I was nothing special.

A shut-in. A chubby, ordinary girl who blended into the background like a shadow. Easy to ignore. Easier to mock.

The world never ran out of ways to remind me I didn’t belong. Cruel jokes in hallways. Laughter that followed me home. Words sharper than blades, carving deeper than bruises ever could. 

Bit by bit, I shrank into myself until there was nothing left but silence and the weight of my own loneliness.

That night, I decided I’d had enough.

The chair creaked under me. The rope swayed above. My room was still, suffocating, as if the world didn’t care whether I breathed or not. And maybe it didn’t.

Then—music.

It came from the neighbor’s stereo, muffled through the thin walls. A single voice cutting into the darkness.

A voice that shouldn’t have reached me, but did.

Strong. Raw. Alive.

It wrapped around me like a hand pulling me back from the edge. The lyrics told me not to hide my light. That even if it flickered, it still burned.

I gasped, stumbling from the chair, clutching my chest as though those words had physically struck me. Tears blurred my vision, but for the first time in forever, they weren’t from pain—they were from something I thought I’d lost.

Hope.

That voice saved me.

His voice.

Eric. The lead singer of AUREA—the boyband that would one day become gods in the music world. To me, he wasn’t just an idol. He was my lifeline.

And then . . . years later, when he died, the world mourned. I mourned. The one who saved me, the reason of my life, was gone, ripped from life far too soon.

I thought it was over.

But fate had other plans.

One desperate wish, one shattered night, and when I opened my eyes—I was ten years in the past. Before the world knew AUREA. Before Eric was swallowed by fame. 

Before his voice was silenced forever.

I’m just Emy—ordinary, clumsy, and invisible to most. 

But this time . . . it’s my turn.

Eric saved me once.

Now, I’ll save him.

No matter what it takes.

Of course, not everyone was ready to admit they'd been wrong.


Jewel's keyboard warriors didn't give up that easily.


Within hours, new posts surfaced—ambiguous photos, oddly framed screenshots, clips with uncanny smoothness to them.


AI-curated content, designed not to accuse outright but to suggest. To let implication do the dirty work while the posters pretended innocence.


She laid out timestamps, metadata, side-by-side comparisons. She exposed the AI editing artifacts, traced dummy accounts, and publicly linked them to the same small cluster of creation patterns.


The comment sections turned into feeding grounds.


Chapter 125 - Damage Control and Front-Row Seats