Transmigrated as the Alpha's Cannon Fodder.

The last thing I remember with any sort of pathetic clarity is the taste of cheap ramen and the blinding glare of a truck's high beams. Classic, right? A real gourmet-meets-grim-reaper special. In my defense, I was multitasking. As a struggling actor whose biggest role to date was "Background Customer #3" in a toothpaste commercial, my life wasn't exactly a whirlwind of excitement. My one true pleasure was hate-reading the most gloriously trashy web novel ever written: The Alpha's Obsession.

And let me tell you, it was a masterpiece of garbage. The plot was thinner than the plot on a p**n star, the female lead had the personality of a damp sock, and the male lead, Huo Yan, was such a ridiculously overpowered Alpha film god that you could practically smell the author's daddy issues through the screen.

But the crown jewel of its awfulness was a minor character. A cannon fodder Omega who, by some cruel cosmic joke, shared my name: Zhan. This Zhan was a walking, talking cliché—a jealous, arrogant, talentless hack who existed solely to be humiliated by the ML in the first fifty chapters. His grand exit? Spilling a glass of champagne on Huo Yan at a gala and getting his entire career blacklisted into oblivion. I'd literally just finished reading the scene, scoffing into my styrofoam cup. "What an absolute moron," I'd muttered.

Then, a horn blared. The world did a flashy, painful interpretive dance, and then… nothing.

I woke up to the scent of money.

It wasn't a smell I was familiar with, but it was unmistakable. It was the sharp, sterile scent of expensive cologne mixed with the rich, buttery aroma of leather. My head was pounding, and my body felt like it had been assembled by someone who'd only ever seen a human being described in a poorly written manual.

I groaned and tried to sit up, my hand slapping against something soft. Velvet. I forced my eyes open and saw not the familiar water stain on my ceiling, but a massive, gilded mirror staring back at me.

And in the mirror was a stranger.

Well, not a total stranger. The face was mine, but it had been put through some kind of pretty-boy filter. My jaw was sharper, my lips fuller, and my eyes… they were the same, but they held a delicate, almost ethereal quality that screamed "Omega." This was the face of the idiot from the novel. The face of the cannon fodder.

Panic, cold and sharp, shot through me like a lightning bolt. I scrambled off the sofa, my legs nearly giving out. I was wearing a silk shirt that probably cost more than my entire apartment building. My hands flew to my neck, my heart hammering against my ribs. No bite mark. Not yet. But the delicate skin of my scent gland was smooth and unblemished, a terrifying blank slate.

"No. No, no, no, no," I chanted, my voice a high-pitched wheeze. "This is not happening. I'm in a coma. I've got brain damage. This is a hallucination brought on by instant noodles and regret."

As if on cue, a simple, sterile line of text burned itself across my vision. It wasn't a voice. It was just… there. A mental pop-up ad from hell.

[System Initialized. Welcome, Host Zhan.]

I froze. "System?" I whispered, my voice trembling.

[Your current reality is the world of the web novel The Alpha's Obsession. You have transmigrated into the body of the character Zhan at 18:47, two hours prior to the Starlight Gala.]

My blood ran cold. The Starlight Gala. The champagne incident. The public humiliation. The beginning of the end.

[Main Objective: Survive. Avoid canonical death. Failure will result in permanent termination. Good luck.]

The text vanished. I was left staring at my own pretty, doomed face in the mirror, my mind racing a million miles an hour. Okay. Okay. Think. Don't panic. Panicking is what the original Zhan would do, and look where it got him. I was an actor. Sort of. I could handle a role. And right now, my role was "Not an Idiot."

My first order of business was to get out of this. I patted down my absurdly expensive trousers and found a slim, sleek phone. I unlocked it with a fingerprint—my fingerprint, but not my fingerprint—and immediately started searching. Social media, news sites, entertainment blogs. It was all real. Huo Yan, the film god, was on the cover of every magazine, his smoldering gaze promising a world of pain and brooding intensity. The female lead, Lin Meng, was the darling of the industry, her "sweet and innocent" persona making my teeth ache.

And then there was me. Or, the other me. A quick search of my own name brought up a handful of trashy tabloid articles. "Zhan Spotted Arguing with Director," "Zhan Throws Tantrum on Set," "Is Zhan's Career Already Over?" The narrative was clear: I was a spoiled, untalented brat who was already on his way out. Perfect. The perfect setup for a fall.

"Alright," I said to my reflection, my voice steadier now. "New plan. The original Zhan's plan was 'be an arrogant fool and get destroyed.' We're going to pivot. My plan is 'be a boring wallflower and live to see tomorrow.' Step one: find the gala. Step two: find a dark corner. Step three: avoid all protagonists, major and minor. Step four: go home. It's foolproof."

The gala was exactly as I'd pictured it from the novel: a nauseating display of wealth and desperation. The air was thick with a cloying cocktail of perfumes and Alpha pheromones, all competing for dominance. It was like being stuck in a elevator with a dozen aggressive wolves wearing too much Axe body spray.

I stuck to the plan. I found a dark corner near a potted plant that was probably worth more than my soul and nursed a glass of water. I kept my head down, my shoulders slumped, and projected an aura of "utterly uninteresting." I was a ghost. A piece of furniture. A nobody. I was nailing this.

An hour passed. I hadn't been spoken to, looked at, or even acknowledged. It was glorious. I checked the time. 21:30. In the novel, the champagne incident happened around 22:00. I was in the home stretch. I could practically taste my own survival.

I saw a side exit, clear and unguarded. My ticket out of here. I started moving, keeping low, my eyes fixed on the door. Ten feet. Five feet. Three feet. Freedom was so close I could feel it.

And then I walked straight into a wall.

A wall of hard muscle that smelled of winter frost, old books, and raw, undeniable power. The scent was so potent, so overwhelmingly Alpha, that it short-circuited my brain. I stumbled back, my glass of water sloshing over my hand, my heart leaping into my throat.

I knew that scent. Every reader of The Alpha's Obsession knew that scent. It was the scent of the male lead. The god. The monster.

Huo Yan.

I looked up, up, and up into a face that was far more terrifying in person. The novel hadn't lied about his beauty—he was carved from marble and shadows—but it had failed to capture the sheer, predatory intelligence in his dark eyes. Those eyes weren't just looking at me; they were dissecting me, peeling back my layers and finding the terrified, transmigrated soul cowering inside.

The entire room seemed to fall away. It was just him and me and the potted plant.

In the novel, this was the moment. The original Zhan, full of misplaced arrogance, would have sneered and said something insolent. He would have sealed his own fate.

But I wasn't him. I was a survivor.

So, I did the only thing that made sense. I dropped my gaze immediately, lowering my head in the ultimate sign of Omega submission, baring the delicate skin of my neck. It was a gesture of pure, unadulterated capitulation.

"My deepest apologies, Alpha Huo Yan," I said, pitching my voice to be as quiet and non-threatening as possible. "It was entirely my fault. I wasn't watching where I was going."

Silence.

It stretched on for an eternity. I could feel his gaze on the top of my head, heavy and considering. This was it. He'd accept my apology, sneer at the groveling Omega, and move on. My plan was working.

I risked a tiny glance up through my eyelashes.

He wasn't looking at me with anger or disdain. He was looking at me with… intrigue. A deep, unnerving curiosity that was a thousand times more dangerous.

He reached out and hooked a finger under my chin, his touch surprisingly warm. He forced my head up until our eyes met.