I Became an Artist in a Romantic Comedy - Chapter 91

Waking up in the middle of that, she nearly screamed—until she saw him.Her cold, obsessive husband. The man she had spent an entire lifetime running from.In her past life, she trusted the wrong people. She abandoned the man who truly loved her and ended up betrayed, ruined, and dead.This time? Ha! Divorce? Dream on.Since fate gave her another chance, she’d play the game her way. Stay mysterious, act sweet, and turn every schemer against each other.And as for the dangerously obsessed husband?Let’s see who traps who first!

“Wait... Where am I and... who am i?”Just after he thought he was successfully betrayed and killed by his most favored surbodinate. Taylor finds himself on the floor of a remote alley“Don't tell me I got reincarnated?” Hutton muttered with a look of disbelief on his face.P.S; Join the novel discord server for any announcements or questions and answers sections

The hearse with the weird odor slowed to a stop before the entrance. The sound of pebbles could be heard bouncing on the ceiling. There were footsteps coming from the corridor, and there seemed to be someone sawing next door. The door knob to the room rattled slightly, and the faucet in the bathroom kept dripping even though it had been screwed shut. There was a rubber ball that rolled on its own underneath the bed. Wet footsteps started to surface one after another on the floor.
At 3 am, Chen Ge held a cleaver in his hand as he hid beside the room heater. The call he was trying to make was finally answered. “Landlord, is this what you meant by ‘the house can be a little crowded at night’‽”

- Description from Novelupdates

I am Racist.…I mean, my name is Racis T.I was a stand-up comedian. The flop kind. The type who only got laughs when someone else was roasting him.One night, I was doing a gig at a shady, run-down bar—the kind where tattooed bikers drink motor oil for breakfast. I went in with my usual dark humor, but my jokes were getting the same reaction as my dating profile: complete silence.That didn’t sit right with my inner artist, who was already starving to death. So I did what any committed comedian would—I went darker.Turns out, one of my jokes (or all of them?) triggered a guy so hard that he pulled a trigger. Headshot. Instant death.But hey, look at this: A guy got triggered, so he pulled the trigger. That’s wordplay. But who cares? I’m dead anyway.All I wanted was a successful show, people laughing, and maybe a few girls swooning over my wit. I never cared about money. The millions I’d have made would have gone to charity—specifically, 0.001% of it. See? I’m generous like that.Anyway, death is death. My story should’ve ended there.But… if there is an afterlife, I had a simple wish: become a successful comedian, find a loving wife, and have just enough money to afford three meals a day… and maybe a humble little private yacht. Or a jet. But that’s it. Because, like I said, I don’t care about money.Unfortunately, wishes don’t work that way.Because, well—there was an afterlife.And it was absolutely not what I wished for.