Romance novels always put their protagonists in the spotlight. They outshine every other character, radiating charm and captivation. There’s another role that makes the hero shine even brighter, though—the rival. And if that rival is a villain? All the better. Clear lines of good versus evil only deepen readers’ immersion.
But let’s shift our gaze from the hero and instead examine the villainous supporting character. Though not always the case, these villains often turn out to be surprisingly admirable.
First, they possess the wealth and backing to commit misdeeds without raising a fuss. They have the means to carry out their schemes, too. Their looks and physical prowess often rival those of the protagonist, and at times they even display moments of tenderness or pure devotion.
More than once, villains in these tales have more—more money, more skill, even more effort—yet they remain doomed to lose. Whether it’s riches, affection, or sheer hard work, the villain does everything in his power to win the love of the one he cares for. His methods may be unorthodox, even clumsy, but the depth of his devotion is always genuine.
Meanwhile, what does the protagonist do?
They simply exist—and still the other party falls hopelessly in love. No matter if the hero languishes in a crumbling, mold-ridden basement, fails every job opportunity and spends ten years preparing for civil-service exams, or is a married man with five divorces under his belt—once he dons the hero’s sash, devotion follows.
Winter—Cha Gyeoul—once wondered why this happened. Why do nearly perfect men, flawed only by their character, always end in tragedy? Wouldn’t it be nice to give villains a happier ending, if not “and they both lived happily ever after,” then at least something a bit more hopeful?
In his innocence, Gyeoul once thought as much.
“Ugh—!”
“Hey, are you okay, Secretary Cha? You didn’t puke up your insides, right?”
But now, face flushed, tears and mucus mingling with stomach bile, Gyeoul’s thoughts had changed. Villains meeting their downfall is not karma—it’s taking responsibility for their actions. Blame this wretched Falling Blossoms universe for that revelation.
“…Villains…”
Gyeoul couldn’t bring himself to say it aloud, but he cursed his boss inwardly, resentful of being ordered into these bizarre tasks.
“Tsk, tsk. Secretary Cha, how do you expect to handle this job with a stomach of glass?”
A bodyguard, cigarette in hand, shook his head in sympathy. He knew exactly what Juhan’s secretaries were forced to do—and felt sorry for Gyeoul. Small-headed, slender-boned, skin smooth as fresh mochi, Gyeoul often looked like a child.
“Here—drink this.”
“Ah… thanks.”
Gyeoul gulped down the bottled water, trying to calm his queasy stomach. Wiping his eyes and upper lip with the back of his hand, he managed a small, rabbit-like smile—even though his eyes were bright red.
“But really, why’d you puke just now?” the guard asked, genuinely curious. Embarrassed, Gyeoul offered a forced smile and a quick sidelong glance.
This wasn’t his first time vomiting, after all.
“You threw up at a bit of blood before, right?”
“Hahaha…”
Gyeoul remembered the day the guard mentioned. A man had been struck by Juhan’s hefty boot, blood spurted from his nose and mouth like a grotesque fountain—literally arcing in midair, then drenching his face. At the time, Gyeoul had nearly lost his lunch. But the guard had described it as “just a little” blood.
Every time I recall that, I feel sick…
“Seriously, this time it wasn’t even real—your ankle’s fine, right?”
By a miracle, the omega had regained his senses before Gyeoul could saw through his ankle. He’d scrambled free, begging for his life so desperately that Gyeoul had backed off. Still, the mere thought—imagining the cut—was enough to make him vomit here in the street.
“Well… I… just imagined it so vividly…” Gyeoul trailed off.
Now, Gyeoul couldn’t even imagine cruelty without retching.
“Hey, Secretary Cha,” the guard said kindly, “I hate to say it, but get out of there while you can. Stay on in that company much longer and even death won’t free you.”
Gyeoul agreed wholeheartedly.
It had been three months since Winter awoke in the Falling Blossoms world. He’d fainted from shock that first day, but adapted surprisingly quickly—thanks to one advantage.
His name. Here, as in his old world, he was Cha Gyeoul. Same face, same body. Only his background—job, finances, education—differed entirely. He concluded that another Cha Gyeoul must exist in this world, living a parallel life. Otherwise, nothing made sense.
Moreover, memories of this world’s Cha Gyeoul flowed into his mind, easing his integration. While there were differences from his old life, the similarities far outweighed them. Three months passed in this new life before he realized how settled he’d become.
“Final sale! One pack of blueberries for ten thousand won—cheap, cheap!”
“Can you knock off a thousand won?”
“Nah! It’s a final sale—no more discounts!”
“Please, though…”
“Fine, but keep it secret, okay?”
The fruit vendor whispered as he handed over Gyeoul’s blueberries and card. Gyeoul felt a thrill at saving even a thousand won.
After buying berries, Gyeoul ventured deeper into the market, hunting for vegetables. Late-closing stalls meant bargains on leftovers—an economical, savvy choice.
“Final sale! Three packs of blueberries for ten thousand won—big, fresh ones!”
Gyeoul froze. I just paid nine thousand won for one pack!
Sometimes he got blindsided like this. Another person might’ve marched back for a refund, but Gyeoul couldn’t face a shouting match with a burly vendor. Instead, he vowed never to return, absorbing the loss as a life lesson. Such was his nature.
Back home, he rinsed and refrigerated his berries, then assembled dinner: a salad of peppers, cherry tomatoes, and boiled corn; half a block of steamed tofu; an apple and a banana. Vegan and fish-free, his meals were all produce.
After eating, he harvested just enough lettuce, cherry tomatoes, arugula, and bok choy from the backyard plot for tomorrow’s salad. At the end of March, nothing else would thrive yet—but seedlings of eggplant, tomato, and cucumber were growing indoors, destined for the garden come April or May.
Even on late nights at work, he never neglected his plants—his personal stress relief.
“Sigh… how do I face work tomorrow?”
Gyeoul stared up at the bright moon, face drawn with melancholy—like an animal sensing its doom before slaughter.
“…and after lunch, the schedule…”
“Your name’s Cha Gyeoul, right?”
When Gyeoul finished the morning briefing at Juhan’s residence, Juhan suddenly asked:
“Yes, sir.”
“For some reason, I didn’t even know you existed until recently.”
No wonder—Gyeoul had always worked silently behind previous secretaries, never once meeting Juhan face-to-face. In effect, he was a back-office assistant. He wondered how much to explain, but Juhan spoke again before he could.
“Anyway—Cha Gyeoul.”
“…Yes?”
“Answer me.”
At the curt command, Gyeoul snapped to attention like a new recruit.
“Are you dating me?”
“N-No!”
The reflexive honesty left Gyeoul’s mind blank.