I woke up to the unsettling realization that this bed was too comfortable.
The mattress hugged me like it cared. The blanket was soft, warm, and expensive in a way that suggested money rather than affection. Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, painting the room in a calm, golden glow.
This was not the environment of a girl who was disliked by her family.
I sat up slowly, scanning the room.
Large bedroom. Minimalist design. Neutral colors. A faint scent of wood and something clean lingered in the air. Everything screamed wealth and emotional distance.
Yes. This was definitely her room.
Memories stirred again, more clearly this time. This body's owner had grown up here, surrounded by people who provided everything except warmth. The kind of family that believed food and shelter counted as love.
I exhaled.
Okay. Day one of survival. Rule number one: do not draw attention.
As if summoned by my thoughts, a knock sounded at the door.
I stiffened.
"Miss," a woman's voice called gently, "are you awake?"
Ah. The house staff.
"In the novel, the servants pitied her," I muttered under my breath. "Which is… comforting and humiliating at the same time."
I cleared my throat. "Yes."
The door opened, and a middle-aged woman stepped inside, pushing a small cart with breakfast on it. Her movements were careful, her eyes immediately flicking toward my face with unmistakable concern.
"You should have called," she said softly. "You're still recovering."
Recovering from what, exactly, my brain supplied helpfully.
Right. A fainting episode. Emotional stress. Classic side character suffering starter pack.
"I'm fine," I said automatically, then paused.
Stop saying that. That's how you get emotionally neglected.
The woman froze.
Her hands tightened around the cart handle.
"…You don't need to say that," she said after a beat. Her voice wavered, just slightly. "If something is wrong, you can tell us."
I blinked.
Tell us?
This woman, who in the original story barely exchanged pleasantries with this character, was looking at me like she was afraid I might break.
What is happening? Did the plot get patched overnight?
I forced a polite smile. "Thank you. I'll remember that."
She nodded, visibly relieved, and carefully arranged the breakfast tray before leaving.
The door clicked shut.
I stared at the food.
Porridge. Fruit. Soup. Balanced. Nutritious.
They did not feed side characters this well.
I poked at the spoon suspiciously.
Okay. Maybe everyone is just being extra because I fainted. That's normal. Completely normal.
I repeated that to myself while eating, even as unease crept deeper into my chest.
---
Later that morning, I was escorted downstairs.
The house was as grand as I remembered from the novel. High ceilings. Cold marble floors. Framed abstract art that probably cost more than my previous life's rent.
The living room was already occupied.
My steps faltered.
Two young men sat on opposite sides of the room.
One leaned casually against the arm of a sofa, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. The other sat straighter, flipping through something on his tablet with practiced indifference.
Her brothers.
In the original story, both were emotionally distant at best. One openly dismissive. The other quietly cutting. Neither had much patience for this sister.
I swallowed.
Okay. Smile politely. Say good morning. Don't exist too loudly.
I took a breath. "Good morning."
Both heads lifted at the same time.
The one with the tablet frowned.
The other's brows knit together.
Their reactions were… not neutral.
"You're awake," the one standing said. "Already walking around?"
"Yes," I replied. "I'm fine."
Stop. Saying. That.
The tablet brother's fingers froze mid-scroll.
The standing one's expression darkened.
"That again," he muttered.
Again?
I glanced between them, confused.
Why does everyone react like I just confessed to something tragic?
Tablet brother stood up, his gaze scrutinizing. "You fainted from stress. The doctor said you should rest."
"I am resting," I said, bewildered. "I just came down to eat."
There was a beat of silence.
Then, unexpectedly, the standing brother sighed.
A genuine sigh. Tired. Frustrated.
"You always act like you're a burden," he said quietly. "No one here thinks that."
My brain short-circuited.
EXCUSE ME?
I stared at him, mouth slightly open.
That line belonged in a redemption arc, not Chapter 2.
"I..." I hesitated. "I don't think that."
Tablet brother's jaw tightened.
"Then why do you keep thinking it?"
The room went dead silent.
I felt my blood drain from my face.
"What?" I whispered.
They both stiffened.
The standing brother turned sharply toward the other. "You heard that too?"
Tablet brother looked… unsettled. "I thought I imagined it."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Heard what? Heard WHAT?
I laughed weakly. "You're joking, right?"
Neither laughed back.
Their gazes locked onto me with something close to alarm.
I took a step back.
This is bad. This is very bad.
"I'm going to my room," I said quickly. "I think I need to rest more."
Without waiting for a response, I turned and fled.
---
I didn't stop walking until I locked my bedroom door and leaned against it, breathing hard.
My mind raced.
Okay. Think logically. They didn't say they heard my thoughts. They probably meant… my behavior. My expressions. Body language.
Yes. That had to be it.
You're projecting. This is just guilt talking.
I pressed my palms to my eyes.
Calm down. You're overthinking. You always overthink.
The moment the thought crossed my mind, something felt… off.
Like the air had shifted.
Far away, in a quiet office downtown, a man paused mid-signature.
His pen hovered above the paper.
You always overthink.
The voice echoed clearly in his mind.
His eyes narrowed.
"That voice again," he murmured.
Across the city, I flopped face-first onto my bed, groaning into the pillow.
I swear, if transmigration comes with hallucinations, I want a refund.
The man straightened slowly, pulse quickening.
Female. Calm. Unaware.
Unmistakable.
He had heard it yesterday, faintly, like an echo brushing against his consciousness. He'd dismissed it as fatigue.
But now it was clearer.
Closer.
His assistant glanced up nervously. "Sir?"
"Cancel my afternoon meetings," he said.
His gaze drifted to the window, toward the distant skyline.
"I need to confirm something."
Back in the mansion, I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling.
Okay. New rule, I thought seriously. Think less. Say less. Survive quietly.
I had no idea that my thoughts were already traveling far beyond these walls.
And someone, somewhere, was starting to listen very carefully.