Chapter 1: The Frail Heroine’s First Failure

Before falling asleep, I had a habit of offering wishes to an imaginary god.

‘Please let me become a silver-haired, red-eyed, frail, tragic heroine.’

A delicate beauty, like a single trembling flower, where a single cough makes everyone around me worry, and life is effortlessly easy—that’s the kind of heroine I wanted to be.

It was a wish that could never come true.

Yet, ever since I started living independently, I’ve prayed to this imaginary god every single day without fail.

Was it because I grew up without a family?

Or perhaps the cold charity I received at my relatives’ house ended up making me sick.

I never knew the thrill of achievement, so I couldn’t find joy in studying.

My ability to work was utterly pathetic.

While everyone else played life on normal mode, I felt like I was stuck on hard mode.

I was exhausted from struggling.

I just wanted to live an easy life for once. Preferably as a beautiful heroine.

Anyway…

Right now, I want to shout this boldly:

“God exists!”

Because god exists, my absurd prayer was answered.

I can now say something like, “I woke up and became a woman.”

And not just any woman—one who perfectly matches the appearance I dreamed of!

Swallowing hard, I rubbed my eyes again and carefully examined my reflection in the mirror.

First, my silver hair caught my eye, shimmering like sunlight reflecting off the sea.

It was the part of my new self I loved most.

Silver hair was a must for a frail, tragic heroine.

I lifted a strand with my fingers, and the nearby strands made a soft, mystical srrk sound as they cascaded down to my chest.

Next, my pale skin.

Pinching my cheek, I felt soft, pliable flesh.

Boing, boing—it was elastic, like a squishy stress ball.

I didn’t even pinch hard, but the spot turned red instantly.

Finally, my red eyes.

This was the only disappointing part.

I had hoped for bright, rabbit-like red eyes, but these were closer to dark brown or black.

Still, they seemed practical for daily life, so I decided to be satisfied.

Beyond that, my slender frame, perfectly proportioned chest, droopy puppy-like eyes, sharp nose, and cherry-red lips all met the criteria for a “heroine.”

A flawless female body.

Could I finally become the frail, tragic heroine of my dreams?

But my mind felt perfectly fine, and no blood-tinged coughs were happening, so I wasn’t sure if I could pull off the “frail and tragic” part yet.

For now, since I was a woman, I decided to open the “forbidden box.”

Embarrassing as it was, I had been collecting items for the day I’d transform into a silver-haired, red-eyed, frail, tragic heroine.

That’s what I kept in the “forbidden box.”

Reaching for the top of the wardrobe, I froze.

‘Oh no.’

Panic flooded my mind.

Becoming a woman had also made me shorter.

The old me could easily grab things from the wardrobe’s top shelf, but now my dainty white fingers flailed pathetically in the air.

This was the first downside I discovered about my new female body.

A short woman’s body made it hard to reach high places.

Anyway, I stepped onto a desk and struggled to climb toward the wardrobe’s top.

There, I found a box labeled [TS] in black marker.

Since the contents were light, I dropped the box to the floor without much effort.

A locked box with a padlock.

Click—

I entered the four-digit code and opened the lock.

Inside were items essential for a frail, tragic heroine.

Cigarettes, alcohol… and a bottle of supplements tucked in the corner.

In novels, frail heroines take pills as naturally as we eat meals.

My favorite scenes were when they’d shove a handful of pills into their mouths when things went wrong.

I wanted to stock sleeping pills or psychiatric meds, but sadly, I fall asleep the moment my head hits the pillow, so I couldn’t get a prescription for those.

Likewise, aside from my delusion of wanting to be a silver-haired, red-eyed heroine, my mental health was fine, so no psychiatric meds either.

So, I settled for supplements.

‘Just shove them in your mouth, and you’re good.’

The label on the round supplement bottle read:

[Brain-boosting, intelligence-enhancing supplements]

Frail heroines take pills for headaches, but…

Supplements are for improving the brain and mind, so I figured they were close enough.

Next, the cigarettes and alcohol.

I had researched online to figure out what kind of cigarettes and alcohol a frail heroine would use.

That’s how I ended up with these.

Yes, I don’t smoke or drink.

But a tragic heroine, when things don’t go her way, shoves pills in her mouth, drinks, and smokes.

With my still-unfamiliar delicate fingers, I picked up the square cigarette pack.

The pack read “Mevius Purple” in English.

The green-banded bottle was labeled “Smirnoff Apple.”

I’m a non-smoker.

I hate even the smell of cigarette smoke.

But if I coughed up blood, I’d have to say something like, “Fck…” or “Sht…” while puffing away, so I needed to practice.

Summoning my courage, I tore open the cigarette pack and pulled out a long, cylindrical cigarette.

Even unlit, the acrid smell hit me.

Thankfully, I had predicted my grip strength would be pathetically weak as a woman, so I’d bought a turbo lighter that worked with a single press.

Click—

My grip was so weak I could barely tell how much strength I had left.

I finally felt one step closer to being a frail, tragic heroine.

My heart pounded so hard it felt like it would leap into my throat.

Me, smoking a cigarette?

I’d heard the first puff causes coughing and intense pain.

Half anxious, half excited, I held the cigarette between my teeth and brought it to the freshly lit turbo lighter.

One second, two seconds, three seconds.

That should be enough.

Eyes squeezed shut, I took a deep breath.

“Eugh-?”

I felt nothing.

Was I secretly a smoking pro?

Before that ridiculous thought could settle, I realized the cigarette’s tip wasn’t even lit.

Panicked, I puffed again, holding the cigarette to the lighter’s flame.

Then—

“Cough!”

Hack, hack.

Something massive slammed into my throat.

The first drag of cigarette smoke was pure poison gas.

Why do people enjoy this stuff?

“Hoo… hack…”

Tears streamed from my eyes, and my throat still burned.

Even if I’m obsessed with this concept, I don’t think I could do this again.

Fine.

Cigarettes aren’t for me.

“It’s okay. I’ve still got one shot left.”

Cigarettes were a failure.

That left one option.

I quickly pivoted to becoming an alcohol-addicted, frail, tragic heroine.

Swallowing pills with alcohol instead of water—that’s the way.

Eyes shut tight, I poured the sleek Smirnoff Apple down my throat.

My vision flashed white.

“Cough, cough—hack!”

My throat melted.

I genuinely thought my throat had been scorched.

I had to check in the mirror to make sure it wasn’t dissolving.

Thankfully, it was fine.

But the strong apple-vodka smell lingered in my mouth.

“Ugh-.”

One sip, and my head was spinning.

I felt like I’d puke.

Alcohol was worse than cigarettes.

Could I really become a frail, tragic heroine like this…?

To make matters worse—

Grumble—

I felt something a silver-haired, red-eyed, frail, tragic heroine should never feel.

Hunger.

What I wanted was the delicate concept of eating one or two spoonfuls of porridge and setting it down, claiming I was full.

But the sound from my stomach suggested I could devour tteokbokki and tuna rice balls and still want more.

Hold it together.

This was the one thing I couldn’t give up.

If I couldn’t handle alcohol or cigarettes, I had to at least avoid food.

Grumble—

Grumble—

Hold it, I have to hold it… I have to…

“Haa…”

Unable to last even ten minutes against hunger, I committed the heinous act of opening a delivery app with trembling fingers.

The final hurdle for a frail, tragic heroine is anorexia.

An aloof gaze that feels no appetite.

Limbs so thin they might snap.

Joking about how eating one meal a day is exhausting and wishing for a pill to replace food.

At a meal with loved ones, eating two spoonfuls and saying, “I’m full,” earning affectionate scolding like, “No wonder you don’t gain weight,” along with envious and admiring stares—that’s the kind of anorexia I wanted.

But, sadly, I was defeated by delivery tteokbokki.

‘On a chilly day, tteokbokki and fish cake broth are perfection.’

Wiping drool from my lips, I popped a piece of tteokbokki straight into my mouth.

I didn’t forget to sip the fish cake broth to balance the spice.

Electrifying!

The spicy-sweet, chewy tteokbokki.

The hot, savory fish cake broth.

Fireworks exploded in my mouth.

“Delicious… so, so delicious…”

…It seems becoming the frail, tragic heroine I dreamed of might be a little harder than I thought.