Contos e Romances com Campus Beauty e System

As the male lead, Henry Johnston, forces himself on me, a row of comments suddenly appears before my eyes. "Henry is about to misunderstand and think Aria drugged him! The angst is about to begin!" "I'm thrilled just thinking about Henry regretting dearly after Aria dies!" "Keep up the act, Henry. After she dies, you'll be hugging her corpse and crying every day." That is when I realize that I am the tragic female lead in a story where I am destined to be tormented until I die. The readers treat my death as a highlight to push the plot forward. They are counting down to my death. As I look at Henry, who is panting on top of me, anger courses through me. I grab a table lamp and smash it into him, killing him on the spot. Who says that the one who dies in a toxic romance story must always be the female lead?

After transmigrating through three novels in a row, the hardest thing I ever suffer through is drinking iced long black. But when I open my eyes again, I somehow become the pathetic simp side character in a trashy romance novel. Just as I debate whether to file a complaint against the system, the trembling system hurriedly explains something to me. Although this is a trashy romance novel, it is also an unfinished abandoned novel. I ask, "So you're saying I decide how the story develops?" The system replied, "Yes. Everything is completely under your control." Satisfied, I lazily stretch and begin checking the original Jacob's background. He has a trillionaire father and a billionaire mother. On top of that, he has seven rich and beautiful older sisters. With such a ridiculously overpowered setup, how can he go around simping for a broke college girl with no money? What a complete waste!

"Anna, you don't look so good. Want some candy?" The class belle smiled sweetly as she held out a bag of fruit candies. In my previous life, I ate one. That very night, every penny in my bank account vanished—including the money I'd saved to pay for Grandpa's lifesaving surgery. Desperate to afford his treatment, I gave up my acceptance to Oxvale University and worked myself to the bone day and night, but before I could save enough, he died. And eventually, so did I, alone and exhausted in my tiny rented room. Only after I died did I learn the truth. The class belle had bonded with a transfer system. As long as I ate something she gave me, whatever money was in my bank account would automatically be transferred to hers. Now that I had been given a second chance, I stared at the candy she held out and reached for it. If she wanted other people's money badly, then I'd find out just how much her system could swallow—30 classmates' bank accounts. All at once.