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2: The Predator's Interest
Date de publication:
2026-04-29 21:12:36
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Transmigrated as the Alpha's Cannon Fodder. 10: Lin Meng Makes Her Move
She found me in the library at eight forty-five on a Thursday, closed the door behind her with the careful precision of someone who had rehearsed the entrance, and sat across from me without asking. I had claimed the library as my morning space by default — not by design, just by the logic of process of elimination. The rehearsal room required performance. The dining room required sociability. My bedroom had started to feel like a holding cell with a view. The library was the one room in the estate where nothing was immediately required of me. The books didn't need anything. The silence in there was the specific silence of spaces where people had gone to think for a long time, and it had accumulated into something useful. I'd been going there every morning before rehearsal and not telling anyone. Lin Meng had found me anyway. Which told me something about her access to information in this house, though it didn't yet tell me how. She wore cream cashmere again, which I was beginning
Transmigrated as the Alpha's Cannon Fodder. 9: Collision Course
He appeared in my doorway at eleven-seventeen PM with a bottle of wine he didn't open and an expression he didn't explain. I'd been awake — of course I'd been awake, sleep had become a theoretical concept since the transmigration, something I understood in principle but could no longer reliably execute. I was lying in the dark running the next day's scene notes in my head when I heard two raps at the door. Even. Unhurried. Not urgent. The knock of someone who has decided to knock and is doing it without performance. I opened the door and there was Huo Yan. Black shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows with the casual precision of someone who had done it without thinking about it, which somehow made it more intimate than any deliberate gesture could have been. The wine bottle held loosely in one hand, by the neck, the way you hold something that was never really the point. Looking at me with that quality of attention — not hard, not soft, but calibrated to see exactly what it was aimed
Transmigrated as the Alpha's Cannon Fodder. 8: The Note Writer
The second note appeared on a Tuesday, and the first thing I did when I found it was verify that I hadn't lost my mind. Dinner had been delivered at seven. I was at my desk with the script, running the traitor's dialogue in the obsessive loop that had replaced sleep as my primary cognitive occupation since the second rehearsal take. I registered the sounds of delivery without looking up — the wheel-squeak of the cart, the clink of dishes being arranged, the particular soft precision of someone doing their job well. Then the door closed. I looked up. The note was under the edge of my water glass. Small. Folded once. Heavy cream cardstock, the same weight and color as the contract rider from the first night. I had not looked away from my desk from the moment the door opened to the moment it closed. I had been looking at the desk the entire time, my eyes on the script, my peripheral vision covering the rest of the room. I sat very still for three full seconds. Then I picked it up a
Transmigrated as the Alpha's Cannon Fodder. 7: Rehearsals and Razor Wire
The rehearsal room was on the estate's lower floor — black walls, moveable panels, lighting rigs that made everything look slightly too real. Not accidental. Everything about this production was intentional in ways that only became visible after you'd spent enough time inside it. The space was designed to strip comfort, to remove the padding between a performance and the thing underneath it. Huo Yan was already there when I arrived. Of course he was. I was beginning to think the man simply materialized in rooms, that he didn't travel between them so much as decide where to be and then be there. He was at the far end reviewing something on a tablet. He didn't look up when I came in. He had the ability to make not-looking feel like looking, which was a quality I was cataloguing with increasing attention. My first scene was the confrontation between the traitor and the villain. My character had been caught — not fully exposed, just suspected. The net beginning to tighten in the method
Transmigrated as the Alpha's Cannon Fodder. 6: The Other Snakes
The estate breathed differently at night. During the day it was all controlled surfaces — marble, glass, the kind of silence that money manufactures deliberately, like a product for people who can afford to buy quiet. Corridors with nothing unnecessary in them. Rooms that had been designed to communicate something about the person who owned them, and communicated it perfectly, with the cold efficiency of a language you weren't supposed to speak back. But after midnight the walls exhaled something older. Shadows pooled in corners the designer lighting couldn't quite reach. The sea pressed closer — you could hear it more clearly, feel it in the damp edge of the air. The whole place felt like a held breath. Like it was waiting for someone to make a mistake. I was going to be a very boring person to wait on. Orientation had wrapped an hour ago. The cast had dispersed to their rooms like chess pieces returned to their squares, each one carrying whatever calculation they'd run dur
Transmigrated as the Alpha's Cannon Fodder. 5:The Serpent's Coil
I didn't sleep. The three words on that card—"Break a leg"—were a brand seared onto the inside of my eyelids. It wasn't a good-luck wish. It was a promise. A threat. It was Huo Yan telling me he knew I was performing, and he was eager to see how I'd handle the pressure when the stakes were real. By the time the soft chime of the intercom announced orientation, I felt like a frayed wire buzzing with static. I'd changed clothes three times, finally settling on a simple, dark grey sweater and black trousers. I wanted to look like a shadow, like someone who didn't want to be noticed. It was a pathetic attempt at camouflage, but it was all I had. The main screening room was exactly what you'd expect from a man like Huo Yan: a small, private theater with twenty plush, velvet seats arranged in a precise, intimidating formation. The air was cool and smelled of leather and something else, something clean and sharp that I was beginning to associate with him. He was already there, sitting in
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