I Accidentally Seduced The Heroine's Idol

Dying? It sucks. Seriously.

No grand exit. No bright lights. No peaceful, poetic goodbye. Just me, a room that smelled like old sweat and salt, and a throat full of instant noodles. That’s it.

If you told me three months ago I’d go out at twenty-five, choking on cheap spicy noodles, I would’ve laughed. Back then, I was a Public Relations specialist. My life was stressful, sure. Deadlines, clients, coffee. But it was normal. Then came the Friday night phone call. Hospital. Accident. Parents gone.

Just like that.

My world didn’t just end, it imploded. I quit my job. Blocked everyone’s number. Locked myself in this shoebox apartment. It’s a dumpster fire in here. Laundry pile growing like a mold colony in the corner, empty bottles everywhere, the air thick with stale rot and seasoning. My only escape was my phone.

Reading some trashy fantasy novel called The Warlord’s Holy Blessing. Stupid plot. Saintly girl, handsome men, empire drama. The usual cliché garbage.

But tonight, this one side character made my blood boil.

“The author has to be kidding me,” I muttered. My voice sounded like gravel. Hadn’t spoken in days.

Ilse de Varannes. That was the name. The loyal, brainless sidekick to the main villainess, Gisella. From chapter one, Ilse’s whole existence was just… dumb. She was the one spilling drinks on the heroine. Planting fake rumors that a toddler could debunk. Hiring amateur hitmen.

As a specialist, someone who lived to clean up messes and manipulate public perception, watching Ilse felt like a physical assault on my brain. Her moves? Garbage. Predictable. Zero contingency plans. She was practically begging the Crown Prince to chop her head off.

“You don’t ruin someone’s rep with physical stunts, you idiot,” I ranted to my empty room. “You play the victim! You destroy their credibility slowly, subtly. You don’t hand your neck to the executioner for a petty thrill!”

I sighed, chest tight. I just wanted Ilse to get smart. But no. Tonight, the imperial military finally decided to clean house.

I shuffled to the kitchen. Boiled a pack of spicy noodles. Sat back on the bed, phone propped against a pillow, ready to watch Ilse get what she deserved.

I scrolled down.

High Court. Ilse exposed. The executioner? Duke d’Alençon. Grand Commander of the military. Ruthless. Cold.

The text was vivid: …Ilse knelt on the cold platform, chains heavy on her wrists. Duke d’Alençon stood there, black uniform, looking at her like she was literal trash. One swift swing. Her head rolled. Blood everywhere. Crowd cheered.

“Pathetic,” I snorted.

What a waste. Hundreds of chapters of chaos just to end like a bug on a windshield. I shoved a massive, hot mouthful of noodles into my mouth. I was about to laugh.

Mistake.

I choked.

The air I tried to suck in for a laugh just pulled the noodles down my windpipe.

Uhuk! Uh-!

Something slammed against my chest. Air gone. My throat… it felt like it was fused shut. I clawed at my neck. My hand slipped. The noodle bowl hit the floor. Hot broth splashed my feet—burned like hell, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t breathe. I stood up. Stumbled. My knees hit the coffee table, sending everything crashing down. Glass broke. Cups shattered. But I didn’t care about the noise. I was gasping, chest heaving, lungs screaming for air that wouldn’t come.

No one was coming.

I’d pushed everyone away. I was dying alone, surrounded by my own trash.

My vision began to gray out. Tunnel vision. The room went cold. I collapsed, hitting the floor hard. My eyes flickered to the bed. The phone was still glowing. Ilse’s execution scene again.

Damn it.

Dying over a pack of instant noodles. A joke. A pathetic, sick joke.

But… as the dark swallowed the room, one thought cut through the panic: If I get another shot? If I wake up as Ilse? I swear to god, I won’t go out like this.

Then, nothing. Just silence.