When Emii's vision finally cleared, the first thing she noticed wasn't her phone. It was the gravity.
"Oh… wow," she breathed, sitting up. Her hands sank into a mattress so deep and plush it felt like being cradled by a cloud. "Did I die? Is this the VIP lounge of the afterlife?"
She bounced experimentally. The springs didn't squeak; they sang. "This mattress feels like it was stuffed with angel feathers. I'm never leaving. I might actually dance on this thing."
She stood up, her bare feet disappearing into a rug so thick it felt like moss. The room was an explosion of royal excess: pale pink silk drapes, hand-carved mahogany, and chandeliers that didn't just sparkle—they boasted. It looked like a princess had puked glitter over a luxury catalog.
"Wait," she muttered, the adrenaline finally cooling. "Where the hell am I?"
No posters of her favorite actors. No humming ceiling fan. Just the scent of a thousand expensive perfumes and the distant, haunting melody of a violin.
"Mom? Dad? Seriously, if this is a prank, it's a five-star effort. You can come out now!"
Her voice didn't carry; it was swallowed by the heavy velvet of the room. A soft knock at the door made her jump.
"Miss Emii," a polite voice filtered through the wood. "Mr. Lane is waiting for you."
Emii's brain short-circuited. "Who? Who is waiting?"
"Mr. Lane, Miss. Your brother. He has returned from his morning ride."
Morning ride. Brother. Master.
Emii stumbled toward a floor-to-ceiling mirror framed in gold leaf. She stopped, her jaw dropping. The girl in the reflection was a masterpiece. Wide, soulful eyes, skin like fresh cream, and a waistline thinner than her phone charger.
"I'd bankrupt myself for this face," she whispered, touching her cheek. Then, a frown. "Wait. If I'm this gorgeous, and I'm still the 'disposable' side character… how much of a goddess is the female lead? Only a blind man would ignore this for anyone else."
The realization hit her like a bucket of ice water. She wasn't the lead. She was the cannon fodder. The girl meant to die so the protagonists could have their 'tragic' character arc.
"No, no, no," she paced the room, her silk gown swishing like a warning. "I want to go home. My mom is probably calling the police. My dad is losing his mind. I can't be stuck in a book wearing designer curtains!"
She stopped, looking at the ceiling. "System? I know you're there. You pig-brained, good-for-nothing piece of tech! Come out right now or I swear I will kill your heroine before the first act is over!"
A faint ding echoed. Then, a digitized, mischievous giggle.
[ Hehe… Host, please. Let us refrain from such violent thoughts. ]
"You actually exist?" Emii barked. "Send me back. Now. Or I will uninstall this entire plot."
[ Host, stay calm. You have been selected for a high-priority mission: Save the collateral damage—the brother and the fiancé. Succeed, and you return home. ]
Emii crossed her arms. "And what's the payout? My time isn't cheap, and I'm currently missing my dinner."
[ Upon completion: Two hundred million dollars. And three wishes of your choosing. ]
Emii's expression did a sudden, graceful pivot. "Two hundred… million? Real money? Not 'novel' gold?"
[ Real, tangible, bankable currency, Host. ]
She flipped her hair, her eyes gleaming with a newfound professional fire. "Well. Since you're pleading so nicely, I suppose I could stay for a bit. I'm not saying I'm money-minded… but a girl has to have a retirement plan."
[ Understood, Host. The mission begins now. ]
"Fine," Emii whispered, looking at the door. "Let's go meet this brother of mine. Time to start rewriting the bill."