WSRN 01

Chapter 1

“…Your condition is a mess. He’ll be furious.”

“Ugh…”

It was as if I’d fallen into water—my ears were completely muffled.

No matter how hard I tried to steady my mind, my consciousness kept flickering in and out.

I kept forcing my eyes open and shut, but my vision stayed blurry. Even the sharp smell of blood barely reached me anymore.

I realized instinctively—

This is death.

I tried to reach out and grab Aria’s hand with an arm that had no strength, but even that simple act betrayed me.

I couldn’t believe this situation.

What kind of story lets the supporting character die like this?

If I had remembered the plot of the novel even a little sooner, would the ending have changed? Tears I couldn’t swallow rolled down my cheek, dampening it.

“Acting tough when you’ll be joining her soon anyway.”

The man who had swung his sword at Aria—and at me—mocked us both.

Just as the man’s sword cut through the air, about to fall on me again,

A faint vibration trembled through the ground.

Soon after, the sound of horse hooves came rapidly closer. The pale, flashing blade clattered to the floor.

“Ghk…!”

The man pointing the sword at me collapsed onto me. I coughed from the pain pressing down on my wound.

As I stared blankly at the blood spilling from my mouth, someone lifted my upper body.

A man with black hair looked down at me and opened his mouth.

“Already dead?”

But I could barely hear his voice.

I squinted my fading eyes, but even his face was a blur.

Did he come to save us?

I wanted to ask him why he’d come so late, but when I opened my mouth only a ragged wheeze escaped.

His movements froze under my resentful gaze.

Even in the chill of death, his pitch-black hair gleamed strangely, and I vaguely saw his washed-out blood-red eyes with their eerie coolness.

The man who held the ending of this story reached for my face. His large hand cast a shadow over me.

“…If I’d known you’d break this quickly, I wouldn’t have made that damned deal.”

With his sunken, low voice, death swallowed my world completely.

“Haah…!”

I gasped and opened my eyes. My whole body was drenched in sweat.

It was that dream again.

Sighing deeply, I wiped my sweaty face and stumbled down from the bed.

“Ugh!”

The bed was much higher than my sitting height. As I got down I must’ve stepped wrong—my ankle hurt.

And my worn-out, tattered nightgown was useless. The cold seeped straight into my already damp body, making me cough dryly.

I limped into the bathroom and massaged my ankle lightly. Damn bed.

…Well, if I’m being honest, the real problem is this family being too poor to even buy me a proper bed.

I turned on the faucet and cold water ran out. Scooping some into my hands, I scrubbed my face roughly, then looked up to check my reflection again.

Even after several nights it was the same. In the cloudy, poorly cared-for mirror, a small child stared back as if glaring at herself.

Despite the lack of care, her golden hair had only lost a little of its shine, and her green eyes still gleamed brightly in the dark.

She was eleven-year-old Elena Clinton, small for her age from malnutrition.

Elena Clinton was a supporting character in a novel. A short, dark romance novel whose title I could no longer remember.

Though called a romance, there was no trace of a male lead deeply loving the heroine. Without even a proper conversation, he gradually isolated the heroine just because they’d crossed eyes a few times.

After that, it was obsession, obsession, and more obsession. The story was nothing but the male lead’s insanity. At the end, he imprisoned the heroine in his mansion, the peak of misery.

“Don’t even think about leaving this house for the rest of your life.”

I think that was how the line went.

Seriously, there wasn’t even an ‘r’ of romance in that novel.

I should’ve known when my weird friend recommended it, saying the crazy male lead was “thrilling.”

That betrayal I felt after binge-reading without checking the tags…!

And me, Elena, was the childhood friend who died helping the heroine escape just before the ending. At that point Aria, the heroine, still had the will to flee, but when her friend—that is, me—died, she gave up on everything in despair.

In other words, I was a plot device used to completely break the heroine’s heart—a supporting role doomed to die. And I only realized my fate recently.

Just days ago, facing death in my now-erased past life, I finally remembered.

Lately, the dream I kept having was a nightmare, but not a simple dream. It was something I’d actually experienced.

That day, we’d escaped as in the original, and then were murdered by the pursuer.

…Come to think of it.

In the original, I should’ve died saving Aria, and Aria should’ve somehow survived to meet the male lead. But in the life I lived, it went a little differently.

“Lena!”

As the unknown pursuer lunged at us, Aria screamed my name and shielded me—dying instead.

At that moment, with the novel’s plot flashing back and my friend’s sudden death, I could do nothing.

The pursuer didn’t spare me either, and I too reached the brink of death.

And right before I died… someone appeared.

My vision went black, and when I opened my eyes, I was here.

So…

Possession and regression? What is this, a buy-one-get-one-free sale?

At first I thought I was hallucinating when I woke up. But even after waiting days, I never woke from this “hallucination.” Now I had to accept it.

I’m absolutely not dying like that again.

Just as I was despairing about the future ahead, a loud bang! came from behind me. Startled, I flinched instinctively.

Footsteps thudded closer, and the bathroom door was thrown open roughly, as if it would break. Our eyes met in the mirror.

“Elena Clinton. What do you think you’re doing here?”

“…Father.”

At his sharp voice, my arm was grabbed and I was dragged out instantly.

“Hurry up. We don’t have time.”

At his urging, the maids’ hands applying powder grew even faster. Their rough touch became even less careful.

“Cough, cough!”

White powder flew everywhere. My weak lungs cried out, but no one there cared.

When the dressing was finished, my father grabbed my hand and practically dragged me into the carriage waiting outside.

The old carriage began to roll slowly, and at last things grew quiet.

Finally, a chance to speak.

Though I was being dragged somewhere I didn’t know, it wasn’t unfamiliar.

“Where are we going right now?”

“Tch. I told you over and over that we finally got an invitation to a grand banquet at the Imperial Palace today! And yet you’re unprepared and look like this!”

“…Ah.”

Only then did I understand why my father was so angry.

Right, around this time there was that banquet.

Still, it was ridiculous. No one had told me the schedule. How was I supposed to know what day it was just a few days after regressing?

I had to guess my own age from the diary I’d kept.

Usually in regression stories, the heroine asks a maid what day it is and gets treated like she’s crazy. I didn’t even have a maid to ask.

For the past few days I’d been holed up sick in my room; no one even gave me proper medicine, so it was the first time in ages I’d seen another person.

If there was any mercy, it was that they still left food at my door regularly.

Can’t have me dying, after all.

But that was it. In a noble family that couldn’t even employ proper servants, being treated like this by my father was generous, all things considered.

I swallowed a bitter laugh and looked at my father, Viscount Clinton, with irreverent eyes.

He was always telling me I had to marry into a good family. If not, the family would be in danger, he’d say, planting fear and using coercive words and actions.

In my past life I’d followed his words without question, out of a sense of duty to protect the family.

And because when I was obedient, sometimes he showed a brief kindness.

Thinking back now, what a pointless waste. He’s not even worth calling “Father.”

Regression meant going through all this twice.

…Maybe I should just run away now.

The thought suddenly crossed my mind. Anywhere would be better than this.