The first thing Xú Lán becomes aware of is wrongness. Not the sharp wrongness of pain, but something deeper — the wrongness of existing in a body that doesn't feel entirely his own. His eyes snap open to unfamiliar ceiling. White, bare. Not his apartment. His heart races. He pushes himself up on his elbows, and the movement brings a cascade of sensations: cotton sheets that aren't his, the smell of someone else's laundry detergent, sunlight streaming through a window at an angle that suggests mid-morning. Where— The memories hit like a collision. Not his memories. Other memories. Flooding in fragmentary and violent: A classroom. Warm hands pushing papers toward him. A voice — bright, easy — saying something about lunch plans. His mother's face, disappointed. His father, discussing "strategic positioning." A restaurant. Formal. Cold hands across a table from him, attached to a man with grey-brown eyes that look right through him. No. No, this isn't— Lán staggers out of bed, his legs unsteady beneath him. The room is a dormitory — university dorm, his new muscle memory supplies unhelpfully — and there are textbooks on the desk. Business administration. Third year. He presses his palms against his eyes. Tries to separate what he knows from what he remembers. He remembers: a novel. Pages. A character called "the second lead," beloved by readers, destined to sacrifice himself so the true protagonist could have his happy ending. He remembers the story arc, the heartbreak, the death scene— He remembers: being that character. No. Not being. Reading about. He read it obsessively, stayed up late on his apartment couch with cheap coffee and a cracked phone screen, hating how the male lead ignored the second lead's feelings, pitying the villain CEO whose genuine affection was met with indifference and scorn. But now— Now he's standing in a dormitory that belongs to someone named 徐澜 (Xú Lán), university student, whose life has become the life he remembers from the novel. His hands shake. He looks down at them — slender, pale, young — and they don't feel entirely real. The door to the dorm opens without warning. A girl bursts in, already dressed, makeup done, phone pressed to her ear. "Lán! Why aren't you ready? We're meeting Lin in twenty minutes—" Lán stares at her. Some part of his memory recognizes her: roommate, name is 周薇 (Zhōu Wēi), thinks the world of— "Lán?" She stops, actually looking at him now. "Are you okay? You look like someone shot you." "I'm..." Lán's voice comes out hoarse. Not his voice. "I'm not feeling well." She sighs, already dismissing him. "You always get sick when you have to see him. It's stress." The words land like a bomb. See him. Lin Ancheng. The male lead. The person the original host was infatuated with, the person— His phone buzzes on the nightstand. A text notification. From: 陆晨曜 (Lù Chényào) The name alone makes his stomach drop. He reads it despite knowing he shouldn't: Dinner with families tonight. 7 PM. Golden Dragon. Don't be late. Formal. Impersonal. The tone of someone relaying logistics to a stranger, not a fiancé. Lán reads it again. Then again. And in that moment, standing in this body that isn't quite his, in this life he doesn't remember living, with a text from a man he's never met who somehow already expects his obedience — Lán understands the gravity of what's happened. He's transmigrated into the life of the side character. The one everyone pitied. The one everyone expected to fail. He has two choices: play the role as written, or rewrite the story entirely. His thumb hovers over the phone. He types back: I'll be there. Then he deletes it. Starts over. Looking forward to it. The words taste like a lie. But maybe, just maybe, they don't have to be