The world had once been Melissa McCarthy’s oyster, or at least, a perfectly normal, comfortably boring clam. An average office worker with brown curly hair, pale skin, and blue eyes, she cherished her quiet life, her two beloved cats, Bread and Jam. Overtime was a pain, but the promise of her cozy bed and feline companions always made it bearable.

Then came the darkness, sudden and absolute. One moment, she was dragging her tired body home; the next, an abyss. She awoke not in her familiar, slightly messy apartment, but in a lavish room adorned with vintage furniture, a king-sized bed, and satin curtains that screamed 'old money'.

A maid screamed, her own reflection looked back—but it wasn't her. It was a child, sickly thin, with long black hair and pale skin. A name hammered into her mind: Quinlynn Irsiavel De'Rosa. The name belonged to a cannon fodder character from a trashy fantasy romance novel her otaku sister had forced her to read.

“You have got the wrong person!” she wanted to scream, but the words caught in her throat. This was not normal. This was not her life. This was a nightmare from which she desperately needed to wake up.