Transmigrated as the Disabled Alpha of the Yandere Film Empress - Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Song Yanrong didn’t think too much. She lightly pulled back the layer of elastic pink fabric.

Her eyelashes trembled suddenly. In her line of sight, just a palm’s width below the waist, on the supple and elastic skin, there was a light reddish-pink rose tattoo.

All that remained in Song Yanrong’s eyes were white and pink.

Looking closer, the slightly raised gland was nestled right in the heart of the rose.

“This is it?” Song Yanrong still used the plastic tip of the syringe to lightly tap next to the rose.

She was met with a shivering reply from Sun Jia.

Song Yanrong’s throat was as dry as a desert. She placed her hand next to the rose and hoarsely said, “I’m going to inject it now.”

Using every ounce of patience she had in her life, she ignored Sun Jia’s breathing, ignored the soft texture under her fingers. With sharp precision, she aimed the needle directly at the center of the rose and pierced it.

Sun Jia’s consciousness blurred slightly, and her body twisted involuntarily. Song Yanrong pressed her down firmly, her long fingers like kneading white flour, slightly sinking into the skin.

Sun Jia’s mouth opened, a sound shattered through the room—somewhere between pain and pleasure.

…

Sweat dripped down, falling onto Sun Jia’s pale pink skin.

Song Yanrong wiped the sweat from her forehead, gritted her teeth at the rose’s center, then tossed the syringe into the trash can.

The wheelchair rolled back; only then did she feel like she could breathe.

Just moments ago, her Alpha instincts had made her want to take a bite.

She glanced at Sun Jia, who was lying on the bed with eyes closed, body trembling slightly. The suppressant would take a few minutes to take effect. During this time, Song Yanrong received a call from the doctor.

Not the original body’s private doctor—she had asked the bodyguards to find a new one to avoid being tracked by the Song family.

The young female doctor took one look at Sun Jia’s condition and smiled. “Miss Song, don’t worry. It looks like the symptoms are already easing. The fever should subside in about an hour. She just needs to drink more warm fluids and rest well. As long as there’s no more pheromone stimulation, she’ll be fine.”

Song Yanrong nodded and let the doctor treat Sun Jia’s shoulder injury before escorting her to the door.

At the doorway, she said, “I’m not feeling too well either. There’s some pressure here. Do I need a suppressant too?”

“You’re not in a sensitivity phase, are you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Any other discomfort?”

Song Yanrong took a breath. “My teeth feel itchy. Does that count?”

The doctor: “…”

After a few more questions, the doctor, under Song Yanrong’s intense gaze, looked slightly nervous. “It’s probably due to being affected by the Omega’s heat. If you can suppress your pheromones, just relax and avoid agitation. Try not to hold it in too long, or it might affect your mood.”

In short: nothing serious, just take care of the need so it doesn’t mess with your emotions.

Song Yanrong: “…”

After seeing the doctor out, Song Yanrong returned to Sun Jia’s room.

At this moment, Sun Jia was lying flat on the bed, breathing softly. Her condition looked stable now. Song Yanrong glanced at her, moved the water glass closer, then quietly left the room.

She didn’t know that Sun Jia opened her eyes as soon as she turned away.

The scent of misty labdanum slowly faded from the air. Yet inside, Sun Jia absurdly felt a strange sense of longing and reluctance.

She was indeed in heat. As for why someone with pheromone insensitivity was experiencing this, she didn’t understand.

She just never realized that she had such a wanton side to her.

But soon, fatigue and soreness pulled at her eyelids, and just before sleep took her, one question lingered in her mind.

She helped her with the injection, called the doctor, even treated her wound—spoke in that unhurried, elegant tone like a refined lady…

This… was nothing like the Song Yanrong she knew.

Was this really the same Song Yanrong?

…

Song Yanrong fetched a can of cold beer from the fridge and sat by the living room window in her wheelchair, staring into the distance in a daze for a while.

The night was deep. The city outside was asleep. The yellow lights in the distance looked like candles lined up in rows.

She probably wasn’t going back.

Not until she finished her beer did the agitation and chaos in her chest finally subside. She took her clothes and went to the bathroom.

She showered slowly that night. By the time she came out, her skin had been reddened by the hot water.

Even so, Song Yanrong didn’t sleep well that night.

In a haze, she felt someone speaking. She wasn’t exactly patient, so she frowned and tried to open her eyes—only to find she couldn’t.

Before her eyes, bold black text appeared:

Hello, I’m your Mission Reminder Officer.

Your task is to maintain the order of this small world and repair its loopholes. You need to assist the female lead in completing her blackening arc so the world returns to its proper trajectory.

Complete the mission and you’ll have a chance to return safely to your original world. Failure or deviation will result in punishment.

These three sentences repeated over and over in her head.

It wasn’t until Song Yanrong woke up, annoyed, from the dream that she finally found peace.

The curtain was half drawn, the night outside still thick. She rubbed her temples, dizzy.

Was the dream real or imagined? She couldn’t tell. After all, waking up inside a book was already fantastical—what’s one more surreal dream?

Her throat was parched. She craved a cold beer, but the room fridge only had soda.

At times like this, the inconvenience of her paralyzed legs really hit hard.

Even getting out of bed took time and effort.

For someone like Song Yanrong, who used to earn money by the minute, this was particularly hard to bear.

She opened the door, and the sensor lights in the living room turned on. She rolled over to the fridge and drank half a can in one go, then glanced toward the guest room.

Sun Jia should be okay now, right?

As if in response, the guest room door clicked open. Sun Jia stepped out, still wearing that semi-transparent white nightgown.

Lowering the can from her mouth, Song Yanrong asked, “Feeling better?”

Sun Jia froze at the sight of her. “Mm…”

Perhaps realizing her tone was a bit cold—and remembering why she was here—she softened and said, “Miss Song, I’ve troubled you.”

“No problem,” Song Yanrong replied casually. Trouble wasn’t really the word—more like… exhausting.

The air filled with awkwardness.

Song Yanrong took another sip. “Want some?”

Sun Jia shook her head and murmured, “I want to take a shower.”

Her body still sticky, she couldn’t sleep once she was somewhat lucid.

“You can grab a fresh set of clothes from my room.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Polite and proper conversation.

The doctor had said that Omegas in heat were especially sensitive and vulnerable, and couldn’t be overly stimulated. Having seen how Sun Jia had struggled last night, Song Yanrong couldn’t help but soften her tone.

Sun Jia returned with fresh pajamas.

Song Yanrong said, “Good night.”

Then wheeled herself back to her room.

The soft hum of the wheelchair rolling over the beige carpet followed. Holding her clothes, Sun Jia stood there—her cautious demeanor now replaced by contemplation.

She suddenly wondered: was it possible Song Yanrong had also undergone a personality change like she had?

It… kind of made sense?

But she didn’t have the energy to dwell on it.

…

At 7 a.m., Song Yanrong was already awake—her internal alarm clock.

In her old world, she used to get up at this hour for a jog, then eat breakfast while reading the news and watching the stock market.

Now, she lay in bed, staring at the morning light creeping in through the window.

She stared and then suddenly chuckled.

Damn.

Privately, she had always spoken bluntly with friends.

Her parents were traditional—the kind who’d scold you for dropping chopsticks at dinner. But it hadn’t made her rigid.

Later, both her parents passed away. The company went through equity turmoil. Boardroom battles. Family infighting. Only then did her personality start to grow distant.

She spent the next years managing the company and clearing out the trash—so busy she didn’t even have time for relationships.

With her calm demeanor and ruthless strategies, she brought the company to new heights.

But over time, that “Zen” attitude became her reality.

She recalled the strange system dream from the night before.

Surely they didn’t think she was easy to control? That she’d obediently carry out some absurd mission, and that’s why she was brought here?

Fine. If the system was real, the first thing she’d do was crush it.

Song Yanrong sat in her wheelchair. As soon as she opened the door, the smell of porridge hit her.

She looked up. Sun Jia was standing in the open kitchen, dressed in a soft yellow pajama set, head lowered.

The pot in front of her was bubbling with steam.

Noticing her arrival, Sun Jia glanced up.

“Good morning, Miss Song.”

“…Morning, Miss Sun.”

Song Yanrong wheeled over and looked at Sun Jia’s complexion. Her skin was clear, cheeks flushed—a picture of health.

She didn’t ask further. What happened last night was probably the last thing an Omega would want others to mention. So she didn’t bring it up.

“I forgot to ask—do you have any food preferences? Is milk porridge okay?”

That pretty face, those peach blossom eyes—just looking at her made one feel calm.

Song Yanrong smiled faintly. “I don’t have any. But you didn’t need to do this. Delivery’s fine.”

“Delivery isn’t healthy.”

“…Mm.”

Most of her past meals had been prepared by her secretary, or were from the office cafeteria or delivery services. She’d never thought much of it.

But hearing Sun Jia’s soft, slightly pampered tone at the end of that sentence, she went silent.

So gentle. A bit spoiled.

Sun Jia said, “Why don’t you go back to sleep? I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

Song Yanrong paused. This time, she didn’t argue. She just thought—if Sun Jia hadn’t gone through all that, the version in the book would have stayed this sweet and gentle forever.

Unable to help much, Song Yanrong went to wash up, then sat in the living room.

As Sun Jia stirred the porridge, she snuck glances at Song Yanrong on the couch. Yesterday, up close, she noticed a faint mole between her brows.

Now, in a black silk robe, a string of red sandalwood beads on her left wrist, reading a magazine—she looked calm and composed.

Just then, Song Yanrong suddenly looked up.

“…”

That uncanny timing—like she had eyes on the back of her head.

She took a sip of tea, pretending not to notice, and looked back down.

It was a copy of Southern City Weekly, the only clean magazine amid the piles of bikini babes on the original owner’s desk.

Twenty minutes later, Sun Jia called her to eat.

Milk porridge, egg dumplings, a few side dishes—simple, but satisfying. Truth be told, it had been a long time since she’d eaten breakfast face-to-face with someone.

“Are the dishes too plain?” Sun Jia asked.

Song Yanrong shook her head. “Just right. Thank you.”

“Miss Song, you took me in, and helped me last night… I should be the one thanking you.”

If it weren’t to gain Song Yanrong’s trust, she wouldn’t have done all this.

Song Yanrong didn’t reply immediately. She tasted the porridge—creamy and fragrant. A few seconds later, she set her spoon down and said, “You’re right. We don’t need to be so formal.”

Sun Jia’s heart skipped a beat.

Song Yanrong continued, “The moment I took you in, we were already on the same boat. You don’t have to walk on eggshells around me, afraid I’ll throw you off. At least, not until this is over. Until you’re safe—I won’t do that.”

Sun Jia might’ve genuinely been grateful—but she was also trying to please her. The caution in her eyes, like last night’s fruit knife, hadn’t gone unnoticed.

She felt genuine pity for Sun Jia. And she understood.

So at least in her presence, she hoped Sun Jia didn’t have to put up a front.

Under the table, Sun Jia’s fingernails lightly rubbed the spoon.

Every word Song Yanrong said was exactly what she wanted to hear. So far, her disguise seemed flawless—a kind, timid, delicate Omega.

But she didn’t know why… her heart felt like it was being gently cradled by someone’s hand—soothed and comforted.

Song Yanrong picked her spoon back up and said softly,
“Sun Jia, from now on, you can treat me like an accomplice.”

After all, in some way, they were both fugitives now.