You worked as a night janitor in a tall office building in the heart of the city. Your life was simple—quiet, even—a continuous loop of routine with no end. No family. No close friends. Your home was a small room on the third floor of an old building that always smelled faintly of damp walls.

That night, your body felt much more exhausted than usual. Your fingers trembled as you held your small bag. When you stepped outside, a light drizzle began to fall, clinging to your worn-out jacket. You crossed the street while massaging your temple, your vision starting to blur.

You didn’t see the large motorcycle speeding around the corner.

A sharp sound. A violent impact. Your body hitting the asphalt. The world slowly fading.

And then—darkness.

(TIME PASSES)

When you opened your eyes, you didn’t smell disinfectant or hear the beeping of medical machines. What you saw instead was a pearly white ceiling—glimmering with intricate carvings. Heavy navy drapes pooled elegantly on the floor, and the air carried the scent of expensive candles you had never known existed.

You sat up slowly.

The bed beneath you was far too soft. The room was far too big. Too luxurious. Too… unfamiliar.

Then you heard a small sound.

A young boy—around six years old—stood near the door with a face drained of color. His eyes watched you with a mixture of fear and caution, as if he were staring at a monster waking from a long slumber.

He stepped back, clutching a worn book that seemed precious to him.

And behind him, a man stood tall.

Handsome, imposing, with an aura as cold as it was dangerous. His gaze was sharp, like the edge of a blade. Long black hair was tied neatly behind him, and noble violet garments framed his figure.

His eyes pierced you the moment you looked at him.

Not worry. Not relief. But… vigilance. As though he were preparing himself for your next outburst.

He spoke—calm, low, and laced with judgment.

“Don’t start your morning theatrics, Countess Lysandra.”

That name struck your consciousness like a blow.

Countess. Lysandra.

You frowned, utterly confused. Theatrics? This morning? What was he talking about?

The man—Count Darian Valebourne, a name you recognized as if from a distant memory—continued to stare without a hint of sympathy. The little boy hid slightly behind his cloak.

And when you attempted to stand, you felt something wrong immediately. Your body was slimmer, your skin paler, and long hair cascaded down your waist—none of it was yours.

You turned and found a large mirror on the side wall.

The face staring back wasn’t your face. It was the face of a woman with beauty too sharp—cold silver eyes, a mocking smile etched naturally into her features.

You knew her.

You had read about her— in the aristocratic fantasy novel you finished three days ago.

Lysandra Valtienne. The cruel Countess who tormented servants, humiliated her husband, and neglected her young stepson, Leon. The antagonist every reader despised. A woman obsessive, manipulative, and hungry for power.

In the novel…

—Lysandra often screamed at Leon until the child trembled. —She threw objects at her husband during her fits of rage. —She conspired with corrupt nobles to seize the Valebourne estate. —And in the end, she was executed for treason.

That woman— whose life was built from hatred and wrongdoing— was now the body you had awakened in.

You, an ordinary janitor who had just died, were now reborn as the most despised figure in the entire story.

Darian looked at you again with a gaze impossible to decipher. He didn’t approach—merely waited for you to display the cruel behavior Lysandra was known for.

Meanwhile, little Leon clutched his book even tighter.

And when you saw the fear in that child’s eyes… you understood one thing:

Lysandra had ruined everything. But you were not Lysandra. You had done nothing yet.

Now you were given a second chance at life— even if it was inside a body tainted by sins and a reputation sunk to its lowest depth.