My phone died—cut off for an overdue bill—right as I was pulled into a group chat.

It was my third hour behind the convenience store counter. Heat from the back kitchen sagged against me, a physical weight that turned every breath into a struggle.

When I finally used my first paycheck to top up my balance and rebooted the phone, I saw the group name: “Patrick’s Second-Hand Trading Group.” For a second, I actually thought some classmate had kindly added me to hunt for a bargain.

Then I saw it.

The pinned post.

The bet.

Worth a million.

And the subject was me.

The goal? To see who could ruin me first—in two months.

…

My phone buzzed while I was hauling the last crate of near-expired sodas into the storeroom.

Sweat stung my eyes, blurring everything.

**[Jennifer has invited you to join the group chat “Patrick’s Second-Hand Trading Group.”]**

Jennifer? The campus darling. The undisputed queen bee of Royal Crest Academy.

She invited *me*? I wiped my eyes, disbelief turning in my stomach like a cold stone.

I tapped in. The chat was a frenzy.

“Well, look who finally showed up.”

“Welcome, welcome! Give it up for the new queen of the rankings, Sophie!”

“Oof. So this is the scholarship kid who bumped our goddess Jennifer down to second?”

My fingers went cold around the phone.

Before I could process it, the pinned message—set by the group admin—hit my vision like a poisoned blade.

**[Group: Game on. Target: Sophie, Class 1, Grade 11. Participants: Patrick, Johnny. Wager: One million. Rules: First to claim Sophie within two months wins. All details shared here.]**

The admin was Patrick. The school’s top bully, the guy nobody crossed.

The other participant was Johnny. The charming, polished student council president—Patrick’s equal in reputation.

The world tilted. My stomach churned.

This wasn’t a second-hand trading group. It was a hunting ground. Built for me.

And I was the million-dollar prey.

All because, on the last finals, I—the scholarship kid who barely scraped into this elite academy—accidentally scored first. Knocking Jennifer, the perennial top dog, down a peg.

**[Don’t panic, Host! Stay calm! According to the original plot, you’re just the disposable villainess. The plot’s kicking off now!]**

A familiar line of translucent text scrolled past my sight.

Yeah. I could see the bullet comments. Ever since I woke up in this world.

They were ruthless spoilers, telling me I was living in a campus novel. Jennifer was the beloved female lead.

My purpose? To be the foil to her purity and kindness. To get played by Patrick and Johnny, then drop out in disgrace.

“Hey Sophie, cat got your tongue? Scared stiff?”

“A million bucks. If I were her, I’d just pick one and get it over with. At least she’d walk away with something.”

“Ha! As if she’s worth it. Patrick and Johnny are just doing this to teach her a lesson—for Jennifer.”

Finally, Jennifer chimed in, her tone sugary sweet. “Oh, everyone, please don’t say such things about Sophie! She studies so hard, I’m sure she didn’t mean any harm… Patrick, Johnny, don’t take the game too far, okay?”

Her performative concern sparked a wave of sympathetic replies.

I bit down on my lower lip until I tasted copper.

Fear. Rage. Humiliation. They twisted inside me like choking vines, squeezing my heart until I couldn’t breathe.

Leave the group? Pretend I never saw it? And then wait for their endless harassment and schemes, until I was backed into a corner—just like in the original plot?

No.

I glanced down at my phone screen. At the new notification from the hospital. Another payment reminder.

My grandmother’s second surgery. Still twenty thousand short.

My father, the gambler, had blown the last of our household money yesterday. Left us drowning in debt.

I had nowhere to retreat.

If they wanted to play, fine. I’d play.

But I’d be the one writing the rules.

I took a deep breath and moved fast. Created a new social media account. Pitch-black profile picture. Username: “Ethan.”

Then, using that account, I sent my first message straight into the lion’s den.

“Hey everyone. I’m Sophie’s ex-boyfriend.”

The message landed like a depth charge, plunging the chat into stunned silence.

After a brief pause, a flood of question marks erupted.

“???”

“Holy shit! What’s going on? Sophie has an ex?”

“For real? Where did this guy come from?”

Patrick was the first to speak, his style as blunt as ever. “Who the hell are you? Got any proof?”

Johnny, ever the gentleman, was more polished—but his words cut just as deep. “Friend, it’s rather impolite to barge into someone’s chat and impersonate their ex, don’t you think?”

A cold smirk touched my lips as my fingers flew across the keyboard.

“Proof? There’s a tiny mole on her right collarbone. Sometimes visible if her shirt neckline is wide enough. Does that count?”

The chat fell silent again.

Because it was true.

The location was too intimate. No one but me could possibly know.

**[High alert! Host, that move gets a perfect score from me!]**

**[Hahaha, the real deal selling herself out! This plot twist is everything!]**

**[Quick, look at those two idiot male leads’ reactions.]**

Live comments scrolled in a barrage before my eyes, offering a strange, twisted sort of comfort.

Patrick was clearly thrown. It took him a moment to reply. “…You’re something else.”

Johnny, however, sent only a simple smiley face. Then a private message popped up.

“Name your price. I want everything you have on Sophie.”

The fish was biting.

I didn’t reply to him right away. Instead, I leisurely typed another message into the group.

“I know what game you’re playing. I’m not interested in your little hunt. But I need money. Everything about Sophie—her likes, habits, schedule, even the things you really want to know… it’s all for sale. Highest bidder wins.”

I had just put myself on the auction block: a clearly priced commodity in their hunting ground.

The atmosphere in the chat shifted completely.

From spectators, they became bidders.

“Damn, you can play it like this?”

“This is wild! A live-streamed guide, and it’s pay-to-win?”

“An ex selling out his ex… this guy’s scum. But I’m here for it!”

Jennifer chimed in softly, “This… isn’t very nice, is it? Sophie would be so hurt if she knew.”

Someone immediately backed her up. “Jennifer, you’re just too kind! A man who’d sell anything for money doesn’t deserve Sophie. And we deserve to know these secrets!”

Looking at their hypocritical faces, I just felt sick.

Right then, Patrick’s private message popped up, even more direct than Johnny’s.

“What did she have for dinner today? Where? A thousand.”

I curved my lips into a smile and typed back. “A thousand? Patrick, are you trying to pay off a beggar? What I’m selling is exclusive, top-secret intel.”

Almost at the same time, I replied to Johnny. “What would the Student Council President like to know? Information comes in tiers, prices vary. Basic info package, five thousand a day. Exclusive, in-depth details, priced separately.”

I knew these rich kids’ psychology all too well.

The more elusive and expensive something was, the more they wanted it.

Sure enough, Johnny replied instantly. “Fine. I need her full schedule for the next week, and the thing she hates most. Ten thousand. I’ll transfer it now.”

And Patrick, right after my message, sent a transfer notification. Fifteen thousand.

“Happy now? Talk.”

Without hesitation, I clicked accept. Watching my account balance jump by fifteen thousand—money I couldn’t earn in two months at the convenience store—the last shred of shame in my heart was crushed under the weight of reality.

Calmly, I replied to Patrick. “That noodle place across from school. Mild spice, extra enoki mushrooms.”

Then I sent Johnny a detailed spreadsheet: my work schedule, my class locations for the coming week, and… my fabricated “most hated things.”

**[Things I Hate Most: Cilantro, cheap perfume, fake concern.]**

Putting down my phone, I stepped out of the stuffy storage room. The evening breeze brushed my face, cool and faint.

In the glass door of the convenience store, the reflection showed a slender girl, her back ramrod straight.

Her eyes were terrifyingly calm.

I knew it. From the moment I hit ‘send,’ I was no longer that naive, timid Sophie.

I was the hunter, holding the knife. And my prey? Those two arrogant, self-proclaimed apex predators.

The game began in earnest the next day.

I hadn’t even made it to my desk before the scent hit me—pungent and unmistakable—cilantro.

There on the teacher’s desk sat a steaming bowl of beef noodle soup, absolutely swimming in the green herb. Beside it, a sticky note was slapped down, two flamboyant characters scrawled across it: “Eat it.”

Signed, Patrick.

Every eye in the classroom swiveled my way, followed by a chorus of muffled glee and whispers.

“Oh my god, did Patrick actually get Sophie breakfast?”

“Cilantro noodles? But he hates cilantro.”

“You don’t get it. This is a power move!”

Face blank, I walked over. Without even glancing at the bowl, I picked it up, note and all, and dumped it straight into the trash at the back of the room.

Clean. Efficient. No hesitation.

The classroom fell dead silent.

[Host is a legend! Perfect arc!]

[Hahaha, Patrick paid five grand for that intel and it was fake. He must be fuming.]

[Bet a pack of spicy strips he storms in any second.]

The comments were right.

The moment morning self-study ended, Patrick stormed up to our classroom door, his usual entourage in tow.

Tall—over six feet—dressed head-to-toe in edgy black streetwear, his sharp features were etched with a natural, untamable arrogance.

Right now, those eyes were locked on me, burning.

“Sophie,” he snarled, his foot connecting with the doorframe with a loud bang. “What the hell was that?”

I didn’t even look up, keeping my focus on the practice problems in front of me. “Nothing. I don’t like cilantro.”

“Don’t like it?” He let out a cold laugh, pulling out his phone. A tap on the screen, and an audio file blared into the hallway at full volume—my chat history with “Ethan.”

My voice, processed through a modulator, came out raspy and low: “…She doesn’t actually hate cilantro. It’s just… when she was little, her family was poor. Her brother loved it, so she’d always say she didn’t like it, let him have it all… Truth is, she loves that flavor more than anyone.”

That piece of audio—a complete fabrication of my own tragic backstory—echoed with painful clarity down the quiet corridor.

The surrounding students were stunned.

I almost believed it myself.

Patrick clearly hadn’t expected such calm. He snatched my workbook and slammed it on the desk. “What’s with the act? If you don’t like it, why throw it away? Seems to me you just can’t appreciate a good thing when it’s handed to you!”

Finally, I lifted my gaze to meet his. My eyes held no anger, no fear—just a flat, dead calm.

“Patrick,” I said, each word deliberate. “If your idea of ‘liking’ someone is forcing on them something you yourself despise, and then demanding they pretend to enjoy it… then I want no part of that kind of ‘like’.”

My voice wasn’t loud, but it landed like a sledgehammer.

His expression froze. The fire in his eyes flickered and died, replaced by a flash of shock… and something like panic.

[Whoa, Host! Reverse psychology masterclass!]

[Patrick.exe has stopped responding.]

[Yes! Wreck him! Love seeing these arrogant rich kids get taken down a peg!]

Ignoring him, I retrieved my workbook from his grip. “You’re blocking the light,” I said flatly.

Patrick stood there as if turned to stone, utterly motionless.

His lackeys exchanged uneasy glances behind him, unsure what to do.

In the end, he practically fled.

Watching his retreating back, I felt no satisfaction. Only a cold, hollow emptiness.

This was just the beginning.

That evening, another huge transfer hit the “Ethan” account. From Patrick.

A full fifty thousand.

The attached message was a single line: “Tell me what she really likes. Don’t lie this time.”

I stared at the string of digits, my grandmother’s kind, weathered face floating into my mind.

I typed back: “She likes money. Specifically, money she’s earned cleanly, through her own effort. Because that’s what lets her and her grandmother live with a little dignity.”

This time, I wasn’t lying.