On the third day of my mission to capture Tristan’s heart, he confessed his feelings to me. But the affection meter floating above his head clearly read a solid 0! After we made it official, he spoiled me rotten. On our sixth anniversary, he proposed in a spectacular, high-profile way. As I was nodding with tears in my eyes, a barrage of live comments suddenly floated across my vision: [The Second Male Lead must be so exhausted acting. To protect the Female Lead, he endured his disgust and played along with the Vicious Supporting Female for 6 whole years!] [This substitute really bought into her role, LMAO!] My blood instantly froze. No wonder that number hadn't changed in six years. At the same time, the system's cold, mechanical voice exploded in my mind: "Final phase initiated. Capture countdown: Ten days." "Upon failure, you will be completely obliterated." Smiling, I pulled back the hand he was about to put the ring on and wiped my tears. "Sorry, but I'm tired of playing this dating game." 1. The holographic comments were still scrolling past my eyes: [Whoa, did the supporting girl's expression just change?] [She should've woken up a long time ago. The Second Male Lead only has the Female Lead in his heart.] [Sitting here waiting for her to go crazy and turn evil—] Turn evil? No. I just suddenly remembered a lot of details. He never allowed me to meet anyone alone, claiming he was "worried about bad influences." He always gently interrupted whenever I brought up my career: "I make enough to take care of you." It turned out that wasn't him spoiling me. It was a cage. I returned to our shared mansion in a daze, mechanically throwing my things into a suitcase. As I passed the study, the comments suddenly surged: [Look at the computer! Tristan didn't log out of his messages!] [Oh no, if she sees his chat history, it's over...] [Danger! Initiate Female Lead Protection Protocol!] A crisp notification chime echoed from the study. I pushed the door open and walked in. The monitor was glowing, displaying a chat window between Tristan and the Male Lead, Carter. The latest message was sent by Tristan: "She suddenly rejected the proposal. Protect Chloe these next few days. Don't let Harper anywhere near her." Carter replied quickly: "Don't worry. Thanks for your hard work all these years." I laughed out loud. How absurd. Because of me, two men who used to be bitter rivals had formed a united front. I scrolled up. The chat history sliced through my skin like a dull knife. Carter: "I remember in the original plot, Harper not only ruined Chloe's face but also hired guys to assault her. It must be so hard for you to share a bed with that venomous woman every day." Tristan: "As long as Chloe is safe, none of this matters." Carter: "She seems to be falling deeper in love with you. If she finds out the truth, will she go even crazier?" Tristan: "She won't find out." "And if she does, and dares to touch a hair on Chloe's head—" "I'll break her arms and legs, throw her in a psych ward, and lock her up for the rest of her life." He even added an exclamation mark to that last sentence. I stared at the screen, my fingertips turning to ice. The comments were boiling over: [“None of this matters”... The Second Male Lead loves her so much! I won't say who!] [Am I the only one who thinks this conversation is terrifying? Setting someone up for six years just to protect the Female Lead?] [To the person above: She's a vicious extra! He's doing society a favor while protecting his true love. It's a win-win!] [Look at the supporting girl's face... is she about to snap?] [Stop causing trouble and just run away!] Run? I looked down at my slender wrists. Yeah. I needed to run. It was pitch black by the time I dragged my suitcase out the front door. I stood on the sidewalk, momentarily unsure of where to go. The comments were getting anxious on my behalf: [Is she really leaving?] [Hurry up and go! Don't ruin the sweet moments between the Second Male Lead and the Female Lead!] [Wait... is that car in the distance Tristan's?!] Headlights pierced the darkness, and a familiar black sedan slammed on its brakes right next to me. Tristan got out and ran over. His dress shirt was slightly wrinkled, his breathing heavy, and his face wore a perfectly crafted mask of panic and heartbreak. "Harper, I'm sorry. I rushed it... I thought you'd be happy." He reached out to grab my hand, his eyes turning red. "Don't leave. Let's sit down and talk, okay?" If this were the past, my heart would have melted into a puddle. But now, all I could think of was the phrase break her arms and legs and lock her up. I took a half-step back, dodging his touch. "I don't blame you," I heard my own voice say, light and airy. "I'm just bored of this." "Bored...?" His eyelashes fluttered, acting as if he couldn't comprehend the word. "You don't love me anymore?" Under the streetlights, his features were tinged with a shattered vulnerability. His acting was so flawless he deserved an Oscar. A single comment drifted by: [Honestly, his kindness to her these past six years couldn't have been entirely fake... this is kind of heartbreaking.] That sentence suddenly woke me up. I raised my head and looked deeply into his eyes. "Tristan." "In these six years, was there even a single second... where you genuinely felt happy?" His pupils shrank infinitesimally. He didn't answer. But the comments exploded: [!!! Did she find out?!] [Holy shit, high alert—] [Tristan, don't just stand there! Make up a lie!!] The wind was freezing. I grabbed my suitcase, turned around, and vanished into the night. No footsteps chased after me. Only the clear, rhythmic ticking of the countdown echoed in my mind: 9 days, 23 hours, 59 minutes. —The game wasn't over yet. But the player was done following the rules. 2. I hailed a cab and leaned against the cold window, my hands trembling uncontrollably. Not out of fear. Out of excitement. So this was what it felt like to strip away a six-year facade. It felt like I could finally take a deep breath. The countdown flashed coldly in my peripheral vision: 9 days, 23 hours, 10 minutes. I had less than ten days to live. All because of a man who would never love me. How ridiculous. "Where to, miss?" the driver asked, glancing at me through the rearview mirror. I gave him an address. It was a riverside café I used to love. Tristan had once told me it was "too loud and chaotic." He never let me go back after that. The comments drifted across my vision: [Where is she going? Why isn't she running away?] [Tristan's last look was terrifying...] [Is it just me, or does she look absolutely stunning in that red dress?] Outside the window, the neon lights of the city blurred past. For the past six years, I had lived inside a glass dome. Everything I saw was a sanitized version of the world, filtered by Tristan. Now, the glass was shattered. The wind poured in, bringing with it the smell of street food, the damp river breeze, and the laughter of strangers. It felt so real it made me want to cry. The café was exactly where it used to be. The bell above the door chimed as I pushed it open. The owner, Dave, a man with a graying beard, paused when he saw me. "Harper?" "Dave. Long time no see." "It really is you!" He wiped his hands on his apron and stepped out from behind the counter. "It's been what, five or six years? You used to love that window seat. You'd order a latte and write screenplays all afternoon..." Only then did I remember. Before I met Tristan, I used to come here to write my thesis. I was a film student back then, dreaming of winning an Academy Award, scribbling margin notes all over my scripts. And then what happened? Then Tristan said, "Acting is too exhausting. Let me take care of you." He said, "Hollywood is too toxic. It doesn't suit you." He said, "Harper, having me is enough." And like an idiot, I believed him. I skipped my auditions, turned down contracts, locked my dreams in a drawer, and handed him the key. "The usual?" Dave asked. "Yeah," I paused. "And add a slice of tiramisu." I never dared to eat it before. Tristan used to tell me I "gained weight easily and wouldn't look good on camera." But I only had ten days left. What did it matter if I gained weight? The window seat was empty. I sat down. The river breeze brushed my face, and the city lights on the opposite bank reflected in the dark water, shattering into ripples of liquid gold. As I took the first bite of cake, the sweet cream and the bitter coffee-soaked ladyfingers melted on my tongue. I closed my eyes. It was so delicious. So this was what it felt like to be alive. The comments went quiet for a moment before slowly resuming: [She's eating so earnestly...] [Why do I feel inexplicably sad?] [If I only had ten days left to live, I'd want a good meal too.] [But seriously, is Tristan really going to let her be this free? I doubt it.] I doubted it too. So when my phone buzzed with Tristan's name on the caller ID, I wasn't surprised in the slightest. I answered but didn't speak. "Harper, where are you?" "I'm worried about you," his voice carried a trace of exhaustion. "I'm eating." "Come home, Harper," he softened his tone. "We both need to calm down. I promise I won't bother you tonight. You can sleep in the guest room. We'll talk things out tomorrow, okay?" Such a familiar cadence. For six years, every time I threw a tantrum, he acted exactly like this. Gently, patiently coaxing me back into the cage, step by step. And then everything would return to the status quo. "Tristan," I said, staring out at the river. "Do you remember my senior thesis film?" He went silent for a moment. "Why bring that up now?" "I played a captive woman who, in the end, burned the house down with herself inside it." I scooped up another bite of cake. "You told me the acting was too extreme. You said no one in real life would be that stupid." "But I understand it now." "She wasn't stupid. It was just that the fire was the only thing she had left." The breathing on the other end of the line grew heavier. "What exactly are you trying to say?" "I'm trying to say," I swallowed the last bite of cake, "for the next ten days, I'm going to live my own life." "Don't look for me. Don't bother me. Don't threaten me using my family." "After ten days, if I'm still alive..." I let out a soft laugh. "Then we can go back to playing your game." 3. I checked into the most expensive presidential suite in the city, swiping the supplementary black card Tristan had given me. The comments were still flowing: [A presidential suite??? She really knows how to enjoy herself.] [Using the Second Male Lead's money to stay in a luxury hotel. Legend.] [She only has ten days left. Let her splurge!] I dropped my suitcase in the foyer and sank into a bathtub covered in rose petals. The countdown ticked in my mind: 8 days, 14 hours, 32 minutes. I had eight and a half days left. My phone was eerily quiet. Tristan hadn't called back. That was very unlike him. Deep into the night, I was lying on the massive California King bed. The comments were sparse: [Is she really sleeping? She's got nerves of steel.] [What is the Second Male Lead doing? I think he's tracking her phone's GPS.] [Honestly, this feeling of being constantly monitored is suffocating.] Just as I was drifting off, a violent crash echoed from the front of the suite. I jolted upright. The comments instantly exploded: [WTF WAS THAT SOUND?!] [Someone's kicking the door down!!!] [Is it Tristan???] [Help, I'm so tense!] Before I could react, the bedroom door was violently kicked open. Tristan stood in the doorway. His eyes were completely bloodshot, looking like a man pushed to the absolute edge of fury. "Harper." His voice was hoarse as he walked toward me, step by heavy step. I instinctively grabbed the collar of my bathrobe. He stopped in front of me, his shadow entirely engulfing me. "Where is Chloe?" I froze. "What?" "Stop acting." He suddenly grabbed my wrist, his grip so tight my bones ached. "Where did you kidnap Chloe? Tell me!" "I don't know what you're talking about—" I tried to pull away, but he squeezed harder. The comments were scrolling at lightspeed: [What's going on? The Female Lead got kidnapped?] [By the supporting girl? Impossible, she's been at the hotel the whole time!] [The timeline doesn't match up. She didn't have time to hire kidnappers!] [Tristan has lost his damn mind!] "Tristan, let me go!" I gasped in pain. "I haven't even seen Chloe! I've been here the whole—" "Harper, I underestimated you." "You put on such a great show of being heartbroken, only to turn around and kidnap Chloe? You really are a venomous bitch." "I didn't do it," I said through gritted teeth. He violently shoved me back onto the mattress, leaning over and pinning me by placing his hands on either side of my head. "I'm giving you one last chance. Where is Chloe? What did you do to her?" His breath hit my face, carrying an almost psychotic hostility. In six years, I had never seen this side of him. The comments began to split: [Tristan is terrifying...] [But if the supporting girl really kidnapped the FL, she deserves it, right?] [Read the room! She didn't have time to commit the crime!] [Could this be a setup?] "I told you, I don't know." "Tristan, look at me. Have I ever lied to you in the past six years?" His pupils contracted. He wavered for a split second. "The location where Chloe's phone signal disappeared," he looked down at me, his gaze like a poisoned blade, "was the exact same café you went to." My blood ran cold. A trap. Someone had set a trap. "It wasn't me, I didn't..." My voice started to tremble. "Enough!" He abruptly stood up and pulled a switchblade from his pocket. Grabbing my hand, he pressed the cold steel edge directly against my wrist. "Harper." His voice was horrifyingly low. "I know you hate Chloe. I know you hate her for stealing me away—even though I never belonged to you to begin with. But you don't get to touch her." "I'm going to ask you one last time! Where is Chloe?" The blade bit into the flesh of my wrist. Bright red blood instantly welled up. Agony shot through my veins like an electric current. My vision went dark, and I nearly passed out. The comments were going insane: [He's lost it! He's completely lost it!] [I'm starting to feel bad for the supporting girl... she legitimately looks clueless.] [Harper, say something! Even if you have to lie!] I opened my mouth, a broken, breathy sound escaping my throat: "I... didn't..." 4. Crimson blood stained the pristine white sheets. Tristan's hand was like an iron vice, locking my wrist in place. The blade remained buried in my flesh. Every heartbeat brought a fresh wave of tearing agony. "One last time," his voice sounded like it was coming from miles away. "Where is Chloe?" I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. My vision began to blur. All I could see was his clenched jaw and the manic, bloodthirsty redness in his eyes. The comments flooded in like a tidal wave: [She's fading fast...] [Tristan, let go! She's actually going to die!] [Can someone call 911?! This is literally attempted murder!] [Where the hell is the system?! Are they just going to ignore this level of violence?!] The system remained dead silent. Right. In a capture-target game, the life of the supporting female character was never a priority. I was just an NPC. A stumbling block on the protagonists' path to true love. A malicious background prop meant to highlight the Female Lead's kindness. But I could feel pain. Real, agonizing pain. "Still won't talk?" Tristan pressed the blade down another fraction of an inch. I heard the faint sound of skin tearing, followed by a warmer, heavier flow of blood. Black spots danced in my vision, like static on an old television set. Just as I thought I was actually going to die right then and there— Tristan's phone rang. The moment he saw the caller ID, his pupils dilated. He answered it almost instantly: "Chloe?" From the other end came a woman's intermittent sobbing: "Tristan... I-I escaped..." "They took me to an abandoned warehouse on the west side... they all ran away..." "...I'm so scared..." "Don't be scared! I'm on my way!" Tristan's tone shifted instantly. The ruthless cruelty vanished, replaced by a trembling, desperate tenderness I had never heard before. "Are you hurt? Find somewhere safe to hide." He forgot to even hang up the phone. He dropped my wrist and sprinted out of the suite. The blade was yanked out of my flesh, sending another spike of blinding pain through my arm. I collapsed back onto the mattress, watching his silhouette disappear through the door. The comments went dead silent for a second before exploding: [He just left her?!] [Her wrist is still bleeding!] [He could have at least called an ambulance?!] [This is his idea of love? Being willing to casually slaughter someone else for the FL?] [How did I ever think he was devoted and romantic...] I struggled to lift my uninjured hand, reaching for my phone on the nightstand. My fingertips were shaking. It was only inches away, but it felt like miles. More and more blood poured from my wrist. The sheets were soaked, the deep crimson spreading endlessly across the white fabric. I gritted my teeth and threw my entire body weight forward by a single inch— My fingers finally brushed the edge of the phone. The comments turned into a cheering squad: [Come on! You got it!] [Dial 911! Hurry!] [Don't fall asleep! Hang in there!] I unlocked the screen, but my vision was too blurry to make out the numbers. Relying entirely on muscle memory, I tapped 9-1-1 and hit dial. The dial tone rang through the speaker. Once. Twice. My breathing grew shallower, the black spots in my vision multiplying. Click. The call connected. "911, what is your emergency?" I opened my mouth to speak, but only a faint gasp escaped. "Hello? Can you hear me? Do you need police, fire, or medical?" I wanted to say: I'm at a hotel. I'm bleeding out. I'm dying. But it felt like something was blocking my throat. I couldn't make a sound. "Hello? Is anyone there?" The voice from the speaker grew distant. The phone slipped from my fingers, hitting the plush carpet with a dull thud. The comments were frantic: [NO!!!] [Somebody save her!!!] [Where is the hotel staff?! How did no one hear a door getting kicked down?!] [Tristan, you absolute piece of shit!!!] My consciousness began to scatter. In a daze, I felt like I was floating. I looked down and saw myself curled up in a pool of blood, my face as pale as a sheet of paper. And then I saw the comments updating. [Tristan found Chloe.] [Chloe threw herself into his arms and cried.] [He's comforting her, telling her 'it's going to be okay.'] [Chloe kissed him.] [...They're making out.] [While Harper is literally lying here bleeding to death.] The comments paused for a few seconds. Then the tone drastically shifted: [I suddenly feel... incredibly sick.] [What did the supporting girl even do wrong? She just fell in love with the wrong guy.] [She genuinely dedicated six years of her life to him.] [What gives Tristan the right to treat her like this?] [If she dies, he's a literal murderer.] [I want to see him regret this.] [I want to see him drop to his knees and beg for her forgiveness.] [But she might not live to see it.] [Can someone please go to the hotel and save her? I can't watch this anymore.] The countdown was still glowing, flickering weakly in my mind: 8 days, 9 hours, 01 minutes. The game wasn't over. But it looked like the player was logging off early.
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