Chapter 306

Daphne

I drop Elliot, and he’s unconscious, crumpled on the floor like the pathetic creature he is. The world returns to normal—the cracks sealing, the errors fading, the oppressive weight of the system’s panic receding.

But my body is still burning.

Still wanting.

Still betraying me with every fiber of its being

With mechanical movements, I look at the nearby bottle of alcohol. Cheap club vodka. I grab it, smash it against the wall, and use a shard of glass to stab myself in the palm.

The pain is bright and sharp and clean.

It drags me through the fog, through the haze, through the chemical screaming of my own biology. For a moment, I can think again. Can breathe again.

I walk out.

I drive myself to the ER.

The nurses are efficient, professional. They stitch my hand ;nine stitches, a crescent-shaped scar I’ll carry for the rest of this life. They flush the drugs from my system, run tests, ask questions I answer with monosyllables.

"Assault?" the doctor asks, careful, neutral.

"No." The word is flat. "Accident."

They don’t believe me. But they don’t push.

Today, I don’t go home to the Han mansion. Can’t face it. Can’t face her like this—shaking, violated, furious. She’d see it immediately. She’d ask questions I don’t want to answer.

I go to my apartment instead.

The penthouse is cold and empty and perfect. No memories here. No Vivienne. Just sterile surfaces and city lights and the silence I need.

I find the alcohol. Expensive whiskey, the kind I keep for appearances. I don’t bother with a glass.

*

[Host—]

"Don’t." I cut it off, taking a long pull from the bottle. The burn is good. Grounding.

The System materializes anyway, its purple orb floating in front of me like an accusation.

"How fucking useful you are." My voice is calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that precedes destruction. "Had I not gained clarity, would you have let the main character have his way with me?"

The orb pulses. Floats. Hesitates.

[...]

[I couldn’t intervene.] It finally says.

[It was the work of the world seed. I couldn’t even access you. You weren’t even drugged—your rut was just... triggered.]

My eye twitches.

"The hospital said they found traces of drugs in my system."

[Yes. To be explained. But logically, you were not. The same way Dr. Wang suddenly appeared at the club tonight and took the main character.]

"Ha."

I chug directly from the bottle, the whiskey burning a path down my throat.

[The world system is protecting the narrative. The harem must form. When you disrupted the intended sequence, it... adapted. Used you as a substitute trigger.]

I stare at the bottle in my hand. At the stitches in my palm. At the city lights glittering beyond the window, indifferent to my existence.

"So what you’re telling me is that this world—this reality—tried to rape me. To force me into its bullshit story."

[...That is one way to frame it.]

I take another drink. Let the silence stretch.

[Host. You should not consume alcohol while—]

"Don’t." The word is soft. Tired. "Just... don’t."

The System falls silent.

***

Vivienne

It’s been one week, and Daphne hasn’t been home.

One week of empty hallways. One week of cold sheets. One week of waking up alone and pretending it doesn’t feel like mourning. It’s odd I feel this emptiness when I have only ever spent a night in her bed once.

I hear from Olga that she’s busy. That she had to go abroad for work. That there’s a crisis with her company. Every excuse imaginable, delivered with my mother-in-law’s usual warmth and absolutely no suspicion.

Despite having lived in the Han mansion for a year before she appeared, now that she’s gone... it feels empty. Wrong. Like a body with no heart.

The walls echo. The garden feels smaller. Even my favorite spots—the patio where I watched her paint, the kitchen where she cornered me, all feel like graves.

I can’t do this anymore.

So today, I make a hasty decision. A desperate one. I grab my bag and leave without telling anyone, without making excuses, without caring what it looks like.

I need to see her.

*

Her apartment building is modern, sleek, intimidating. I ride the elevator up with my heart in my throat, rehearsing what I’ll say. I missed you. Why did you leave? What happened? Do you still want me?

The door to her unit is polished wood, expensive, impersonal.

I knock.

Nothing.

I wait. Knock again. Press my ear to the door and hear... silence.

Maybe she’s not here?

But I called her company this morning. Disguised my voice, pretended to be a client. They said she’s been working from home all week. That she hasn’t come into the office.

So she’s here. She has to be here.

I knock again. Harder. Longer.

Twenty minutes. I stand here for twenty minutes, knocking, waiting, knocking again. Nothing.

Desperation makes me stupid. Makes me brave. I try the door handle—

It opens.

It opens.

I step inside, heart pounding.

"Daphne?"

I walk further in, past a minimalist kitchen, past a hallway with closed doors, into the living room.

And I find her.

She’s in a chair by the window, facing the city. Not moving. Not responding.

"Daphne?" My voice is smaller now. Scared.

No response.

I drop my bag and rush to her.

She’s pale. Too pale.On the floor beside her chair, a spilled bottle of alcohol lies on its side, a dark stain spreading across the expensive rug. It’s dried—has been for a while.

How long has she been here?

"Daphne?" I shake her shoulders. Nothing. "Daphne, wake up!"

No response.

My heart stops.

No. No, no, no.

I press my ear to her chest, holding my own breath, and nearly sob when I feel it—a heartbeat. Weak, but there. She’s alive. She’s alive.

I scramble for my bag, hands shaking so badly I can barely open it. My phone slips through my fingers twice before I catch it. I dial with trembling hands, press the phone to my ear, and try to speak clearly through the terror.

"I need an ambulance. Please. I think—I think she’s overdosed. Or alcohol poisoning. I don’t know. Please hurry."

I give the address. Stay on the line. Kneel beside her and hold her cold hand and pray to gods I’ve never believed in.