Snow.
It always looked beautiful in books.
White. Pure. Silent.
But when it seeped into your skin, when it invaded your lungs like needles of ice… it didn't feel like poetry. It felt like punishment.
He coughed. His breath came out like frost smoke. His hands were purple. His coat was thin—ripped, second-hand junk. The kind of thing even street dogs refused to sleep on.
He pulled his knees up tighter. The alley gave no shelter. The snow kept falling.
"You're always getting in trouble. You should be grateful I even took you in."
His uncle's voice rang in his ears. That locked the apartment door behind him. The heavy slam. The finality.
That wasn't the first night he was locked out.
It was just the coldest.
His body trembled. He tried to punch the wall. His fist barely tapped it.
Martial arts…
So what? Knowing how to fight doesn't mean you're not scared.
The beating earlier hadn't even come from his uncle — it was from classmates. Again.
It didn't matter that he could take all of them if he wanted to. He never fought back. Fear wrapped around him like chains. He had always been like this — the kind of person who read stories of heroes but never became one.
He was a coward.
And now, as his teeth chattered and his thoughts slowed… he knew he was going to die as one too.
His eyes blurred. The snowflakes falling looked like little stars.
He smiled bitterly.
"...So this is it, huh?"
Darkness
Then…
Warmth.
Not the peaceful kind. The kind that makes your body scream because it forgot what warmth even felt like.
His fingers twitched.
He heard the rustle of silk. The smell of herbs. A pillow softer than anything he'd ever touched.
He sat up in a panic.
Wait.
This wasn't right.
This wasn't his body.
Small fingers. Slender arms. His voice — soft. High.
He scrambled to a nearby mirror, almost tripping over the hem of a nightgown.
Staring back at him…
…was a girl.
Big violet eyes.
White, messy hair down to her back.
No scars. No signs of frostbite.
Just… confusion. Panic. And the faint echo of someone else's pain.
He slowly raised a hand. The reflection did the same.
"No, no, no, no—what the ACTUAL hell is happening?!"
He leaned in, eyes wide.
"...Okay. First of all, why am I so short?"
He turned left. Right. Pulled at the hair.
"...Second, what is with this long snow-princess hair?!"
His voice cracked.
Then came the final horror.
He slowly looked down. Not flat exactly. But…
"…Third. Am I a…?"
He looked again.
"YEP. I'M A GIRL. THIS IS REAL. PANIC LEVEL TEN."
He stumbled backward and hit the bedpost.
This isn't a dream. This is full-on transmigration.
And not just into anyone.
His heart slowed as a realization dawned.
"…No way…"
This face. These eyes. This body.
It was someone he had seen before.
Not in real life.
In fiction.
"This is Sylpha… from that tragic novel…"
The girl he cried for once. The one who was a side character, a noble girl abused by her family, who died before the second act even started. The readers forgot her. The author discarded her.
But he never did.
"Why would I transmigrate into her of all people?"
Before he could even finish processing it—
Knock.
The door creaked open.
A woman in a maid outfit stood at the threshold. Brown eyes. Tightly pinned hair. Expression like she smelled something rotten.
"You're late, young miss" she snapped. "Breakfast is in ten minutes. No more excuses."
"…sophia?"
The woman's eyes narrowed. "Speak clearly. And do not call me that so casually."
Then she turned and left.
Sylpha — What....what a rotten personality, she talks to her master like she is the master.
"Just wait I'll beat some sense into you, when the Times comes"
Then she stepped backward and lay down in her bed, then suddenly a strong pain surge through her mind like a thousand niddle stab in her brain.
Then Memory Echoes
Bits and pieces of her memory floated in like broken glass.
Her uncle never looked her in the eye.
Her cousins laughed when she was blamed for things she didn't do.
One of them… the youngest… he hesitated once. He covered for her.
"The third cousin…" he whispered. "He's afraid of his brothers, but… he's different."
And this room… it was beautiful on the surface, but cold. Lifeless. Like a doll's house with no soul.
The Dining Hall
The long table was filled with food — none of it for her.
Three cousins. Two parents. One broken girl.
Nobody greeted her. Nobody served her. She stood, awkward and freezing, until someone finally motioned to the stool near the end.
The eldest cousin — maybe 16 — sneered. The second laughed under his breath.
Only the third… he looked down.
"Still the same, huh?"
"Pretend you're not watching. Pretend you're not helping. But deep down, you want to."
She sat. No one noticed.
They ate. She didn't.
Later That Night
He couldn't sleep.
His body was foreign. Fragile. But his mind was full of muscle memory — techniques, footwork, breath control. Things he never used before.
He found an abandoned cellar. Moved crates. Cleared a space.
Then he started moving.
Strike. Turn. Elbow. Guard.
He looked ridiculous doing it in a dress.
But every punch felt like he was clawing something back.
Something real.
Something his.
His fists trembled. But not from the cold this time.
He was remembering who he used to be.
Who he could become.
"I may be in her body… but I'm not just Sylpha."
"This time… I will fight back."