If anyone asked me what the worst part of being broke was, I'd probably point to the existential terror of debt collectors with a penchant for violence. Some people feared spiders. Some feared snakes. Me? I feared the one guy who could snap my neck over a thirty-dollar overdue "loan" and not even flinch.
Tonight, that guy's name was Mr. Liang, and he apparently liked to make a dramatic entrance. The kind where doors slam, chairs scrape back, and you feel your life flashing before your eyes because you're pretty sure your face is next.
I had been polishing the last cup at Café Lumière, my little corner of sanity, mostly because I had no other corner. The bar downstairs was louder, dirtier, and smelled faintly of regret and whiskey, but it paid bills. Not all of them, mind you, but a few. And at this point, a few bills meant fewer nights where I had to choose between noodles and electricity.
I glanced at the clock. Midnight. The café had just closed, my tip jar was laughable, and the bar crowd downstairs was already drunk enough to start making life difficult for the bartender who was too polite to throw them out. Perfect.
And then came the stomp of heavy boots.
"Nick!" the voice boomed. I cursed silently. I did not have the kind of relationship with anyone where someone could shout my name like that without immediate threat. Except Mr. Liang.
I ducked behind the counter. Not heroic, mind you—practical. Survival was about being practical.
"Don't think hiding will help!" he bellowed.
I peeked. He looked exactly like the kind of guy who would smile while breaking bones. And there it was. My stomach twisted. This was not going to end well.
I tried reasoning. Yes, reasoning. With a loan shark.
"Uh… hi?" I ventured, waving a hand like that would somehow placate him.
He did not placate. He advanced. I calculated my options:
1. Run.
2. Fight.
3. Cry.
Running was blocked by the bar stools, fighting would probably get me a Darwin Award posthumously, and crying… well, that was already happening internally.
As if the universe hated me personally, my foot caught the edge of the counter, and I went down like a cartoon character. Arms flailing, head bouncing off the corner of a metal shelf. Stars exploded in my vision. A wave of dizziness hit. And then, darkness.
If there were any cosmic justice, I might have been allowed a graceful death. Nope. I hit my head hard, and instead of a quiet black screen, I woke up in… somewhere else.
---
Somewhere else looked suspiciously like a palace. And I was definitely not me. Not my usual hoodie, sweatpants, and ramen-stained apron. No, I was wearing robes that could probably feed three or four small villages for a month. Fancy silk, embroidered dragons, and all the trappings that screamed: you're important, now die slowly in political intrigue.
My reflection in the polished surface of a vase (don't ask me why I checked a vase) confirmed it. Sharp cheekbones, hair tied in a precise knot, and eyes that screamed villain. Wait. Villain?
I remembered. This was the world from that webnovel I'd been reading on my phone when I worked the night shifts. The one I used to distract myself from drowning in debt. And apparently, I wasn't just a reader anymore. I was the villain. The crown prince's nemesis. The guy everyone loved to hate.
Perfect. Just perfect.
I took a deep breath. I had to think. Fast. Survival rules had not changed, apparently:
1. Assess danger.
2. Charm the dangerous people first.
3. Pretend like I belong.
Step one was obvious. The crown prince could kill me with a glare, or at least have me exiled to the frozen north. He was friendly in the story, but that was a dangerous friendliness—the kind that masked a sword behind a smile.
Step two: Charm. Luckily, charm was something I had in spades. If I survived this, I could maybe finesse my way through the entire dynasty. Or die trying.
Step three: Pretend. That was going to be tricky. My internal monologue had no subtitles here. Everyone else expected the villain to be cold, calculating, ruthless. I, meanwhile, had just gotten out of a fight with a debt collector in a hoodie.
And then I heard it. Footsteps. Not casual. Not ceremonial. Friendly. Definitely the crown prince.
"Ah, you're awake," a voice said, sweet, teasing. "I wondered how long it would take you to rise from your… rest."
I froze. The smile. The aura. The ability to make me want to sink into the floor and vanish forever.
"Uh… morning?" I said, because yes, it was definitely morning in the world of silk and swords.
"Morning," he replied, with that dangerous, friendly tone that had toppled armies in stories. "I was hoping to find you awake. Are you… comfortable?"
Comfortable? Comfortable? I had literally no idea where I was, and I was probably in the body of a man who had been scheming to ruin his friend's life. Comfort was not an option.
"Comfy enough," I said, leaning against a conveniently placed table. A vase almost betrayed me with its proximity, but I played it cool. "Got to adjust to, uh, new accommodations."
He chuckled. Dangerous. Friendly. I wanted to leave. But if I left, I'd be discovered. So charm it was. Step two, fully engaged.
"How did you… wake up so quickly?" he asked.
"Uh, I have… stamina?" I improvised. Street-smart instincts kicking in. The crown prince raised an eyebrow. That eyebrow, the one that could cut through steel in novels, raised.
"Stamina," he repeated, clearly amused. "Interesting choice of word."
I nodded like a fool, hoping my nod was interpreted as noble rather than the nervous tic it actually was.
This was going to be a delicate dance. Step lightly, smile at all the wrong people, avoid revealing knowledge of your villainy, and somehow charm the crown prince enough so he didn't—well, kill me. Or worse, expose me to his father, the emperor, and have me executed by the hour.
I had to survive. Charm was my shield. Wit was my sword. And apparently, my modern cynicism was going to be my secret weapon.
I glanced at the surroundings. Marble floors, carved screens, tapestries depicting epic battles. I had read this book before. Every throne, every corridor, every banquet—familiar yet terrifying. The villain in this story never survived the first three chapters of confrontation with the prince. And here I was, tasked with avoiding that fate.
My first step: don't get caught. My second step: don't anger the crown prince. My third step: figure out how in the hell I was supposed to use ancient etiquette without face-planting every five minutes.
---
I spent the next hour walking in a carefully measured circle around the palace courtyard. Smiling when expected, nodding when addressed, making mental notes about guard rotations. I was good at observing. Street-smart survival instincts from nights dodging angry bar patrons and debt collectors were surprisingly transferable.
"Ah, do you like the garden?" the crown prince asked suddenly. He appeared at my side as if by magic.
I froze. "I… uh, admire its… greenery?" I said, because yes, that sounded sophisticated.
He laughed. Friendly, charming, and utterly dangerous. "You flatter me."
I smiled. It was the kind of smile that said: I am harmless… for now. Meanwhile, internally, I was screaming.
Just as I thought I might survive this encounter, a hand clapped lightly on my shoulder. Slow, deliberate. A shadow fell across my face. And a voice I didn't recognize whispered:
"You don't belong here, yet you wear his face."
I spun around. Nobody was there. Just the garden. Just me. And the realization that surviving in this world might require more than charm—it might require scheming I hadn't even imagined.
If the crown prince ever noticed that I knew too much, I was done, Finished. End of story.
And with that thought, I bowed slightly, smiled my best charming smile, and prayed silently that ancient etiquette didn't include a sword to the face for nervous newcomers.