The day I transmigrated into a doomed cannon-fodder character in an angsty novel, my whole family was kicking me out.
With nowhere else to turn, I set my sights on the villain who would one day destroy everything. For now, he was just a down-and-out miner.
To stay alive, I brought him meals and medicine every day, putting on a heartfelt performance.
Then the plot started going off the rails.
The original male lead had his leg broken, and the original protagonist, the one who was pursued, was too frightened to leave the house.
The villain cornered me against a wall, eyes bloodshot. “You’ve been so good to me. If you dare run…”
My legs went weak. “Boss, I was really just pretending!”
