Kyrish’s life ended abruptly on a rooftop. One moment, she was contemplating the vast cityscape, the next, she was plummeting towards the unforgiving concrete. A sickening thud, then…nothing. Or so she thought.

The twenty-two-year-old book enthusiast, known to her friends as Rhys, had expected pearly gates, a celestial choir, maybe a handsome angel. Instead, she found herself enveloped in a cacophony of unfamiliar voices, a blur of faces, and the overwhelming scent of antiseptic. A beautiful angel, her features slightly hazy through tear-filled eyes, cradled her.

"My child!" the angel sobbed, her voice a mournful melody.

Confusion warred with the lingering numbness of her fall. The snippets of conversation pierced through the haze: "The Empress's child is a girl!"… "It's not good"… "Why isn't the princess crying?"

Born? Born? Rhys, the aspiring screenwriter with a penchant for spicy ramen and SliceOfLice, had been reborn. Reborn as…Danesa.

A name, whispered like a benediction: Danesa Circe Archan. Then, chaos. The angel’s eyes fluttered closed, releasing her into the arms of a weeping maid.

"The Dear Empress!" A chorus of screams. "The Empress is gone."

Dead. Her mother, the Empress, was dead. And Danesa—Rhys—was alive. Alive and…a princess?

She was a tiny bundle of contradictions: gratitude for a life she hadn’t expected, terror at the unknown future. The maid’s gentle smile held a deep well of pity. Rhys' mind, however, was racing. This wasn't just a new life; it was a life utterly alien to her previous existence. No more late-night dramas, no more instant noodles, no more agonizing over screenplay deadlines. Just…this.

The door swung open, revealing a figure cloaked in chilling authority. "Greetings, Emperor!"

A cold, deep voice cut through the air: "Where is the child?"

The Emperor, a towering figure radiating an aura of icy power, finally met her gaze. His eyes, cold and assessing, stripped away her fragile newborn innocence. He removed the swaddling cloth, revealing her small form.

"A girl!" His eyes darkened, his grip tightening. A wince escaped her lips as he abruptly released her.

He thought she was a doll? The thought sparked a flicker of defiance, even within her tiny frame. Rhys, ever the sarcastic observer, couldn't help but think, This is way more dramatic than any C-drama I've ever seen.

"Oh god! Give pity to the child," a man—a physician, judging by his uniform—pleaded.

Then, the unthinkable. Emperor Harris, without warning, drew his sword and decapitated the physician. The room gasped.

"No one can tell me what to do," the Emperor declared, his voice devoid of remorse.

Rhys' tiny eyes widened. This wasn't just a new life; it was a life steeped in violence. The sheer absurdity of it all threatened to overwhelm her. She was Kyrish, reborn as a princess in a world where beheadings were apparently commonplace.

The Emperor's gaze fell upon her again, a chilling grin twisting his lips. "Want to be next?"

Terror seized her. She shook her head, a primal instinct of self-preservation. His brow furrowed.

"You weirdo!" he scoffed, sheathing his sword and stalking away. "I don't want to see that child again. If you have to kill her, do it."

He left her to the pitying gaze of the maids. Her mother, the Empress…a woman he seemed to have mourned not at all.

The name…Harris. Danesa Circe Archan. The title, the name…it was all too familiar.

A slow realization dawned. The Empire. The novel she'd been reading moments before her death. Could it be…? Was she…inside the book?

A wry smile touched her lips. Impossible, of course. But…perhaps not.

Three years. Three years Rhys, now Danesa Circe Archan, had spent confined to a single room within the opulent, yet suffocating, Imperial Palace. The Emperor’s fear, a chilling reality, kept her locked away, a gilded cage protecting her from his unpredictable wrath, or so her ever-loyal maid, Bessie, claimed. The days bled into one another, punctuated only by the clandestine reading of countless books – a desperate attempt to escape the monotony and the looming shadow of her predetermined fate.

She understood now. This wasn't just a bizarre, fantastical dream. She was trapped within the pages of "The Empire," a webnovel she'd devoured just moments before her untimely demise. The story, a whirlwind romance between a commoner girl and the Emperor’s eldest son, a prince who vanished at the age of seven, was now her inescapable reality. The prince's disappearance, believed to be death, marked the beginning of the narrative, a narrative that now included her, Danesa, a princess destined to die at the hands of the Yakuza at the age of five.

Five years old. Two years remained until her brutal end. The chilling realization clawed at her. Survival, however, wasn't a question; it was a desperate necessity. Her only hope? Emperor Harris, the ruthless, unpredictable man who was both her father and her potential savior. Winning his favor, however unlikely, was her only path to survival.

A plan formed. Tonight, she would escape her confinement.

With practiced ease, she retrieved the key hidden beneath her bed—a small act of rebellion against Bessie's well-intentioned imprisonment. A chair, strategically placed, served as her makeshift stepping stool, allowing her to reach the unique, inward-and-outward locking mechanism of the ancient door. The quiet click of the lock was followed by a slow, cautious opening. A quick peek into the hallway confirmed her suspicions: the coast was clear.

"For f*cking three years, i'm now free....what if run away like the male lead..?" whisphered

a smirk formed and Rhys begun her journey.

The palace hallways were a labyrinthine maze, its silence broken only by the occasional creak of aged wood. A sudden sound—footsteps—sent her scurrying into the shadows, a tiny shadow herself, playing the role of a mischievous thief.

Exhaustion gnawed at her small frame; the endless corridors seemed to stretch on forever. The thought of simply giving up, of collapsing onto the cold stone floor, was almost tempting.

Then, a door, slightly ajar, beckoned her. A single lamp illuminated a figure hunched over a table piled high with documents. Emperor Harris. She'd only seen him from afar, a fleeting glimpse of the man who held her life in his hands. His presence, as described in the novel, was undeniably powerful and intimidating. His perpetually furrowed brow, his sharp features, his air of barely contained rage…all were exactly as the book had described.

A sudden shift in his posture sent her scrambling back into the shadows. He'd looked up. He'd seen her.

"Where do you think you're going, little kitten?"

His voice, cold as winter's breath, froze her in place.

Turning slowly, she faced her father, a mere five steps away. He hadn't made a sound approaching her; his movements were eerily silent, predatory. Fear, raw and primal, threatened to overwhelm her. There was only one option.

Run.

"I said—"

Before he could utter another word, she bolted, her small legs pumping with a desperate energy. Every step was a gamble, a desperate bid for survival. If he caught her…

"You think you can escape from me?"

Suddenly, she was airborne, lifted effortlessly into the air. His voice, devoid of emotion, sent a shiver down her spine. He held her aloft, as easily as if she were a mere doll.

"Let me down," she mumbled, struggling against his grip.

"Don't be naughty if you don't want me to shut you up…in a brutal way," he warned, his face dangerously close to hers.

"You should die for breaking the rule," he said, his voice dangerously low. "And…for showing me your ugly face."

His words stung, but a defiant smirk played on his lips. She’d glared at him. A three-year-old glaring at the Emperor.

Before she could fully process her audacity, he tightened his grip on her neck. Panic clawed at her throat.

"Daddy!"

The word, unexpected even to herself, stopped him. His expression, though still devoid of warmth, shifted subtly. A flicker of something akin to surprise.

Then, a familiar voice cut through the tension. "Princess Danesa—Your Majesty!" Bessie. She'd found them.

The Emperor released Danesa, tossing her into Bessie's waiting arms like a discarded rag doll. He turned and left, his departure as abrupt and emotionless as his arrival.

Bessie, shaken but relieved, held Danesa close.

"he's really....a monster-"

"Princess! that's bad." Bessie said anxiously. Although she's used to her young miss rechless mouth.