Wrong Script, Right Love Chapter 1: Tata, Bye Bye, Destiny

I always thought that if I ever had an accident, I’d go out in style—maybe saving a kid from a speeding truck, maybe dueling a rival samurai under a blood moon.

Reality?

I died like an idiot.

Too much sake, not enough self-control—that was the grand finale of Renji Takeda, thirty-two, Absolutely single, and an overworked salaryman. One second I was toasting to "just one more drink," the next I was lying face-up in a dumpster.

Yes. A dumpster.

A literal trash bin.

Ahem, don’t judge —I was drunk, okay?

The sll was... indescribable. A mix of rotting cabbage, expired milk, and what I could only pray wasn’t a dead fish. My thousand-yen tie had beco a sacrifice to the gods of garbage. My hair? Slicked back with what I hope was sauce.

My dignity? Crushed sowhere between a banana peel and yesterday’s convenience store bento.

The worst part? I wasn’t alone.

A fat tabby cat sat like a smug emperor on the dumpster lid, watching with glowing green eyes as if to say, Pathetic human. We stared at each other for what felt like an eternity. I swear I heard him ow sothing like, "Know your place, peasant."

"Move over," I slurred, trying to wave him off. "This is my bed."

The cat hissed. I hissed back. Things escalated. At so point, I think I actually barked at it. Don’t ask why. Alcohol makes you brave and stupid at the sa ti.

Then, just as I was about to win (read: lose badly), the world tilted. My head spun, my chest burned and then everything went black.

And that was it. Curtain down on Renji Takeda, drunk salaryman, defeated by alcohol and an angry cat.

When I opened my eyes, I expected pain. Or heaven... okay, let’s be practical—I expected to be boiled or fried in hell’s hot oil.

Instead, I woke up in a bed so big it could fit my entire apartnt, my futon, and even my dead plants. (Rest in peace, Aloe Vera. You deserved better.)

The sheets? Silk. The air? Pine-scented. The ceiling? Way too fancy. There were gold engravings of vines and flowers, the kind of detail you only see in palaces or overpriced hotels you can’t afford even in your dreams.

I sat up slowly, expecting a hangover that could kill a horse, but... nothing. No headache, no nausea. Just , in so kind of dieval IKEA catalog.

"Uh..." I touched the sheets again. Definitely silk. I glanced down—no pajamas, no suit, no dignity left. Just a white linen shirt that looked like sothing a European prince would wear in a painting.

"Okay, either I was adopted by a rich sugar daddy mid-death, or... I’m dreaming."

I stepped down from the ridiculously oversized bed, arms stretching like a cat. "Yaaawn... Wait, do we even get sleepy in dreams? Is that a thing? Dream- is lazy too, huh?"

And that’s when I saw him.

A man. A very handso man. No—scratch that—a walking, breathing Pinterest board of male perfection.

Maroon hair that looked like it belonged in so fantasy prince ani. Tall enough to make doorways nervous. Eyes—a golden yellow—that scread, "I own kingdoms and break hearts for fun." And that body? Let’s just say the Greek gods would file a formal complaint for unfair competition.

I blinked.

The hot stranger blinked back.

I glanced left. He glanced left.

I pouted. He pouted.

My drunk brain went, Oh my God... soulmate?

Feeling bold (or stupid, probably both), I threw a hand on my hip and struck a diva pose worthy of a runway.

The guy? Perfectly mirrored . Pose for pose. Like so cosmic-level improv partner.

And then it hit .

"...Wait. This is the freaking mirror."

But the face staring back? Definitely not mine.

My real face? Tired. Sleepy. Permanently stressed. Thirty-two going on fifty.

This face? Young. Sharp. Attractive enough to make my high school bullies apologize retroactively.

"What the hell..." I muttered, leaning closer. "Who... who is this model and why am I borrowing his face?!"

Before I could fully process my sudden glow-up from Overworked Salaryman NPC to Cover Model for Viking Monthly, the door slamd open.

"Oh, Lord Leif, You’re awake! Your father requests your presence at breakfast."

Did he say Leif?

"...My what?"

"His Grace, Viktor Thorenvald, has requested your presence, my lord," the servant said.

. . .

. . .

. . .

Alright, let’s not get into detail about how I freaked out—scread like a dying kettle, tripped over the silk sheets, and nearly threw myself out the window thinking I’d wake up as Renji. Let’s get straight to the point:

I, Renji Takeda, woke up as Leif Thorenvald.

Yes. That Leif Thorenvald. The second male lead from a web novel I read ages ago: Saintess for a Cold Grand Duke.

And before you ask, yes, I rember the whole plot. So things you just can’t erase—like that ti you drunk-texted your ex at 3 a.m. or binge-read a trashy romance novel because the cover art was pretty.

The story? Oh, it’s a classic. Sweet commoner girl with divine powers, pure as snow and blessed by gods, gets thrown into the noble world. She’s basically a walking cheat code—a fairy, a miracle machine, a human glitter bomb. She heals the sick, charms the masses, and—surprise, surprise—lts the heart of the male lead: Alvar Ragnulfsson, the Cold Grand Duke.

And when I say cold, I an cryogenic freezer cold. The man is practically allergic to won. But sohow, the saintess? No rash. No hives. Love at first sight.

Oh, and guess who else falls for her? Yep. Leif Thorenvald, the second male lead. The loyal, dashing, always-smiling, dependable guy who’s dood to lose.

Together, Alvar and Leif beco her guardians, her knights, and her ultimate support team. They protect her, fight for her, and stand by her side against... you guessed it, the villainess.

The villainess is also blessed with divine power, but jealousy eats her alive, corrupting her into your typical tragic antagonist. And then? Drama, betrayal, tears—the usual.

Now, you’re probably thinking:

Wow. A second male lead with brains and biceps. He’s going to overthrow the cold male lead, sweep the saintess off her holy feet, maybe even redeem the villainess and start a love triangle so intense it breaks the heavens.

No. Stop right there. You’re wrong.

Because let be brutally honest...

I AM GAY.

Yes. Hello? ? Gay. Rainbow-certified since high school. I cried harder at BL manga confessions than at my own mother’s wedding. My heart beats faster for a well-tailored suit on a handso man than for any glittering saintess.

I am not simping over so divine miracle Barbie. No way. I’m gonna live this life like it’s an all-you-can-eat buffet. Why? Because I already know the ending.

The saintess gets the cold grand duke, the villainess goes psycho, and —the oh-so-handso second male lead? Yeah, eternal third wheel. Friend-zoned faster than Wi-Fi.

So why bother following the script? I’d rather write my own. And in my script? I’m going to be single, fabulous, and unbothered.

"A—ARE you saying... you want to handle the territory of Fjornholm?" Count Viktor—aka my new father—looked like he’d just been told his horse learned ballet.

I nodded proudly, like I’d just announced I was opening a Michelin-star tavern. "Yes, Father. I’m going to Fjornholm."

My mother choked on her tea. Literally choked. Her delicate porcelain cup rattled in her hand like it was possessed.

"D-Does he have a fever?" she whispered, wide-eyed.

"Should I call the physician?" a maid asked.

Another maid calmly pried the cup from Mother’s trembling fingers. "Let put this down before milady floods the carpet."

I crossed my arms. "What? Is it that shocking that I, Leif Thorenvald, want to take responsibility?"

Spoiler alert: yes. Yes, it was. Because Original Leif? The guy was basically a golden retriever in love—tail wagging, following the saintess everywhere like she pooped holy water. And now here I was, stealing his body and announcing, "Forget chasing miracle Barbie; I’m going to manage land and drink beer under the sun."

Honestly? What’s the point of running after a saintess who’s already destined for Mr. Frosty Grand Duke? No thanks. I’m going to chill in Fjornholm, sunbathe like a lazy lizard, and maybe open the first-ever northern beer spa.

Life goals, baby.

With that final thought, I stood up, brushed imaginary dust off my sleeves like so dramatic noble, and declared, "I’ve already decided, so don’t worry, Father and Mother. I’ll handle everything perfectly. I promise I won’t burn down the territory."

(Keyword: promise. Not a guarantee.)

Before anyone could object, I waved a hand. "Tata, bye-bye!"

And that’s how I, Leif Thorenvald—the original novel’s side character and hopeless simp—screwed the plot, ignored the script, and swaggered my way out of the Thorenvald estate... straight toward Fjornholm territory.