The first time Han Yoon-seo died, she didn't even notice.

One moment there was cold ramen on her desk, a Q3 report still open on her monitor, and the particular exhaustion of someone who had stopped counting overtime hours somewhere around month three. The next moment — nothing. No tunnel of light. No childhood memories flickering past. No dramatic last breath.

Just off.

The second time, she woke up.

---

The first thing she noticed was the smell.

Not the familiar scent of the office — printer paper, stale coffee, the vague human warmth of twenty people sharing a room for ten hours straight. This was perfume. Expensive perfume. The kind she'd only ever caught a passing whiff of near department store cosmetic counters before walking away quickly, because some things weren't worth the temptation.

She opened her eyes.

The ceiling was unreasonably high. Crystal chandelier. Cream velvet curtains pooling from floor-to-ceiling windows that took up an entire wall.

This is not my apartment.

Yoon-seo sat up — and immediately registered the second problem. This body was not hers. Too light. Too straight. When she raised her hand to look at it, the fingers before her were long and pale in a way that seemed almost unreal, nails painted deep red without a single chip.

Han Yoon-seo's hands had a small callus on her right index finger from years of holding a pen, and nails bitten down to nothing every time a deadline approached.

These were not her hands.

Okay. She took a slow breath. Inventory first. Panic later, if necessary.

She crossed the room toward the large mirror taking up most of one wall — stepping off a bed with a mattress so thick her feet nearly sank into it — and looked at the woman looking back at her.

Taller than Yoon-seo by a few centimeters. Black hair falling past her shoulders. A sharp face with eyes so cold they seemed to be passing judgment even at rest.

Yoon-seo stood very still.

Then, quietly, she said: "Oh no."

---

Kang Chae-won.

She knew this face. She'd seen it on her phone screen during late nights at the office, when she needed something to read to get through the hours. Era of the Apocalypse: The Awakened King — the hottest web novel of the year, urban fantasy Hunter genre, read cover to cover in three weeks.

Kang Chae-won was the villainess. A chaebol heiress, arrogant and ruthless, who used her family's wealth and influence to sabotage the female lead and abandon her teammates when a dungeon collapsed around them. Her ending had been written clearly from the start: chapter fifty, eliminated by the male lead and his team. No one mourned her.

Yoon-seo stared at the face in the mirror for ten full seconds.

I just transmigrated into the character who dies in chapter fifty.

---

The memories came without order.

Not Yoon-seo's memories — those were still intact, sharp-edged and entirely hers, from the last cold bowl of ramen to the song she used to listen to on her commute. What arrived instead were Chae-won's, spilling out in fragments like someone flipping too fast through a photo album: a childhood in a mansion that echoed, a father perpetually absent, a mother who looked at her like a balance sheet, glittering parties where everyone wanted something from the Kang family name.

She never had a real friend. Not once.

She pushed the memory aside. Not now.

Right now, she needed to think.

She knew the plot. That was her one advantage — her only advantage. She knew which dungeons were deadly traps, which side characters were secretly dangerous, the rough order of every major event. If she was careful, if she didn't do anything catastrophically stupid, maybe she could—

[MANDATORY MISSION: CHANGE THE VILLAIN'S ENDING]

Yoon-seo flinched.

A neon-blue notification panel materialized in the air before her, white text sharp enough to etch itself into her vision:

Primary Target: Successfully conquer Kwon Si-woo. Deadline: Before the world enters S-Rank Awakening. Penalty for failure: Permanent erasure of the soul.

She read the last line twice.

Permanent erasure of the soul.

Not dying a third time. Not waking up somewhere else. Gone entirely, leaving nothing behind.

Yoon-seo sat down on the floor. Not because she decided to — her legs simply made the decision for her.

---

Kwon Si-woo.

She sorted through what she remembered about him. A side character. First appeared around chapter fifteen, the male lead's half-brother, outwardly quiet and slightly frail beneath his brother's shadow. She remembered reading those early sections with a vague sense that the author was setting something up — and then an emergency meeting had exploded at two in the morning and she'd skimmed three chapters in a row.

What she retained: quiet, dangerous, cursed dark ability. And one scene — blurry at the edges — where he approached Chae-won with a very slight smile and said something that made her stop, scroll back up, and then keep reading anyway because her ramen was boiling over.

What did he say?

She tried to remember. Nothing came.

Permanent erasure of the soul.

Alright, Yoon-seo thought. Alright. I can do this. I read the whole story. I know how it goes. Conquering one character in a novel — that sounds entirely manageable.

She stood up. Looked in the mirror again.

Chae-won's face looked back at her — cold, precise, expression perfectly blank. She understood why, now. This face had learned a long time ago not to show anything. Long before Yoon-seo had arrived to borrow it.

I'll wear this a little longer. Sorry, Chae-won.

---

The phone on the nightstand buzzed.

A name she didn't recognize. Below it, a title: Kwon Team Manager.

The message was blunt to the point of rudeness:

"Team briefing. 9 AM. Kwon Tower, 47th floor. Be there."

She checked the clock on the wall. 7:42 AM.

Kwon Tower. Kwon Jae-han's team — the male lead — which meant Kwon Si-woo would be there too, because according to the plot, he was currently embedded in his half-brother's team, waiting for the right moment to make his move against the family that had thrown him away.

This would be the first time she saw him.

Not through a phone screen at two in the morning with ramen boiling over beside her. With her own eyes, in a body that wasn't hers, in a world where making the wrong call meant something considerably worse than just dying again.

Yoon-seo set the phone down.

Breathed.

Okay, Kwon Si-woo. She couldn't remember exactly what he'd said in that scene. But she remembered one thing clearly enough: he had been smiling.

And in the entire story, his smile was never a good sign.