From the moment I entered this world, fate had already written a tragic story for me. As the child of a notorious villainess in a novel, my life was doomed from the start. My mother’s crimes had been exposed, leaving her imprisoned in a lonely tower where the protagonists would soon execute her. In her final moments, I watched as she desperately clung to memories of her former husband, her eyes filled with longing.
Taking her weathered hand in mine, I offered what little comfort I could. When our fingers intertwined, she finally looked at me—not with regret, but with something softer, something like love. “I get it, Mom,” I whispered. “Just let go. Stop fighting.” There was no point waiting for a man who would never return. A single tear rolled down her cheek before she closed her eyes, slipping into eternal rest.
But with her death came my own impending doom. By tomorrow night, I would follow her, killed by the same righteous hands. After that, the story would continue—heroes embarking on grand adventures, finding love, living happily ever after. But I refused to accept that ending. If my life was already on borrowed time, why not rewrite the tale?
“Maybe I am cruel,” I thought. But if this world wouldn’t give me a chance, then I’d take one for myself. The second act of this story wouldn’t unfold as planned. Not if I had anything to say about it.
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