Mu Jiao died suddenly.
After working overtime for three days straight, she collapsed over the words, “The first version was better, but something still feels off. Tweak it again.” Her heart gave a painful twinge, and then she transmigrated into the yandere novel she’d read.
She became the caged songbird imprisoned by the gloomy male lead.
According to the original plot, she was supposed to be terrified and broken, crying her eyes out as she and the male lead acted out an epic, angsty romance in which he chased while she fled, he went mad while she wept.
But Mu Jiao looked around the room with no windows, no sunlight, and a pillow that was far too high, then decisively rolled over.
“Move me to a south-facing room.”
“Get me a lower pillow.”
“I want a phone.”
“Install Douyin for me.”
She completely ignored the pale, brooding man by her bedside, who had spent three months secretly watching her and was now licking her with his damp gaze, inch by inch.
She ignored his dark monologues, refused his sickly sweet nothings, and wouldn’t play along with any suffocating push and pull. She ate well, drank well, slept well, watched shows, and read novels, turning his captivity into a paid vacation.
Every day, the male lead teetered on the edge of a breakdown: Why wouldn’t she follow the script?
Mu Jiao had only one thing to say: Wasn’t being a workhorse in my last life enough? I refuse to work myself to the bone for even one more second in this life.
