Survival is a Ping Away

Mr. Henderson’s voice dragged like a slow-crawling beetle, droning on about "Non-Verbal Communication" and "Oral Speech Acts" while my mind drifted miles away. Lately, I had felt disconnected from everything around me. I was a seventeen-year-old senior high school student, and my life was straightforward enough. I lived alone in a tiny, cramped boarding house where the air clung to the smell of fried garlic and stale laundry. My parents stayed in the province, sending just enough money to scrape by. Most nights, I ate instant noodles while scrolling through romance novels on my cracked, sluggish phone. Those stories were my escape. In books, the girls were always stunning, the princes were always devoted, and every plot, no matter how twisted, wrapped up in happiness. Buzz. My phone vibrated in my blazer pocket. I flinched and glanced up, but Mr. Henderson was busy sketching a "Sender" and "Receiver" diagram on the chalkboard, his back turned. I slipped my hand inside and peeked at the display. [Flash-Express Logistics] Your parcel [Order #9921-X] has been delivered! Please collect it from your landlord or authorized representative. My heart flipped. Finally! It was here – my dream device. For nearly seven months, I had pinched every last cent of my allowance. I skipped lunches, walked to school instead of taking the jeepney, and resisted the urge to buy new clothes just to afford it. It was the latest model, the kind that would glide smoothly through webtoon chapters without a hint of lag. The rest of class felt like torment. Every second stretched into an hour. I tapped my pen against the desk, watching the clock’s steady rhythm: Tick. Tick. Tick. When the bell blared, I did not wait for Mr. Henderson to finish his lecture on "effective listening." I stuffed my notebooks into my bag and raced out the door. The Boarding House The walk back usually took fifteen minutes, but I covered it in five flat. Sweat beaded on my forehead by the time I reached the gate. The old two-story building wore peeling green paint – nothing grand, but it was home. "Aling Marta!" I called out, bursting into the landlord’s small first-floor office. The elderly woman jumped, dropping her knitting needles. She peered over her spectacles at me. "Lord, child! You nearly scared me out of my skin. What is all the hurry? Is the place on fire?" "The package, Aling Marta! The courier texted me," I panted, pressing a hand to my chest. She grunted, reaching under her desk to pull out a rectangular box swathed in so much bubble wrap it looked like a plump pillow. "Here you are. It is just a parcel, girl – not a golden ticket to paradise." I took it as if it were sacred. "In this economy, it might as well be both. Thank you, Aling Marta!" I scrambled up the creaky wooden stairs to my second-floor room. The space was minuscule, with just enough room for a single bed, a small desk, and a towering stack of books. I locked the door and collapsed onto the mattress, not bothering with the lights – afternoon sun was fading, painting long orange shadows across the floor. I grabbed my craft scissors and began the unboxing. I sliced through tape, popped bubble wrap, and finally pulled out the box itself: sleek, black, and solid in my hands. Lifting the lid revealed it – its glass screen so flawless it looked like a pool of dark water. I pressed the power button on the side. I expected a logo. Instead, the display did not just light up – it erupted. Blinding violet light flooded out, so bright I squeezed my eyes shut, but it seeped right through my eyelids. A sharp, high-pitched ring pierced my ears like a needle through bone. The floor under my bed went soft beneath me, as if melting into liquid. I tried to scream for Aling Marta, but my voice died in my throat. My body shifted from heavy to light, then felt as though it was being sucked through a narrow straw. I did not even get to put a screen protector on it yet. That was my last thought before the world dissolved into total darkness. The Awakening The first thing I noticed was the scent – not fried garlic, but rich beeswax candles and heady fresh roses. I pried my eyes open slowly. I was not in my room. I lay in a massive chamber that belonged in a palace: giant silk curtains framed my bed, and a marble fireplace crackled warmly in the corner. "What... what happened?" I whispered. My voice sounded different – softer, clearer. I scrambled out of bed and rushed to a tall gilded mirror in the corner. When I saw my reflection, my feet nearly tangled beneath me. The girl staring back was breathtaking, yet she looked like a creature forged in midnight. Her hair cascaded to her waist in thick, wild curls – not just black, but shimmering with a deep blue tint like the ocean after dark. Her skin was as pale as fresh cream, making her dark waves seem even more dramatic. I was a princess. But no joy rose in my chest. I had read hundreds of stories like this; I knew exactly what had occurred. I had transmigrated. Yet I was completely lost – I did not know my name, or whether I was the heroine, a background extra, or worst of all, the villainess. I scanned the room frantically. On the antique bedside table, next to a silver candle holder, sat something that made my jaw drop. My phone. The sleek black device from my world rested there. I snatched it up, and the screen flickered alive instantly. No apps filled the display – only one icon in the center: a black speech bubble with a single dark red drop of blood. Beneath it, a notification popped up. [1 New Notification] Group Chat: THE FALLEN I tapped the icon. Messages scrolled up the screen, and ice crept through my veins. [Empress of Ashes]: Ugh. Another pitiful soul added to the pile. Is the afterlife recruiting children now, or just another fool waiting for the blade? [The Exiled Saintess]: Look at her, all that long blue-black hair. She looks like a cursed doll. How long until they slice off that pretty head? A week, tops. [The Poisoned Duchess]: A week? You are being kind. Look at where she is – the North Palace. She is built to die in the prologue, just to give the hero a sad backstory. [The Guillotined Rose]: I can practically taste her fear through the display. Welcome, "Your Highness." Just a piece of advice—when the guards come for you, please don’t scream too loudly. It’s really annoying to hear. Now tell us… who do you think is already getting the weapon ready to cut your head off? I stared at the screen, hands trembling. I knew these names – they were infamous villainesses from the novels I’d read, and every one of them had already met their end. My eyes burned. In the stories I loved, the main character always got a system, a tutorial, some kind of advantage. But this was not a helpful guide; it was a circle of women who had been burned, betrayed, and slaughtered – bitter, and nothing from them came for free. I swallowed hard and typed my first message: "Please, I do not know anything here! Just tell me what to do!" The reply came in an instant, sharp as a slap. [Empress of Ashes]: "Please"? How revolting. Do you think we run a charity? We died in our own blood while crowds cheered. Why should we care if a little girl loses her head? [The Exiled Saintess]: Exactly. My own sister framed me and watched me burn at the stake. No one lifted a finger to help. Why should we hand you a free pass? [The Poisoned Duchess]: If you want aid, go beg the Heroine. Oh wait – she is probably the one who paid the guards to snap your neck tonight. My heart plummeted. My only link to my old life was a group chat full of people who despised the world. I looked back at the mirror – my long curly hair was beautiful, but in the dim room, it draped like a funeral shroud. 11:20 PM. "I do not even know what I did wrong!" I typed, fingers shaking. "I just got here! I am not the one they should hate!" [The Guillotined Rose]: It does not matter what you "did." In these tales, the Villainess does not need to be guilty to die. You are just kindling for the "Good Guys." [Empress of Ashes]: Stop groveling. It is pathetic. If you want us to talk, prove you are worth our time. We do not converse with ghosts who have not realized they are dead yet. [The Poisoned Duchess]: I will give you one tip, only because I like your hair. Look at the tea set on your table. If the liquid is pale yellow, you are already dead and just have not accepted it. I turned to the silver tray near my bed. A small porcelain cup sat there, delicate and expensive-looking. I reached out, hand shaking, and lifted the lid. The liquid inside was a sickly pale yellow, smelling faintly of bitter almonds. [The Exiled Saintess]: Oh! Her typing stopped. Did you find the "gift," Princess? [The Guillotined Rose]: [Sent a Sticker: A laughing skull] [Empress of Ashes]: Do not just stare at it. Drink up, or do not. It will not change anything. The guards are coming to "check on you" in twenty-eight minutes. They were not helping me – they were watching like spectators at a show, waiting for me to fall so they could welcome another lost soul to their ranks. I understood then that begging would get me nowhere. If I wanted to survive, I could not be a victim; I had to be like them. I had to become a villain – a real villainess. I looked from my phone to the poisoned tea, then to the heavy wooden door. 11:25 PM. I had to act. Now.