes. Her eyes shimmer—not with hope, but with something closer to dread.

“...Later,” she says softly, like she’s afraid to be overheard.

“The Duke and the Young Master will take care of it.”

Her words are meant to soothe.

But the silence that follows is too loud.

Too long.

And her arms don’t let go.To everyone's luck, they’re in the underground pantry.

Meaning, there's enough food. But not enough to last forever.

At first, there was chaos—shouts, boots pounding on the floor above, the crack of something—wood? Bone?—splintering. Screams muffled by stone walls. Then a strange, rhythmic thudding against the door above.

Then nothing.

The quiet didn't bring relief.

Only dread.

Each hour without noise stretched thinner and thinner, until even the softest breath felt like it echoed too loud.

Then came the knocks.

Not hurried.

Not human.

The pantry door boomed under the weight of it, once, twice—steady and wrong. The maids scrambled, dragging shelves, crates, anything heavy, against the stairwell entrance. You joined them, moving numbly, stacking sacks of grain, shoving boxes against the frame.

No one spoke. No one dared.

Eventually, the knocking stopped.

But the silence that followed wasn’t peace.

It was waiting.

The food ran out on the fifth day.

No one volunteers. No one argues either, when the steward finally whispers, “We’ll have to go.”

You’re handed a coat. Your handmaid wraps a scarf around your neck like it’s winter, even though the air is stifling. She ties it too tight.

The door creaks open.The pantry door creaked open like a coffin lid.

The manor above was dark. Broken.

The corridor that once led to the ballroom reeked of rust and rot. The wallpaper peeled in long strips, soaked in something dark. The chandeliers had fallen. The portraits had their faces clawed through.

The front door was left hanging open. The moon outside bled red across the shattered tiles. Its light spilled like a wound, revealing—

Bodies.

Servants, soldiers… torn apart, slumped in corners, sprawled across the stairs. Some were missing limbs. Others looked like they had been trying to crawl away.

One maid vomited. Another sobbed.The cold night air wrapped around you like a damp shroud, but you didn’t flinch.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Your eyes stayed locked on the sky above, where the moon—no longer silver, no longer gentle—hung swollen and blood-red.

It was a sickly, heavy thing, like a dying sun choking on its own light. The kind of moon that didn’t glow, but watched. It made the air feel thinner. Meaner. Like something terrible had crawled into the sky and made itself a home there.

You said nothing.

Behind you, one of the older servants tried to hush the crying maids. Their muffled sobs quivered through the silence like glass on the verge of shattering. The sound was small, but it felt loud in a world that had fallen completely still.

No one dared to speak above a whisper now. Even footsteps were quiet—careful not to disturb whatever it was that might be listening.

The manor, once bright and filled with noise and pride, now sat like a corpse.

Empty.

Ransacked by something unseen.

And the worst part? It wasn’t over.

They wandered the halls in tight, silent groups—eyes hollow, hands trembling—opening every door they hadn’t yet touched. Hoping for a miracle.

Even just one sack of rice. A few cans. Dried herbs. Anything. But everything was rotting. The meat had turned green and sour. The fruits were sagging and blackened, thick with flies. Even the bread was crawling, infested with tiny white worms burrowed into every crack. The storerooms stank of death—sweet and bloated, the scent of time running out. And when someone opened the last cellar and found nothing but mold and darkness, no one screamed.

They just… stopped.

No one asked about the Duke. Or the Young Master.

Not anymore.

Their absence weighed heavier than any answer.

No one needed to say it. The silence already had.

You didn’t ask either. You simply stayed still—like a ghost in your own body—watching this dream unfold around you like a play you’d forgotten auditioning for.

You were detached. Numb.

Suspended in something that should’ve been fear, but wasn’t.

Because the only thing anchoring you—the only reason you hadn’t collapsed onto your knees in the middle of all this decay—was the whisper you kept feeding yourself over and over again–this is just a dream.

All of them agreed—it was time to leave the manor. There was no point in staying any longer. It was either starve to death or start considering which corpse looked the "freshest." No one wanted to say it aloud, but the choice hung in the air like a stench.

The footmen who had stayed alive this long quietly armed themselves. Their weapons came from the remains of an unidentified knight—his body mangled, twisted at an unnatural angle, left abandoned in one of the bloodstained hallways.

You weren’t even sure how you ended up outside. Just that someone had taken your hand and guided you through a narrow corridor that wasn’t there before. A servant leaned in close and whispered, “It’s the secret exit. We used to sneak out here when we wanted to slack off… or buy extra snacks.” She gave a sheepish chuckle.

Under any other circumstance, you might’ve laughed too. Might’ve teased her. But not today.

Not with what you’d seen.

The journey into the forest was strangely… smooth. Too smooth. Every step you took, you kept waiting for something awful to happen.

Nothing did.

And then—

A soft gasp from beside you.

One of the maids darted forward toward a tree. You followed her gaze and saw him: a young man with black hair and greenish orbs, slumped against the base of the trunk. His skin was pale, his arm bloody and trembling. He looked up as the group rushed to him.

The servants reacted instantly. The maids and footmen surrounded him, some dropping to their knees, others calling his name in hushed panic. It was clear they recognized him—maybe another worker from the manor, long thought lost.

Someone suggested they rest nearby, and the group settled into a shallow cave not far from where they’d found the boy.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

In the corner, a few maids were already tending to the boy’s wounds with trembling hands and whatever herbs they had left. No one spoke. There wasn’t much to say.

You stepped forward, unsure of what exactly you could do, but needing to do something. “Hey…” you called softly.

They looked up. One of the maids gave you a tired, grateful smile. “Ah… My Lady—”

A loud tearing sound cut her off.

You were ripping your gown. The cleanest part you could find. You tore it into long, thin strips.

“Here,” you said, holding them out. “Use these for bandages.”

Her eyes softened. She didn’t thank you—not with words—but the way her hands accepted the fabric said enough.

The boy though—looked at you blankly, you couldn’t tell what he’s thinking with the look he’s giving you. He almost looks like a doll.

The fire’s glow cast dim light across the cave, making the stone walls flicker like they were breathing. The boy sat in a far corner, huddled beneath a thin, dirt-smudged blanket. He looked your age—sixteen, maybe seventeen—close to the age of the body you now inhabited. And yet, despite the bruises and scraped skin, he didn’t look like someone who’d barely survived alone in the forest.

Too unscathed. Too still.

You approached him slowly, coat and scarf in hand. You didn’t say much—just knelt beside him and wordlessly draped the worn coat over his shoulders, letting your fingers linger a moment longer than needed as you wrapped the scarf carefully around his neck.

His skin was cold.

Not cold like someone caught in the wind, or someone left without a fire. It was the kind of cold that seeped deep. The kind that made your fingertips twitch. Cold like… a corpse..

Still, you said nothing. You kept your face neutral, your voice soft.

“You need it more than me.”

He looked up, and his eyes—large, solemn, unnervingly calm—met yours. “Why are you so kind to me?” he asked quietly. “Even like this?”

You didn’t answer. Just smiled, stiffly, and started to rise to your feet.

But before you could take a step, his hand shot out and grabbed your wrist.

“Don’t go.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

His grip wasn’t tight, not exactly—but it was firm. Anchoring. His touch felt ice-cold against your skin, and you fought the urge to yank your arm away.

You forced your voice to stay steady. “I just need to speak with my maid about something that happened to me earlier. I’ll be right back.”

His head tilted slightly. “Why not let her come here instead?” he asked, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s warmer by the fire. Safer, too.”

Your heart was thudding in your chest now, painfully loud. But you didn’t let it show. You kept your eyes blank, your tone even.

“I’ll only be a moment.”

Silence stretched.

His eyes didn’t move from yours.

Then, slowly—reluctantly—he released your wrist.

You stood and turned away at once, forcing your steps to remain measured and calm. You walked back toward your handmaid without glancing over your shoulder.

Only when you were a few feet away did you exhale, quietly.

Your handmaid looked at you with faint concern. “My lady…?”

You leaned closer to her and whispered, “Something’s wrong with him.”

She frowned. “What do you mean? Ethan?”

So he has a name.

“He’s too calm. Too perfect. Not a scratch bad enough to explain how he made it this far. And he’s cold. Like a corpse.”

Your maid’s brows furrowed slightly. “You’re scaring yourself, my lady. Maybe he’s just in shock.”

“No,” you shook your head. “That’s not it. His wounds are shallow. His clothes too clean. And he doesn’t speak unless spoken to. When he does, it’s… like he’s copying something. Too polite. Too perfect.”

She frowned. “You think he’s dangerous?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “But when I touched him just now… his skin was cold. Like ice. Like—” a corpse

You stopped yourself. “Never mind.”

She gave a small, uneasy laugh. “Maybe we’re all just on edge.”

“Maybe,” you echoed. But neither of you sounded convinced.

The two of you shared a tense glance. No more words were exchanged, but something shifted in her gaze—she didn’t dismiss you, not this time.

Eventually, the fire’s warmth called you both back, and you returned to the main group in the cave. Most had already dozed off, exhausted. The boy, however, was awake. Waiting.

He stood as you approached, eyes fixed on you.

“My lady,” he said, a soft, oddly serene tone in his voice. “Thank you for earlier… for the coat. And the scarf.” He tugged it gently, as if to emphasize the point. “They smell like you.”

You forced a polite smile, heart dropping a little in your chest. “You should rest. It’ll be a long day tomorrow.”

He stepped closer.

“Still… you didn’t have to help me,” he continued, his voice low, like the flicker of the fire. “No one else would’ve. You’re kind. Too kind for this world.”

You glanced around, your pulse pounding. You just wanted to get away.

Something strange caught your eye.

The fire behind him was bright enough to cast deep shadows across the cave floor—jagged and moving with every flicker.

But he had none.

Not a single trace of a shadow beneath his feet.

Your blood ran cold.

You stared at the empty ground behind him, then slowly lifted your gaze back to his face.

He was watching you closely. Still smiling.

You tried to keep your voice level. “I… should rest.”

You turned to walk—slow, casual—but you barely made a step before he moved, quietly slipping beside you. His hand brushed against your sleeve.

“Stay with me, just a little longer,” he said gently, tilting his head. “It’s warmer here. And I feel safer when you’re near.”

Your body tensed. Every instinct screamed at you to run. But your face remained carefully blank.

You offered a faint chuckle. “Another time, maybe. I really should—”

His fingers curled lightly around your wrist again. Not forcefully, but enough to hold you in place.

His voice was softer this time, almost coaxing. “It’s cold when you’re not here—“

You snapped. You're about to say something awful but then one of the young maids who path him up earlier intervenes.

“I know all of us are quite shaken up, but I think we should let the young lady rest.”

Ethan let go of you without any further comments.

You turned sharply on your heel, your movements jerky and ungraceful, speed-walking toward the sleeping cluster of maids without daring to look back. You wedged yourself into their midst, forcing your breathing to even out. One of the girls stirred, murmuring something in her sleep, but otherwise, no one noticed.

You forced yourself to sleep after that. Maybe.. when you wake up, you’ll wake up in your cheap yet comfortable tiny form mattress instead of the cave floor.

You woke up in red.

Not warmth. Not light.

Red.

Thick, glistening, and wet.

The once-dusty cave was now painted with it—walls slick with splatter, stone floors coated in gore. The scent of blood hung heavy in the air, sharp and metallic, clinging to your nose and throat like rusted chains.

And in the middle of it all stood Ethan.

The servant boy everyone had tried to save.

His back was to you.

He held one of the footmen by the collar, dangling him off the ground like a broken marionette. The man struggled weakly at first—arms twitching, mouth opening as if to scream.

Then it started.

Slow. Horrifying. Wrong.

The footman’s skin began to pale, graying at the fingertips. His veins bulged, pulsing unnaturally, as if something inside him was being sucked away. His face hollowed. His cheeks collapsed inward. His eyes dimmed, sinking back into their sockets.

And still, Ethan stood there—silent, unmoving—as the man in his grasp crumbled.

First the extremities—fingers curling like dried leaves, blackening and cracking apart. Then his limbs, deflating like rotting sacks of flesh, bones showing through paper-thin skin before they, too, dissolved into brittle fragments.

It wasn’t just death.

It was erasure.

As if his life was being devoured. Drained. Piece by piece.

Until nothing remained but dust, falling from Ethan’s hand in delicate, ash-like wisps.

Gone.

Like he had never existed at all.

You couldn't move.

Your breath was a trapped thing in your throat, your heartbeat pounding like war drums against your ribs.

Then you turned.

And what you saw made your stomach lurch—

A maid. Familiar. Her mouth frozen mid-scream. Her torso split open, as though something savage had torn through her. Organs spilled out messily, steaming in the cold cave air. Her lifeless eyes stared into the void.

You choked back the bile rising in your throat.

Don’t scream. Don’t scream.

Think. Think, damn it.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

The pounding of your heartbeat filled your ears, drowning out everything else.

You forced down the scream clawing up your throat.

No time. No time.

You had to escape.

But Ethan—that thing—still stood by the exit, shadowless, surrounded by blood.

And the only other way?

The dead.

Your limbs trembled as your eyes flicked toward the torn bodies scattered around the cave. Mangled, piled like discarded dolls. You didn’t want to be near them. You didn’t want to touch them. But right now, they were your only chance.

Hide. Hide, and pray.

You took one shaky step—

“You’re finally awake?”

The voice was calm. Almost cheerful. As if he were welcoming you to breakfast.

“Good. I was just finishing with the others.”

You stopped cold.

Something cracked.

Slowly—so slowly—you turned to look at him.

He hadn’t moved.

Still facing away from you. Still standing among the gore.

But his head… his neck…

It was twisted all the way around—a full circle—his face now staring directly at you, upside down, while the rest of his body remained unnaturally still.

He smiled.

Not wide. Not crazed.

Just a small, pleasant smile.

Like he was greeting an old friend.

He began to walk toward you—slowly, as if savoring each step—and with every movement, the wet crunch of bone snapped faintly beneath the quiet.

As he drew closer, his twisted neck gave a crack, snapping back into place with a sharp, unnatural jerk.

Like nothing had ever happened.

Your body screamed to run, but your limbs were frozen. Useless.

Then he crouched down—calmly, casually—his face now level with yours.

“I’m saving you for last, you know?” he whispered, as if sharing a secret.

His eyes gleamed with something unreadable.

“Sister is amazing,” he went on, tone dreamy, distant. “We’re finally out of that damn mirror.”

He wasn’t even speaking to you anymore. Just murmuring, like he was lost in some private world. A child, reminiscing fondly.

Your mouth opened—but no sound came out.

Only a faint, strangled whimper.

He tilted his head.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears like war drums.

He leaned closer.

“Well now…” he whispered, breath cold as winter against your cheek. “Now… this won’t hurt, I promise.”

He smiled again—sweetly.

He leaned closer.

Closer still.

His breath touched your cheek, like a breeze dragged up from the bottom of a grave. Cold. Wrong. His face hovered inches from yours, head tilted ever so slightly—as if admiring you, or studying the way your fear clung to your skin like a second coat.

Then, slowly… without fanfare, without tension… he kissed you.

It wasn’t passionate.

It wasn’t tender.

It wasn’t anything a kiss should be.

It was like a hand pressing down on your chest in the middle of the night. Silent. Suffocating.

And the moment your lips touched, you felt something inside you snap. Not your bones—not yet—but something deeper. Something invisible. A thread. A wall. A veil.

The world shifted.

And in that split second of silence, you knew.

This wasn’t a dream.

This wasn’t a hallucination.

You were awake.

You were living this.

And something inside you snapped.

With a broken gasp, your body surged forward on pure instinct, your arm swinging upward, your fist colliding with his chest in a wild, panicked blow. Not precise. Not strong. But real—and for a fleeting second, it made you feel alive again.

But the reaction was immediate.

You didn’t even see his arm move.

You felt it.

A sudden burst of pain—white-hot, blinding—erupted through your gut.

You looked down.

His hand was buried in you. Not on you. In you.

Straight through your stomach like you were made of paper. You couldn’t even scream. Your throat seized up, choking on a dry rattle.

And still, he didn’t look angry. Or enraged. Or rabid.

Just… mildly annoyed.

“Stay still, you fucking pest,” he muttered, as though disappointed by a broken toy.

Then—he kissed you again.

Deeper.

Slower.

Not possessive. Not obsessive. Just… final.

Your limbs convulsed as something invisible and vital began to flow out of you. You felt it immediately. A pull from deep inside—like your blood was evaporating, like your bones were collapsing in on themselves.

Your lips tingled, cracked.

Your breath caught and never returned.

And still, he held you, that kiss anchoring you like a nail to a coffin.

You could feel your skin shriveling.

Fingers curled into claws as they dried and tightened, your joints locking up. The feeling of your body—your self—began to slip. Your weight lessened. Your skin hollowed. Your thoughts grew thinner and thinner, like smoke in the wind.

You whimpered, the only sound you could manage.

Your legs wouldn’t move. Your hands were already too stiff.

Your chest—

No rise. No fall.

The cave darkened at the edges. Not because the light had changed… but because you were leaving it.

Your vision collapsed inward. You couldn’t feel your tongue. Couldn’t feel your heart.

He was still there. Watching you.

As the last remnants of you withered away beneath his gaze.

It felt suffocating. Cripplingly so.

Like drowning in silence. Like falling into an endless void, alone and weightless, with nothing to hold on to—just the echo of your own heartbeat growing fainter and fainter. It was cold. Not the kind that pricked your skin, but the kind that sank deep into your bones. The kind that made you feel like you were already gone.

And then—

Like lightning in your spine—

Something snapped.

A violent, electric jolt ripped through your body, dragging you up—up and out of that abyss.

You gasped awake.

Your body jolted upright, lungs seizing, muscles locking.

You were hyperventilating—sweat clung to your skin, your nightclothes stuck to your back, tears streaked your face, your lips slick with spit and snot and panic.

Everything still hurt.

Your stomach burned. Your chest ached. You could still feel his arm inside you, the phantom of it, the memory burned into your nerves.

It took you nearly an hour to calm down—just sitting there, curled up in bed, hands trembling violently as you tried to remember how to breathe. One inhale. Two. Three.

You counted each one. It didn’t help much.

And then, once the worst of it passed, you dared to look around.

You froze.

This room.

The elegant bed. The silk curtains. The huge goddamn wardrobe. That ridiculous canopy overhead.

No… no, no, no.

This wasn’t your dorm room.

You weren’t back home. You weren’t in your tiny, cramped-but-cozy bed with the peeling stickers on your wall and the stack of untouched ramen by the desk.

You were back here.

In that room. The one you first woke up in. The fancy hellhole.

Your breath caught again.

“What the fuck,” you whispered, barely audible. “Why? Why is this happening again? I—I died. I fucking died, didn’t I?!”

Your hands curled into fists, fingernails digging into your palms. You couldn’t stop shaking. You wanted to scream, to sob, to claw at your own skin just to feel real again.

“Why?! What is this?! What the actual fuck is going on?!”

And then—because the universe wasn’t done screwing with you—something blinked into view.

A faint little pop.

Your vision snapped to it.

A pink, translucent window hovered in the air in front of you, just like the ones in those cheap visual novels you sometimes played. It even had a cute border. You hated it on sight.

[ WELCOME TO: “DAUGHTER OF THE DUKE – LOVE PROJECT!” ]

Your brain short circuited.

[ CURRENT MODE: SPECTATOR. IN THIS MODE, YOU CAN ONLY OBSERVE WITH THE GAME EVENTS AND CANNOT INTERVENE.]

[ UNLOCK “PLAY MODE” BY FORMING A BOND WITH AT LEAST (1) MAIN CHARACTER. ]

“What.”

You stared.

Daughter of the Duke?

And then everything clicks to you. Penelope… Villainess… Yvonne… Crown Prince… Eckhart…

This… this was that new otome game. The one your friends wouldn’t shut up about. The one they begged you to try. The one you downloaded but never played because college was eating you alive and finals were around the corner.

You were supposed to play it over break.

Not live in it.

Not fucking die in it.

IT’S THAT GAME?!—

Knock knock.

A gentle, too-familiar knock tapped at the door.

“Young lady, please excuse me,” a soft voice called. “It’s time to wake up.”

The door creaked open before you could even react.

And there she was… The same handmaid. The one who always tended to you before—before all that shit went down.

She walked in, smiling sweetly like nothing ever happened. Like her guts wasn’t sprawled in the open a moment ago..

“Good morning, milady,” she said with a curtsy. “It’s time to prepare for the day.”

You just stared at her, heart pounding, mind blank.

Back to square one.. You swallowed hard, throat dry and raw.

…Shit.

[red-hot-temper]

LMAO New collaboration VADTD x FANTAZIT coffee

[auro-cyanide]

Walking faster