(BL) Transmigrated as the Alpha's Cannon Fodder.
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."
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