My boyfriend's childhood sweetheart bound herself to a transfer system: everything she ate would be redirected straight into my stomach.

She opened a streaming account and broadcast herself eating for twelve hours straight. She earned a fortune. Meanwhile, I collapsed with acute pancreatitis and was rushed to the hospital.

When I explained the situation to my boyfriend, he only stared at me like I was insane.

"How could something that absurd exist? If food could really be transferred, no one in the world would ever starve. You're just jealous that she's making money from streaming."

After that, every time his childhood sweetheart went live, I ended up hospitalized again. I kept hovering between life and death.

I sought medical help, but the doctors couldn't explain my condition. Some even wanted to commit me to a psychiatric ward.

Then, one day, in order to outdo her rivals in a PK match, she devoured ten pounds of rice in a single sitting. At that very moment, my spleen and stomach ruptured, and I bled to death on the spot.

When I opened my eyes again, I had returned to the day of her very first livestream.

This time, I was prepared. I rushed out and bought twenty takeout meals.

"This time," I said, "I'll eat first."

The moment Tina Watson finished devouring an entire fried chicken on camera, a wave of fullness surged through my stomach, even though I hadn't touched a single drop of water all day.

So I was right. Even though I'd been reborn, nothing had changed.

Everything Tina ate still ended up in my stomach.

While I was reeling in horror, she dragged out a basin-sized bowl of pasta and a towering bottle of Coca-Cola.

"That chicken was just an appetizer. Now for the main course," she cooed sweetly into the camera.

From behind the screen, a man's voice marveled, "Oh my god, Tina, you're incredible! You eat more than I do, and I'm a grown man."

As she lowered her head toward that bowl—bigger than her face—I snatched up my car keys and bolted out the door.

I couldn't let her keep eating. If she did, the outcome would be the same as before: a dead end for me.

On the way, I used my phone to order twenty takeout meals. This time, I was determined to uncover what trick she was playing.

My car screeched to a stop beneath my boyfriend Nick Harding's apartment. The delivery riders arrived at almost the same moment.

Hauling the bags of food, I raced upstairs and banged on his door.

He opened it with a scowl of annoyance. "What are you doing here? Checking up on me again? Tina's streaming right now. Don't make a scene. Leave! She's eating happily. If you scare off her big spenders in the livestream, I'll never forgive you."

In my previous life, after graduating, Tina had moved straight into Nick's place under the excuse of "temporary lodging" until she found a job.

I'd thought it inappropriate, but Nick snapped back, "She and I grew up together. If there was ever going to be something between us, don't you think it would've happened already? You're overthinking."

Later, Tina decided to become a mukbang streamer. To support her, I even followed her account.

That was when the nightmare began. Every time she streamed, my stomach swelled as if stuffed to bursting, like it would split open.

Eventually, I was hospitalized with acute pancreatitis—a disease caused by overeating. Severe cases could even be fatal.

I told Nick, but he never believed me. He said I was just jealous of Tina.

Now that he was managing her account with her, he forbade me from coming anywhere near, terrified I'd interfere with their profits.

Meanwhile, I writhed at home in agony, rushed to the hospital by ambulance again and again. The doctors warned me: another attack, and I could die over nothing more than food.

But Tina didn't stop. In one PK match against a top-tier streamer, the challenge was simple: whoever finished ten pounds of rice first would win.

The moment she started eating, my spleen and stomach ruptured. My organs hemorrhaged, and I died.

As I slipped away, I saw Tina claim victory. She became the number-one eating streamer, celebrated as the queen of mukbang. She and Nick embraced in triumph, their faces glowing with happiness.

Even in death, I couldn't understand why this was happening.

So this time, no matter what it cost—even if I had to drag her down with me—I would never let her succeed.

I burst straight into the livestream, cutting Tina off mid-bite as I raised the twenty takeout boxes in my hands.

"Tina, you can't keep eating like this. It's bad for your health. Let me take over. You should rest a while."

She lifted her head from the bowl, baffled. "Shirley, I'm streaming right now. Could you please not interfere?"

I edged my way into the camera's frame, deliberately exposing my face. Before coming, I had carefully applied makeup. Combined with my naturally slimmer figure, I appeared far more striking than Tina.

At this point she was still a nobody, a small-time streamer with no loyal fanbase. The moment viewers saw me, the chat lit up, demanding to watch me eat instead.

Tina, unwilling to scold me in front of the camera, had no choice but to stand aside and let me take her place.

I started with a box of cut fruit, mostly mango—something Tina was severely allergic to.

I'd bought it on purpose. I needed to know: was this transfer system mutual? If I ate something she couldn't, would she suffer the reaction instead?

I polished off the mango slices while the comments poured in, praising my graceful eating, saying I made the food look appetizing. A few wealthy fans even sent me expensive gifts through the livestream channel.

I turned to Tina with a faint smile. "Looks like everyone prefers watching me eat. But don't worry, I'm only experimenting today. All the gifts belong to you. I won't take a cent."

Her expression darkened at having the spotlight stolen, though she kept her anger in check. I studied her face closely, searching for hives or swelling.

Nothing. No rash, no reaction—only suppressed fury.

Maybe one box of fruit wasn't enough. I brought out a cup of mango sago and a towering mango mille crêpe cake.

Tina tried to salvage her ground. "Shirley, I'm just starting my career as a streamer. If you want to stream, use your own account. Why steal mine? Please, step aside and let me continue. If you insist, then let's eat together. We'll see who can eat more."

She reached for her snail noodles, ready to dive in.

I snatched the bowl from her hands and held it up to the camera. "I'm doing this for your health. Look at all this chili—paired with ice-cold cola, it'll wreck your stomach. Do you know how many cases of stomach cancer come from habits like this? If you really want to eat, have some porridge. It's much gentler."

I opened one of the deliveries: a box of chicken porridge.

The viewers were delighted by my thoughtfulness. The comments praised me as both beautiful and kindhearted, showering the stream with more gifts and urging Tina to rest—they wanted to keep watching me instead.

Tina turned to Nick for help, but he was grinning ear to ear at the backend revenue. As far as he was concerned, it didn't matter who sat in front of the camera—money was money. And I was earning more than Tina ever had.

Ignoring the discomfort building in my stomach, I forced down the mango sago and the mille crêpe cake. Still, Tina showed no signs of an allergic reaction.

In the past, even a single bite of mango would leave her covered in hives, her face swollen beyond recognition.

Damn it. So the transfer was one-sided after all. Everything she ate was dumped into me, but nothing I ate ever transferred back.

By now, I was so stuffed I couldn't take another bite. I lifted my phone toward the camera and forced a cheerful tone.

"It's getting late, darlings. Time to sleep. Staying up too late isn't healthy. Let's meet again another day."

After saying goodbye, I ended the stream with a single tap.

Back in my car, I grabbed a plastic bag and retched until I was dizzy, vomiting out everything I had just swallowed.

By the time I drove home, it was already past midnight, but sleep was impossible.

Until I could figure out how to outmaneuver Tina, I knew my life was in constant danger.

Tossing and turning on the bed, I suddenly felt a wave of nausea surge through my stomach. I gagged desperately, but nothing came out.

It was the same sickening sensation I used to feel when my parents forced me to eat greasy slabs of pork fat. Panicked, I rushed to the fridge, grabbed an ice cream, and swallowed it down in hopes of easing the discomfort.

But it did nothing.

Then, a realization struck me. I fumbled for my phone, opened it, and sure enough—Tina had started another livestream.

"Hey fam, let me treat you all to something special today… pure fatty pork! Keep those gifts coming!"

On screen, she held up a glistening hunk of pork fat and bit into it with relish. Even through the phone, the sight made my stomach churn.

Furious, I typed a comment in the chat: [Stop eating! It's disgusting just watching you!]

She spotted my message and smirked triumphantly.

"Who do you think you are? You say stop, and I should stop? Show me some real power if you want me to listen."

The nausea clawed at me, unbearable. In desperation, I sent her several extravagant gifts, hoping she would quit.

Instead, she accepted my money with glee and pulled out a massive bowl of mayonnaise.

"Since you don't like fatty pork, I'll switch to something sweet."

Mayonnaise was pure oil and no different from the pork. She shoveled it into her mouth by the spoonful. I felt so sick I nearly coughed up blood.

[What the hell did you do to me? Why is it that you're the one eating, but I'm the one suffering?]

[Stop! Stop eating anything!]

My desperate comments only fueled her cruelty. The more I begged, the harder she laughed.

Agonizing pain ripped through my gut. With my last shred of strength, I dialed 911.

Thankfully, the ambulance arrived in time, dragging me back from death's door.

Just like in my previous life, the diagnosis was the same: acute pancreatitis caused by overeating.

The doctor studied my chart in astonishment. "You're so thin. How could you possibly eat this much?"

I said nothing. I signed for discharge immediately and headed straight for Tina's place.

The moment the door opened, I pressed a kitchen knife to her throat.

"Shirley, what are you doing? Calm down!" she stammered.

I glared at her, my patience gone. "I'm not here to waste words. Tell me the truth. Why is it that you eat, but I'm the one who suffers?"

Her eyes widened in feigned innocence. "Shirley, I don't understand what you're saying."

My grip on the knife tightened. "Don't play dumb. Talk!"

Her face drained of color. "O-okay, I'll talk, I'll talk—"

But instead of confessing, she screamed, "Nick, help me!"

I hadn't noticed Nick slip in behind me. He kicked me hard, knocking me to the floor. The knife was ripped from my hands.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he snapped.

Then, to my horror, he pulled out his phone and set up a livestream. One by one, he placed thirty hamburgers on the table.

"You claim that whenever Tina eats, the food transfers into your stomach? Fine. Let the livestream family be the judge. If you keep this up, I'll break up with you right here and now."

Viewers had no idea what was happening. The comments scrolled by in a frenzy.

Nick turned to the camera, explaining, "Hey fam, my girlfriend here is insane. She says everything Tina eats ends up in her stomach. Tonight, you'll be our witnesses. If she keeps acting out, I'll leave her."

Tina picked up a hamburger and shoved it into her mouth without hesitation.

Instantly, the crushing fullness struck me again. My stomach twisted in unbearable pain, far beyond its limits. My body collapsed, writhing in violent spasms on the floor.

The chat exploded.

[Is that girl for real?]

[Looks like she's faking it.]

[Slap her a couple times, she'll straighten up.]

Nick's gaze turned icy. He looked down at me and said coldly, "If you keep pretending, don't blame me for what happens next."