HUH?!
My head snapped so hard to the screen I nearly gave myself whiplash.
The camera panned to a woman with glossy hair, a charming smile, and a VIP seat right beside Star Entertainment's executives.
Wait. Wasn't she that girl who beat me in the songwriter contest?
"That's not the point!" I shouted at my empty apartment. "Eric! What are you talking about?! Boys—you wrote that song! I gave it to you in this timeline, of course."
I gripped the edge of my TV so tightly my knuckles went white. Jewel was basking in applause, soaking in my spotlight, my credit, my path into the industry.
And the boys? They sat there, nodding, smiling, not even flinching. Not one correction. Not one protest.
I should have felt betrayed. But instead, I stared at their faces and thought, No. Something's wrong. My boys wouldn't sell me out like this. Something must have happened behind the scenes.
Fine. I'd just text them, demand an explanation, and straighten this mess—
Wait.
"What do you mean . . . the group's gone?" I muttered, thumbing through my phone.
Their chatroom? Empty. Their old numbers? Dead lines. Even their backup phones? Disconnected.
"They . . . changed everything?" I frowned, sinking unto a chair. Overnight?
I looked at the screen. Eric, Ren, Kai, and Lance's faces were shining with joy. Despite the stress, frustration, and desperation of the last few weeks, their expressions were now filled with something new—hope.
I exhaled a long breath and smiled faintly. At least they finally got their spotlight . . . and Lance wouldn't have to sell his body anymore.
Getting into the industry as a songwriter . . . that was still part of my goal. And no matter what, I was going to make it happen.
"Wait for me, boys! I'll be with you soon!" I declared, throwing a victorious laugh into the air—
BANG!
My apartment door exploded open with the force of a wrecking ball.
"GYAH!" I shrieked, clutching my chest like a grandmother in a telenovela.
In stormed several thugs, the kind of men whose tattoos looked like they'd been drawn with broken glass and regret.
The loan sharks.
Right. Because apparently, who else would lend money to an unemployed woman with zero collateral, and no money in the bank? Only illegal lending companies, that's who.
Specifically: Abyss Lending Corporation.
A shady syndicate so notorious that even the police pretended not to see them.
"Oi, Emy," one of them sneered, cracking his knuckles like my bones were on today's menu. "You promised to pay at the end of the month. So where's our money?"
"Uhm . . ." I laughed nervously. "The end of the month is technically tomorrow, so—"
CRASH!
He kicked my chair, sending me tumbling sideways like a dying cockroach.
"And what's this, huh? You packing?" He pointed at the luggage scattered on the floor. "Trying to run before payday?"
All of them clicked their guns in unison.
"Oh, shit." My voice went three octaves higher. "N-no! Of course not! I'm just . . . decluttering! Feng shui! Minimalist lifestyle, you know? Definitely not moving!"
Truth be told, part of the reason I was moving was because of them. But I couldn't exactly tell them that.
I had planned to pay—eventually. I thought by now I'd be a songwriter with AUREA climbing the charts, making it easy to settle my debt. But reality was a crueler loan shark than these guys.
"You!" the thug growled. "You're coming with us."
"W-wait! I'll pay, I swear! Just give me time!" I wailed, but two men grabbed me under the arms like I was a sack of rice and hauled me into a waiting van.
Neighbors peeked through curtains, but the sight of tattoos and guns shut their windows faster than you could say witness protection.
"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," I whispered, trembling in the car seat as men in black surrounded me. My imagination went wild—what if they sold me for organs?
What if I ended up on the dark web under 'slightly used human'?
Instead, they drove me to their headquarters. Which, to my shock, looked less like a shady den of crime and more like a corporate office—shiny glass doors, polished floors, and even a receptionist desk with fake flowers.
"W-what are you going to do with me?" I asked, voice squeaky.
"Those who don't pay," one thug said with a smirk, "the boss decides their fate."
"The . . . boss?" My stomach twisted.
"Yeah. Don't get your hopes up. Everyone who meets him . . . doesn't come out alive."
"Eh?!" My face drained of color. "Can I just . . . not meet him, then? I still technically have one day before the deadline!"
They ignored me completely.
The elevator dinged, and before I knew it, I was shoved through massive black doors into a room dimly lit like some villain's lair.
And there he was.
At the center sat a man in a sharp suit, his hair slicked back with precision, thick brows shadowing phoenix eyes that gleamed with authority. His features were so perfect he looked less like a criminal and more like a mafia protagonist from some forbidden romance novel.
If my life weren't in danger, I might've swooned.
"Emerald Light," he said, his voice deep, husky, and terrifyingly calm. When he smiled, it wasn't warmth—it was the smile of a grim reaper polishing his scythe.
"Have a seat," he continued, gesturing gracefully to the chair across from him. "Let's talk about how you can pay my money."
And just like that, my second life flashed before my eyes.