The first thing I registered was the thread count. It was offensively high.
I opened my eyes.
Above me, a fresco of cherubs frolicking in a golden meadow stared back. They looked judgmental. The canopy of the bed was draped in silk so fine it probably cost more than my entire student loan debt.
I lay there and I felt the urge rising in my throat. It was a primal, instinctive compulsion. A sentence that has been uttered by every protagonist in the history of web novels since the dawn of the internet.
(Don't say it. —no, whatever your name is now—do not say it. Have some dignity.)
My lips parted. The words were fighting to escape.
"Unfamili... Unfa..."
I clamped my mouth shut and rolled over, burying my face in a pillow that cost more than my entire college tuition.
(I refuse. I absolutely refuse to say, "Where am I? What an unfamiliar ceiling." That is a C-tier cliché. I am at least B-tier. Besides, who actually memorizes their ceiling? I didn't even have a view of a ceiling in my last apartment. I slept on the bottom bunk. My view was a mattress stained with questionable fluids and a sticker that said "Skate or Die.")
I closed my eyes again, hoping to recall something.
(Okay. Let's review. Five minutes ago, I was sitting on a plastic stool, reading the latest update of web novel on my phone. I took a bite of a spicy tuna onigiri. The rice was dry. It lodged in my windpipe. I tried to reach for my water, knocked it over, and died grasping for a 50-cent bottle of lukewarm tea.)
I opened my eyes. The cherubs were still there.
(Pathetic. Absolutely third-rate. I died to a rice ball.)
I sat up, the silk sheets sliding off my chest like liquid money. My hands were pale. Smooth. Manicured. These were not the hands of a broke college student who lived on instant noodles.
These were the hands of someone who had never worked a day in his life.
I looked around the room again. The sunlight hitting the marble floor was blinding.
"So," I croaked, my voice sounding smoother and more arrogant than I expected. "I'm in the novel. Or hell. But considering the thread count of these sheets, I'm going to guess the novel."
I kicked off the blankets and stumbled toward the massive, gold-framed vanity across the room. My legs felt weirdly light, like I was walking on moon gravity.
(Okay, focus. Which novel is this? The décor screams "Generic European Fantasy Kingdom #4.")
I rubbed my temples, the title of the novel flashing in my mind like a neon warning sign.
"Crimson Rose: The Villainess Wants Revenge, But The Crown Prince Is Suddenly Obsessed With Her?!"
I said it out loud. It took a full five seconds to finish the sentence.
"Who approves these titles?" I muttered, stumbling toward the vanity table across the room. "It's not a title, it's a spoiler summary. It's there to capture the most essence of your typical Villainess Webnovel. And I read every single chapter because I have no self-respect."
I grabbed the edge of the gilded table, bracing myself.
"Okay. Let's see the damage. Am I the Hero? The brooding Duke? The Secret Prince?"
I looked up at the mirror.
The face in the glass stared back with a sneer I hadn't even commanded it to make.
Reddish-brown eyes that looked permanently bored. Pale skin that screamed 'vitamin D deficiency.' A jawline sharp enough to cut paper, but soft enough to get punched.
I knew this face. I hated this face.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me."
I leaned closer to the glass. "Okay. Let's try to look nice. Friendly. Approachable."
I attempted a polite smile.
The reflection contorted instantly. The corners of my mouth hooked upward in a sharp, unnatural angle. My eyes narrowed into predatory slits. It wasn't a smile; it was the face of a man who had just foreclosed on an orphanage and found it hilarious.
"Holy hell," I whispered, recoiling. "I look like I'm about to tie a damsel to a train track."
I tried again. A simple grin.
Result: A psychotic leer.
I tried a neutral expression.
Result: Arrogant disdain.
There was no mistake. The red hair, the punchable face, the aura of unearned superiority.
"Willes Rembon Lux-Aeterna," I sighed, the name tasting like ash. "The Third Prince. The 'Scum of the Capital.' The generic mid-boss who gets sacrificed in the tutorial so the Hero can level up."
"And I can't even smile without looking like I'm committing tax fraud." I spun away from the mirror, clapping my hands together.
"Right. Plan A: Embezzle everything that isn't nailed down and run."
I started pacing the room, counting on my fingers.
"I just need to avoid some characters like the Villainess."
"And most importantly, I need to stay at least two continents away from the Villainess."
A shiver went down my spine just thinking about her.
"Nope. Not happening. I am retiring. I am going to buy a small farm in the countryside, raise sheep, and live a 'Slow Life' where the biggest drama is the weather. Probably without Tuna Onigiri this time."
I nodded firmly. "Sheep don't have tragic backstories. Sheep don't plot revenge. I like sheep."
The novel was divided into two parts. The "Prologue"—which was a tragedy—and the "Main Story"—which was a massacre.
In the first timeline, she was Anastasia Vane. The "Perfect Noblewoman" from Sundaria Empire, where I'm in right now.
She was the kind of character who apologized to the table when she bumped into it. She swallowed every insult, perfected every curtsy, and loved her fiancé, my brother Crown Prince Aelius, with sickening devotion.
And what was her reward?
The Grand Solstice Festival.
It was supposed to be a celebration of the Sun's eternal blessing. Instead, it became her scaffold. She was framed for dark magic, betrayed by her own family, and dragged to the guillotine while the fireworks went off.
I closed my eyes, remembering the illustrations from the prologue. The image of her head falling while the crowd cheered.
That was the end of the Prologue.
Chapter One began when she opened her eyes, three years in the past.
The Anastasia of the second timeline... she wasn't a character anymore. She was a natural disaster. She didn't want redemption. She wanted heads. She used her knowledge of the future to dismantle every noble house that had wronged her, turning the romantic comedy setting into a psychological horror.
And me?
I swallowed hard.
In the original timeline, Willes Rembon didn't just stand by. He stood in the front row. He laughed. He called her a "witch" and watched her demise with a smug on his face.
"To her," I whispered, staring at the floor, "I'm not just a bystander. I'm a variable that needs to be erased."
If she has truly regressed... I am already on her list. And Anastasia Vane checks her list twice. Usually with a poisoned dagger.
Wait.
I stopped pacing. A critical question hit me like a brick.
"Which timeline am I in?"
I scrambled toward the desk, grabbing the elaborate sun-calendar. The date was clear: The 7th of Solaris.
The date of the Royal Garden Tea Party.
"Okay. Okay. This event happens in both timelines."
In Timeline 1, Anastasia attends this party as the naive, blushing fiancée. She gets bullied, trips, spills tea on me, and apologizes while I mock her.
In Timeline 2, she attends as the Regressor. She doesn't spill the tea. She verbally eviscerates everyone while smiling like a saint.
"If she's the shy girl who stutters, I'm safe. I just have to be nice, maybe pat her on the head, and book a ticket to the Bahamas."
"But if she's the Regressor..."
I gulped. There was no way to know without seeing her. The calendar didn't have a "Beware of Time Travelers" sticky note attached to it.
I had to go down there. I had to face the boss level in my pajamas.
"The Tea Party," I muttered, straightening my spine and attempting to fix my hair. "I'll go. I'll watch. I'll keep my mouth shut."
"If she spills the tea, I live. If she doesn't..."
I grabbed a half-eaten apple from a fruit bowl and took a nervous bite.
"...then I'm already dead."