"He followed her in the rain and kissed her. That was the scene, and I almost threw up." I closed the phone and stared at the paragraph like it had insulted me personally. "I remember the next page," I said out loud, because saying things made them real and because talking to myself was cheaper than panic. "'She stepped back, fingers trembling. He laughed and called her by the wrong name.'" My voice didn't shake. There are three sentences you need to know about this world: I read a published novel last year. I woke up inside the body of the woman the book calls 'white moonlight.' I remember how her life ends. "Great," I told the empty townhouse. "Transmigrated, doomed, and apparently fashionable." I tested myself. I read another line from memory and recited the next paragraph verbatim until the words felt like gunfire. "She will be sacrificed," I said. "He will walk away convinced he owns her grief. Everyone will do exactly what the author wrote." I could list the stakes, but three sentences are enough: the plot exists; people will follow it because they already remember it; my only leverage is changing my choices and timing. "Okay," I said. "First rule: never explain in a way that traps me." The vow was short. The vow was sharp. Dinner was supposed to be quiet. Estelle texted a stale emoji and a note: 'Shareholders are asleep tonight. Don't die.' I put the phone face down. The front