Chapter 1: Model for My Life or Death

When I landed smack in the villainess role, I barely had a second to process before I realized I was awkwardly coming on to the fallen male lead. Great. Just my luck.

The room was so thick with tension it felt like I was breathing soup. Chase Whitaker’s shirt was rumpled, and he looked like he was trying to behave, but I could see the storm brewing behind those meek eyes. I knew he was already at his breaking point. Any second now, he’d snap and tumble straight into the darkness the story promised.

I barely stopped myself from reaching for his abs and, instead, patted his shoulder, my voice shaking. “Uh, hey, you’ve got a great build.”

My palm lingered a second too long. The awkwardness practically crackled between us. I tried to keep my voice steady, praying he wouldn’t notice how my fingers twitched from nerves. Still, I forced a casual grin, like complimenting guys’ physiques was just my Tuesday routine.

“Actually, I need a figure model for my art. What do you say—can I hire you?”

Chase just froze.

His eyes flickered, just for a second, with something unreadable—like he couldn’t decide if this was a joke, a trap, or just the weirdest pickup line ever.

At least, thanks to my quick thinking, the tension seemed to ease a notch. I breathed a sigh of relief, lied about heading out for art supplies, and made a run for it.

I practically sprinted down the hallway. My heart hammered against my ribs. My sneakers squeaked on the polished floor as I ducked out of sight, adrenaline making my hands shake. I didn’t even dare look back—what if he changed his mind?

What I never expected was that five years later, he’d find me again.

It was the kind of night where the world outside felt a million miles away, the only light was a sliver of moon sneaking through a grimy window. In a dim, cell-like room, a soft, delicate paintbrush traced across my skin, sending chills racing up my spine. Chase painted slowly, his voice low and coaxing:

His breath tickled my ear, each word a slow drawl that made my pulse skip. The brush felt cool and teasing, like he was tracing secrets onto my skin.

“You’ve been gone so long. What kind of brush could you possibly be missing?”

His words dripped with double meaning, the corners of his mouth quirking up, inviting and dangerous all at once.

“I’ve got all kinds here. Try them all—whichever you like, it’s yours.”

He leaned in closer, his tone a whisper meant just for me. The heat between us was almost suffocating.

“Mmm, it’s so hot…” he murmured.

The moment I opened my eyes, I heard ragged, hoarse breathing from beneath me. Wait—what?

For a split second, I wondered if I was still dreaming, because the sight below me was straight out of a fever dream, I swear. A devastatingly handsome boy was pinned under me on the bed, his clothes a mess. His dark eyes were glassy, the corners tinged red as he stared up at me.

“It hurts… please, help me…”

It should have set my heart racing. Instead, I just froze.

Time seemed to slow. The world narrowed to the desperate plea in his voice and the panic rising in my chest. My fingers curled into the bedsheet. My mind? Blank.

Wait. What the hell was going on?

Just a second ago, I was picking a transmigration role with the system! How did I end up here?

I could still remember the bright white screen, the little spinning wheel of options, my own voice echoing in my head, half bored, half curious. The system told me I could enter an obsessive, possessive romance novel and pick any character I wanted.

I’d read that novel before. The male lead, Chase Whitaker, started out as a privileged young heir. But after his family lost everything, he got chewed up by the world. Eventually, he turned into a madman who did all sorts of evil, tangled up in a love-hate mess with the righteous heroine.

I’m a slacker by nature. No way did I want to get on that rollercoaster—I just wanted to keep my head down.

So I said, “Just give me some unimportant role, whatever.”

The system snickered: “You got it! Don’t worry, Host!”

And just like that, I was here.

I was stunned. What kind of role was this supposed to be? Was this even a real character?

The room smelled faintly of expensive perfume and anxiety. My own heart hammered against my ribs. Sweat beaded at my temples. This couldn’t be real, right?

Suddenly, someone grabbed my hand.

His grip was warm, surprisingly gentle. But there was an undercurrent of desperation.

The boy guided my hand along the lines of his muscles, moving lower and lower.

“Help me, please.”

“Since you already dragged me back here, shouldn’t you take responsibility?”

He looked so pitiful and innocent, like a puppy left out in the rain.

But my scalp prickled. Something was off.

That line! That way of speaking!

And then it hit me. I finally remembered.

In the original, when Chase was on the edge of snapping, there was a cannon-fodder heiress—so unimportant she didn’t even have a name. Just cannon-fodder, plain and simple—who lusted after his looks and forced him back to her place.

But Chase hated being touched more than anything. He pretended to go along, then killed her when she let her guard down. After that, there was no turning back from his madness.

So… I was that cannon-fodder heiress!

I broke down, screaming at the system in my head. Seriously? System, get out here! Did you mess up?!

The system shot back, all flippant:

“Nope! Look, this role fits your requirements perfectly! Dies at the start, doesn’t even have a name—how much more unimportant could you get?”

…

I just wanted to slack off, not end up dead in a ditch.

Seeing my face cycle through every color in the crayon box, the system caved fast:

“Don’t be mad, Host! I’ll find a way to swap your role! Hang tight!”

Then it vanished.

I stared, wide-eyed. “How about saving me first?!” Unbelievable.

Don’t be mad, it says—by the time it comes back, I’ll be long gone!

While I was silently cursing this useless system, Chase suddenly spoke up. My heart jumped.

His voice was low, almost teasing. But there was a dangerous edge beneath it. He smiled. “Why did you stop?”

Running on pure survival instinct, I tried to play it off.

I let out a nervous laugh, playing dumb: “Stop what? I have no idea what you’re talking about—maybe you’re misunderstanding me. Haha, really.”

My voice cracked at the end. I could feel my face flush.

“You really like to joke.”

Chase cut me off with a smile. But his eyes were bottomless and dark.

“Just now, you had someone tie me to the bed, then you sat on me and started stripping me, touching me everywhere… so, what exactly do you want to keep doing?”

My vision went black.

It was like my brain just short-circuited.

The look in Chase’s eyes turned deadly. His hand moved, slow and deliberate, toward the knife hidden under the pillow.

Panic set in. My eyes darted around, searching for any excuse to save myself.

Suddenly, my gaze landed on Chase—right now, his clothes were a mess, revealing big stretches of pale skin. He was still just a boy, but his body was well-proportioned, his lines elegant and smooth—he could be a model.

My eyes lit up. Wait, maybe I had a shot.

I used to be a broke art student. Whenever I needed a figure model, I had to drag some half-asleep classmate out of the studio. I’d never seen anyone as jaw-dropping as Chase in person.

An idea struck. Without thinking, I patted Chase’s shoulder.

My hand shook a little, but I tried to act confident.

“You’ve got it all wrong.”

“Honestly, the way I acted just now was because your body is incredible.”

“I’ve always needed a figure model for my art, and the moment I saw you, I thought you’d be perfect. I just got a little overexcited.”

I looked at him, trying to channel utter sincerity.

I let my voice go soft, like I was sharing a secret, hoping it’d make me sound more believable. “So, can I hire you?”

Chase’s hand froze as it reached for the knife.

“You’re saying you tied me up just to use me as a model?”

Exactly! Please buy it, please buy it.

I nodded like crazy, and to sell it, I even started critiquing him:

“Your muscle definition is clean and smooth, perfect for practicing figure drawing.”

“Your features are striking—makes it easy for me to study light and shadow on the face.”

“And your proportions—are you even real? I’ve only ever seen this in textbooks…”

As I went on, my praise became genuinely heartfelt. I couldn’t help it.

I could hear the excitement creeping into my own voice, my inner art nerd taking over. For a second, I almost forgot I was supposed to be saving my life.

Chase stared at me, as if searching for some hidden agenda in my eyes. But all he saw was pure, unfiltered joy at finding a free figure model.

He paused, his eyelashes trembling.

“I’m really that suitable for being drawn?”

Then he gave a self-mocking laugh. Ouch.

“You’re joking, right, Miss? Someone as messed up as me—if you draw me, it’ll just be an ugly picture, won’t it?”

That ticked me off.

“Don’t underestimate my skills!”

“I got into art school, didn’t I? There’s no way I’d draw something ugly!”

“Just wait—I’ll sketch you right now!”

Chase froze again. But this time, he actually sat still and let me draw.

He didn’t move a muscle, just sat there like he was afraid any sudden motion would break the spell. I grabbed some paper and a pencil, then carefully studied him—his face, his chest, his waist and legs. But the more I looked, the quieter I got. My mind kept running circles.

I realized why Chase had said what he did.

His clothes were a mess, and scars covered his exposed skin, big and small. His eyes were dark and cold, like a bottomless, lifeless pool. He’d clearly been through hell.

If I drew all that, the picture would look awful. No way.

So, after thinking it over, I changed my approach.

I let my pencil linger, softening the lines, erasing every scar. I wanted to capture something more than just skin and bone.

When I handed Chase the finished sketch, he took one look and froze.

On the paper, the boy’s body was clean and unblemished, not a single scar in sight. In his eyes was the reflection of a bright, full moon outside the window. The moonlight was soft and clear, making his eyes shine like stars.

Chase was silent for a long time. Finally, he asked, “Why didn’t you draw the scars?”

I smiled and explained, “Art is about capturing meaningful moments.”

“Scars are just extra details—I don’t need them. You’re still so young; they’ll fade.”

“Better to use my ink on things that matter—like…”

I met his gaze and praised him sincerely:

“See, you probably never noticed your own eyes before.”

“But now that I’ve drawn them, you can see how beautiful they look in the moonlight.”

“They really shine—they’re gorgeous.”

I pretended to sigh regretfully.

“It’s just… if you smiled more, they’d be even prettier.”

Chase’s breath caught. For the first time, I saw my own reflection in his eyes. Then, slowly, a shy, unfamiliar smile appeared at the corners of his mouth.

His cheeks tinged with the faintest blush. The tension in his shoulders eased, just a little. It was the first time I’d seen him look… hopeful.

“…Alright.”

“I’ll be your figure model.”