Page 2 of The Villainess Chose Naps Over Death Flags

"NO." The cat's tail lashed. She cleared her throat with obvious irritation. "Anyway—"

"I'm dead?" Carol asked cautiously, finally catching up to reality. "I died, and now I'm... hallucinating before my brain shuts down for good?"

"You're not hallucinating," the cat said cheerfully. "But you are dead. Congratulations!" She paused. "Well, actually, working yourself to death at twenty-eight is pretty sad. But!" The cat's tail swished with obvious delight. "You've been approved for reincarnation!"

Carol blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Reincarnation," the cat repeated, sounding pleased with herself. "I'm Mercy, your assigned caseworker. The celestial council reviewed your file—boring life, no major sins, two pets who vouched for your character—and decided you deserve a second chance." She paused. "Well, technically Coco said you were 'the best human ever,' and Meow Meow said you were 'acceptable.' But that's high praise from a cat."

"Meow Meow... vouched for me?"

"Oh yes. Very touching testimonial. Lots of purring involved." Mercy's whiskers twitched. "So, Carol Reed, before we discuss your options—what kind of lifestyle would you want if you could have anything?"

Carol blinked. "What kind of lifestyle?"

"Yes. If you could live exactly how you wanted, what would that look like?"

Carol didn't even have to think about it. "I want to nap whenever I want. Eat whatever I want—especially desserts. And shop to my heart's content without feeling guilty about it."

Mercy's eyes gleamed. "No ambitions? No grand adventures? No desire to save the world?"

"I just spent six years saving quarterly reports," Carol said flatly. "I want comfort. I want rest. I want to enjoy the money I earn instead of just staring at my bank account while I'm too exhausted to spend it."

"Fascinating." Mercy's tail swished with obvious delight. "Well then! You have three options. Option one: standard reincarnation. Reborn as a baby on Earth, no memories, the whole tedious process. Option two: transmigration into an established life with all your memories intact. Option three: you can just pass through the pearly gates to heaven. Nice, peaceful, eternal rest and all that."

Carol's brain was struggling to keep up. "Wait, so I could just... go to heaven?"

"Yep! Totally valid choice. Most people pick that one." Mercy's tail swished. "Buuuut option two is more fun and interesting."

Carol narrowed her eyes. "Fun for who, exactly?"

"For you, of course!" Mercy said, a little too innocently. "You spent your entire previous life working yourself to death. Don't you want a vacation?"

"A vacation," Carol repeated slowly.

"A lifestyle vacation," Mercy corrected, her whiskers twitching with amusement. "New world, new body, new opportunities! Magic! Adventure! No quarterly reports! And—" she paused dramatically, "—the potential for all those naps, desserts, and shopping you just mentioned."

Carol felt something stir in her chest. Something that might have been hope, if hope hadn't been beaten out of her by fourteen-hour workdays.

"What's the catch?" she asked.

"Well, there's a teensy bit of work involved first," Mercy said, waving a paw dismissively. "Just some light problem-solving, nothing major. Then—unlimited vacation time! All you need to do is sign the contract, and you're all set. Easy peasy."

A scroll materialized in the air, floating down to rest on the cloud between them. It was covered in dense, tiny script that went on for what looked like pages and pages.

Carol looked at the contract.

Carol looked at Mercy.

Mercy's smile widened.

Carol thought about the last six years of her life reading contracts, financial statements, compliance documents, and legal disclaimers until her eyes bled.

Carol sighed. I'm dead and I'm still forced to read documents.

"Where do I sign?" Carol asked.

The cat's grin was nothing short of delighted. "Bottom of page thirty."