Chapter 1: I Became His Birthmark?!

I woke up in another world, and my mission is to make the male lead fall for me in thirty days. (For the record, this isn’t your average dream or lucid hallucination—I mean actual, full-on body swap, webnovel-style. Welcome to my new, bizarre reality.)

But here’s the catch: I didn’t just land in his world—I ended up as the big, dark birthmark on his face.

That’s right... an actual birthmark! No, seriously.

Right now, this ridiculously handsome guy is sharpening a razor, looking all ready to slice me off his face.

Me: “???” What the hell?!

The moment I opened my eyes—wait. I don’t have eyes.

The second I became conscious, I was instantly struck by the guy in the mirror. He was striking and elegant, with that old-money charm—like a Kennedy, a Vanderbilt, maybe even a young Paul Newman—basically, the kind of beauty you only see in classic movies or on the cover of vintage LIFE magazines.

The old bathroom’s flickering light threw golden halos over his cheekbones and jaw, making him look like he’d stepped straight out of a black-and-white photograph, the kind you’d find tucked away in a dusty family album in a New England attic. Even the air seemed to pause for him. He was that magnetic.

Sorry, I’m running out of adjectives here.

Seriously, words fail me. Even if I used every phrase I know to describe a handsome man, it wouldn’t come close to capturing his whole vibe.

He’s exactly the kind of vintage heartthrob I’m obsessed with. I mean, swoon.

If I had eyes, they’d be sparkling stars right now.

If I had a mouth, I’d be drooling. No shame.

If I could move, I’d have already pounced on him. No shame.

…

But right at the corner of this guy’s mouth, there’s a dark birthmark—pea-sized, shiny, and totally out of place—and just like that, his movie-star looks took a hit.

It’s the kind of thing you’d see in a coming-of-age indie film, the one flaw on the golden boy, the detail that makes you lean in, wondering what stories it hides. But honestly? Not helping.

If it weren’t for this birthmark, he’d be perfect. Seriously.

Figures. I couldn’t help but sigh.

Wow, he’s really going for it. I didn’t expect him to be so ruthless—he actually picked up a straight razor, ready to slice this birthmark right off.

Cut it off, clean and perfect. Yikes.

I was mentally egging him on, until I felt the chill of the blade and a sudden, sharp pain shoot through my body.

“Wait—” I shouted. Panic mode: activated.

I never expected that I was this birthmark! Of all things.

If he cuts me off, won’t I die? Not cool.

Even if I’m just a weird little blob, I don’t want to die—

“Who’s talking?” The guy froze, razor in hand. He looked around.

Oh man, his voice. Wow, his voice.

It’s got that low, husky timbre you’d expect from a late-night radio host—the kind of voice that makes you want to spill all your secrets. Dangerous territory.

Even now, I’m fangirling hard.

Not seeing anyone, he pinched the birthmark—me—again.

“Ouch, ouch, ouch! Let go of me!” That hurt!

His long, strong fingers pinched me so hard I couldn’t stop begging for mercy.

“Let go? Of you?” He hesitated, looked at the mirror, and let go without even thinking.

He blinked, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing—or hearing. For a second, I almost felt bad for the guy. Almost.

“Whew...” Temporarily escaping disaster, I let out the world’s biggest sigh of relief.

He just stared at me, speechless—eyes wide and mouth slightly open.

Adorable. Ah, his shocked expression is so adorable. If only I had hands, I’d really want to pinch those soft, fair cheeks.

His cheeks actually flushed a little, the way people do when they get caught talking to themselves. I swear, if I had hands, I’d totally squish them.

He poked me with his finger and asked, uncertainly, “Was that you talking?” Busted.

I wobbled under his poke and said, “It was me.”

He blinked and hesitantly asked, “What are you? A birthmark spirit?” Wait, is that a thing?

“Pfft...” I burst out laughing—he’s even cuter now. Seriously, too cute.

A birthmark spirit? Sure, why not.

Me: “Yep, I’m a birthmark spirit apprentice. I accidentally landed at the corner of your mouth. Don’t worry, after I finish my thirty-day mission, I’ll be out of your hair. In the meantime, please take good care of me, handsome.”

I tried to sound all mysterious, like one of those trickster spirits from campfire stories. If he’s buying the talking birthmark thing, I might as well lean in.

He just stared, lips pressed tight, as if questioning his own sanity.

Actually, here’s the truth:

Because I was too honest and spoke my mind, I ticked off the company’s buggy, petty “system.”

It’s the kind of corporate pettiness you only hear about in horror stories—except mine comes with actual curses and interdimensional travel. HR would have a field day.

I didn’t expect it to get revenge by throwing me into a miserable isekai trip.

The damned system set up five transmigrations for me. This is the first.

It actually forced me to become a big birthmark on a handsome guy’s face??? What is my life?

Completely insane!!!

This time, I have to survive thirty days and make the guy fall in love with me to get back to my own world.

“This mission is too hard, can I change it?” I even begged the system.

Who would fall in love with a birthmark? Isn’t that ridiculous? Isn’t it gross? Seriously, what are the odds?

He seems normal enough—no way he’d be into this.

Unless he loses his mind. Which, let’s face it, is unlikely.

The system replied coldly: “If you give up, you die. Are you sure you want to die?” Yikes.

Me: “...” (Insert world-weary sigh here.)

He just listened to me ramble. Then, he picked up the razor again and said, cold as ice:

“Whether you’re a birthmark spirit or a piece of coal, I don’t need you.” Ouch.

Honestly, I get why he hates having me around.

Who could accept suddenly growing a huge birthmark on a perfectly good face? I wouldn’t.

But hey, it’s not my fault either.

“Hey, please don’t cut me off. I might be useless, but I can cheer you up.”

Staring down that razor, I panicked and begged.

“Let me sing you a song to cheer you up.” I faked a throat-clear and launched into a song: “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birth—”

I tried to channel Marilyn Monroe, but all that came out was pure chaos.

He interrupted: “Terrible.” Wow, tough crowd.

Me: “...Then let me tell you a joke.” Maybe humor will work.

I faked another throat-clear and started, “If I lived in prehistoric times, I’d eat barbecue every day, grill wherever I want, eat whatever I want...”

He interrupted again: “Even worse.” Ouch, strike two.

Me: “Then I’ll tell you a story. What era do you like? Not to brag, but I know about Colonial Boston, the Roaring Twenties, the Great Depression, World War II, the Space Race—I can go on and on. You name it.”

He said flatly, “Shut up.” Strike three.

“Waaah...” I burst into tears, accusing him of being a total meanie.

If I had tear ducts, I’d be sobbing like a kid who dropped their ice cream cone on a hot summer sidewalk. Why can’t he just spare my little life???