I died in one world and woke up in another — in the body of the willfully reckless heir of House Ludlow, a cannon‑fodder villain everyone remembers as the little monster who pushed a beloved crown prince into the abyss. I have a system, ten points, and zero survival instincts. The prince I “helped” ruin is Ephraim Jackson: once the adored crown, later the revenge‑blackened sovereign history calls a monster. He’s brilliant, cold, and dangerously unfixable. The original story ends with Ephraim taking everything — crown, vengeance, empire — and burning the rest. My role? The loud, lewd, expendable foil who breaks the hero’s last thread of humanity. New me has one job: don’t let the prince lose the rest of himself. It’s absurd. It’s suicidal. It’s also the only loop that might earn my freedom. So I lied, I flattered, I burned through my limited points buying miracle draughts, and I learned the truth: Ephraim saved himself before — and he almost killed me twice trying to save his soul. We were entangled by schemes, scars, and a magic pill that robbed him of his body for a few months at a time. I kept him alive; he kept me within reach of a knife. This is a story about survival bargains, terrible promises, and an unbearable, slow-burning insistence that two broken men might be each other’s refuge. It’s also a terrible plan that becomes the best thing either of us ever had.