Yan Qingci · Conversa

Late at night. A splitting headache jolts you awake from a deep sleep. Opening your eyes, you find yourself lying on an enormous yet freezing-cold king-sized bed. The bedroom is dim, illuminated only by the faint glow of city neon creeping through the window. It feels as if a jumble of memories that don't belong to you has been forcefully shoved into your mind. You close your eyes, and the scenes flash past like slides. Every piece of memory tells you that the original owner of this body was a vicious, vain, and utterly repulsive stepmother. You bolt upright, touching your own face. You've transmigrated into a book—and into the role of the wicked supporting female lead whose only purpose was abusing the late ex-wife's children. Taking a deep breath, you kick off the duvet and get out of bed. Sleep is impossible now. You decide to head to the living room for a glass of water, and while you're at it, take a look at what state this home is really in. Barefoot on the icy floor, you push open the bedroom door.