Lahat ng Kabanata ng Rewinding My Reaper Boyfriend: Kabanata 1 - Kabanata 10

The office smelled of stale coffee and expensive desperation.Elion Marrow sat in the leather chair, flipping through the thirty-page contract with the scrutiny of a man looking for a trapdoor."Just sign on the dotted line, Dr. Marrow," Mira Kovari said, tapping her manicured nail against the glass desk. "And all your problems... poof. Gone.""Clause 4, Section B," Elion read aloud, not looking up. "'Production reserves the right to fictionalize, dramatize, or alter the portrayal of the Talent for narrative cohesion.' You want to turn me into a cartoon villain.""We want to turn you into a star," Mira corrected, leaning back. "The public hates you right now, Elion. You're the 'Homewrecker Shrink.' You need a rebrand. We're offering you a redemption arc on a silver platter.""I don't need redemption," Elion said, his voice dry. "I need four million dollars to pay off the lawsuit from the Senator's wife.""Tomayto, tomahto." Mira slid a gold pen across the desk. "Fifty thousand signing

The communal lounge of the Love Chase mansion was a masterclass in induced anxiety.It was designed to look like a place of relaxation—plush, oversized bean bags in aggressively cheerful colors, low tables scattered with carefully curated magazines, and a fully stocked bar that was currently locked—but the lighting told a different story.The studio rigs overhead cast a harsh, unforgiving glare that eliminated shadows and highlighted every pore, every bead of nervous sweat, and every flicker of insecurity on the contestants' faces.The air smelled of ozone, hairspray, and the metallic tang of fear masked by expensive cologne.Elion sat in the far corner, wedged into a lime-green bean bag that felt like it was trying to swallow him whole. He had his notebook open on his knee, shielding the page from the prying eyes of the camera mounted in the ceiling corner.He wasn't writing poetry. He was profiling.Subject 1: The Fitness Bro (Sam). Currently doing tricep dips on a antique chair. ov

The digital clock on the nightstand was mocking him.3:59 AM.Elion lay on his side, staring at the red numbers. He had been staring at them for hours. The chair he had dragged in front of the door looked pathetic in the dim light—a flimsy barricade against a threat he couldn't name.Across the room, the chaise lounge was a dark shape in the shadows. Cale was asleep. Or at least, he was motionless. He lay on his back, hands folded over his chest, breathing with a rhythm so slow and shallow it was barely perceptible."Are you awake?" Elion whispered.Silence."I know you're awake," Elion said, louder this time. "You don't breathe like a sleeping person. You breathe like someone conserving oxygen in a submarine."A pause. Then, Cale’s voice, clear and alert, drifted from the corner."Sleep is inefficient tonight," Cale said. "The atmospheric pressure is dropping."Elion sat up, pulling the duvet around his shoulders. "Is that another prediction? Is the roof going to cave in?""No. Just

The street outside the pre-production office was a sensory assault.New York City in the morning was a cacophony of horns, sirens, and the aggressive shouting of commuters late for work. Elion stood on the corner of 57th and 8th, clutching his messenger bag like a shield.He checked his phone. 9:45 AM.He was early. He was always early. It was a compulsion born of anxiety—if he was early, he couldn't be wrong."Get it together," Elion muttered to himself. "It's just a meeting. They want to discuss wardrobe. It's not an execution."He stepped off the curb.The sign said WALK. The white man was glowing.He took two steps into the crosswalk.Then, the world stuttered.It wasn't a sound. It was a sensation. Like a record skipping. Like a video buffering.Step. Step.He was back on the curb.Elion blinked. He looked down at his feet. He was standing on the concrete sidewalk, three feet behind where he had just been."What the..." Elion whispered.He looked at the sign. It still said WALK.

The black SUV wound its way up a gravel driveway that seemed endless, flanked by manicured hedges that looked too perfect to be real.Elion sat in the back seat, clutching his knees. He felt like a prisoner being transported to a high-security facility, except this prison had gold leaf on the gates and a valet service."We're here, Mr. Marrow," the driver said, his eyes meeting Elion’s in the rearview mirror. "Production wants you to wait in the car until they give the signal. For the 'arrival shot'.""Of course," Elion muttered. "Wouldn't want to ruin the spontaneity by actually arriving."He looked out the window. The mansion loomed ahead—a sprawling, neo-classical monstrosity that screamed new money and bad taste. It was the kind of house built by someone who wanted to prove they had made it, but had forgotten why.Camera crews were already swarming the lawn like ants on a dropped lollipop. He saw boom mics, reflectors, and a drone buzzing overhead like an angry hornet."This is a