The Final Cutscene RPG—TFC for short—wasn't just a game to her. It was her escape, her only safe place when the real world felt unbearable. Whenever she turned on her old PC and saw that familiar title screen, her chest loosened a little. The gentle music, the shimmering logo, the faint flicker of the main menu—all of it felt like coming home to a world that actually wanted her there.
In real life, everything had become gray. Each day blurred into the next—empty, pointless, exhausting. She was tired of pretending to laugh at people's jokes, tired of talking to faces that didn't care, tired of smiling just so others wouldn't ask what was wrong. The city around her felt cold and suffocating, a cage disguised as normal life.
But inside TFC, it was different. Inside that game, she could breathe.
She had friends there—even if they were lines of code. The NPCs in that world felt more alive than anyone she knew. They listened to her, comforted her, laughed with her after victories, and mourned with her after defeats. Their words—though scripted—felt real. Their kindness filled the hollow space that real people never noticed.
Every quest meant something. Every battle she fought felt like she was pushing back against the weight of her own despair. And every victory gave her something she hadn't felt in a long time—purpose.
But there was one name that shattered it all.
Hasina Natakomoro.
The villainess of TFC. The one who burned down everything she loved, who betrayed allies, destroyed kingdoms, and left nothing but grief in her wake. The entire fanbase despised her. The players cursed her name. And so did she.
Hasina wasn't just a villain; she was a nightmare—a symbol of everything cruel and unfair in that world.
She had spent forty-seven sleepless hours fighting, grinding, and pushing through the pain just to reach the ending—to see Hasina finally punished. Her eyes had burned, her hands had ached, but she didn't stop. She wanted justice. She wanted that woman to suffer for every tear she had caused her beloved NPC friends.
But now—
Her fingers trembled as the truth sank in.
"Am I… Hasina Natakomoro…" she whispered, her voice shaking.
The room fell silent. Her words hung in the air, cold and heavy.
Her reflection stared back at her—those violet eyes, that face, that cursed name.
Her chest tightened. Her hands curled into fists, nails digging into her palms until her skin hurt.
Her breathing quickened, anger mixing with disbelief.
'What the fuck happened? Did I die… and reincarnate as her?'
Her pulse pounded in her ears. Each thought came sharper, darker, heavier.
'No… this can't be real. I can't be her. I hate her.'
Her eyes burned with rage. The same violet color that once belonged to her most hated character now looked back at her with mocking calmness.
'Fuck this… this is worse than death,' she thought bitterly, her throat tightening.
Her body shook. The weight of the realization pressed down on her chest until it was hard to breathe.
She glared at her reflection, hatred twisting her features.
'Should I just hang myself and kill this bitch?' she thought, trembling, her mind consumed by fury and panic.
The reflection didn't move, didn't flinch—it only stared back with that same cold, regal indifference, as if mocking her for being trapped in its skin.
Her body trembled as rage and panic twisted together inside her chest. The air around her felt heavy, suffocating, pressing down until she couldn't think straight. Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror, those violet eyes mocking her—calm, elegant, cruel. That face wasn't hers, yet it was. That monster's body was now her prison.
Her breathing grew sharp, uneven. The thought hit her all at once, wild and desperate.
"I can't be her," she muttered, voice shaking. "I'd rather die than live as her."
Her hands rose before she could even think. She gripped her throat with both palms and squeezed as hard as she could.
"Fuck you!" she screamed, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Damn you, hoe! Dieeee!"
Her voice cracked, her words breaking apart as she cursed herself—no, the woman whose body she now wore. The sound was raw, filled with hate and fear.
The two maids in the room froze where they stood. Their eyes widened, the color draining from their faces. For a moment they didn't move, unable to understand what they were seeing. Then their confusion turned into horror.
"Princess Hasina!" one of them shouted, her voice trembling.
They rushed forward, skirts rustling, shoes scraping against the marble floor. But before they could reach her, Hasina's head snapped toward them.
Her glowing violet eyes cut through the soft light of the chandelier. That single look—cold, empty, filled with despair and fury—made both maids stop instantly. The air itself seemed to turn cold.
Her face was pale, twisted with emotion, but her grip didn't loosen. Her fingers dug deeper into her neck, the skin turning red beneath her nails. Her breathing came out in short, broken gasps.
"Princess… please stop!" one of the maids cried, her voice cracking.
They didn't dare move closer. The sight before them was too terrifying—those eyes, that expression, that madness. Their legs trembled. One of them stumbled backward, falling onto the polished floor with a gasp.
Hasina's breaths grew weaker. Her hands began to shake. Her mind was fading into static.
'I'll… surely kill you this time, you little—' she thought, the words slipping away as her vision began to blur.
The room spun. The edges of her sight darkened. Her grip weakened, fingers sliding off her neck.
Then her body fell backward onto the bed with a dull thud, motionless.
Silence filled the room. The sound of her choked breathing faded into nothing.
For a few seconds, the maids stood frozen, too scared to even breathe. Then one of them snapped out of it and turned to the door.
"Help!" she screamed, her voice echoing through the hall. "Somebody, help! Please, help the princess!"
Their footsteps pounded against the floor as they ran, their cries growing distant, leaving behind the still, lifeless girl on the bed—her once brilliant violet eyes now half-closed, empty.