"Die! Die! Die!" I screamed, my fingers digging into the soft, sweaty flesh of his neck.
He struggled beneath me, gasping, kicking, scratching at my arms. His eyes bulged. His mouth opened wide as if to speak, but no sound came out. Just the pitiful, rasping whisper of a dying man.
His tears streamed down. His face contorted into a beautiful blend of fear, pain, and despair. Ah... that face. That expression. The purest display of vulnerability. I could almost taste it.
My breath caught in my throat—not out of effort, but exhilaration. My body trembled, high from the adrenaline. From control. From the divine thrill of watching someone beg for life, only to have it denied by my own two hands.
This is what it means to feel alive.
When he stopped struggling, I waited a few seconds more, savoring the silence. No more whimpering. No more pleading. Just stillness.
Only then did I release my grip.
Blood pulsed in my ears like music.
Calmly, I picked up the knife I had tossed aside earlier, the cold metal kissing my fingertips. I looked down at the lifeless thing sprawled beneath me, a pathetic smear of what used to be a man. I smiled—and plunged the blade into his chest.
Over and over.
Each stab was a memory.
A broken promise.
A betrayal.
He cheated on me. He made a mockery of my devotion, my effort, my restraint. I tolerated him far longer than I should have. I gave him kindness, mercy, space.
And for what?
They always say love makes you blind. But it was not love. It was my hope—my delusion—that he might be different. Better. Someone worth keeping around.
How foolish of me.
I lost count of how many I have killed. But every one of them had it coming.
Lian. That lying bastard.
My teacher who touched me when no one was looking.
My "friends" who laughed behind my back.
Even my own parents. They treated me like a curse. Refused to touch me. Talk to me. Love me.
They called me a monster. A mistake.
Maybe they were right.
But if God would not strike them down, then I will.
******
My head… it is splitting apart.
Pain shoots through my skull like a thousand knives. I gasp for air, but it was thin, fragile—slipping through my lungs like sand.
Why I could not move?
Why do my arms feel like they are bound by invisible chains?
I try to scream, but no sound escapes.
Where am I?
The last thing I remember… was walking home.
Darkness. Rain. Cold pavement under my feet. A sense of unease following me like a shadow. Then… nothing.
Now, as my eyes flutter open, I am assaulted by brightness. Warm hues. A ceiling painted like a golden sky. Drapes of velvet. Furniture carved from dark mahogany.
What the hell...?
This is not my room. This is not even my world.
I push myself up slowly, every limb aching, trembling like I have aged a century. My fingers brush silk sheets and a mattress too soft, too luxurious.
Panic claws at my throat.
Nothing feels right.
With wobbly legs, I step toward the vanity. The cool marble beneath my bare feet makes me shiver.
Then I see her.
No. I see me.
But it is not me.
The woman in the mirror has skin like porcelain, untouched by sun or blemish. Her hair is long, a flowing cascade of burgundy silk. And her eyes—dear God—those eyes. A deep, unnatural orange. Like embers still smoldering in a dying fire.
She is beautiful. Striking. Terrifyingly still.
But her eyes... they are mine.
Empty. Emotionless. Hollow.
They have seen things no one should ever see.
Have I seen those things?
I reach out to touch her face. She mirrors me perfectly.
No. No, no, no.
This is not possible.
Is this some twisted dream? A hallucination? Did I finally lose it? Did my mind snap after Lian?
I fall backward, crashing onto the cold floor. My limbs shake, my heart pounds against my ribs like a war drum.
Whose body is this?
Who am I now?
Am I dead?
Have I been thrown into hell for what I have done?
No. No, I can not accept that. I refuse. I would not accept it.
I still have things to do. People to punish. Wrongs to right.
If this is some kind of divine punishment, then I will climb my way back and bring my own version of hell with me.
Deep breaths.
I steady myself, wiping the cold sweat from my brow.
First—I need to gather information. Whose body I am in. Where I am. Why I am here. Second—I need to find a way back. Back to my world. Back to my unfinished business.
I rise slowly, brushing off the silk nightgown that now clings to me like a stranger's skin. It smells faintly of rose and iron.
Opening the door, I step into a hallway that stretches like a corridor of memories—dimly lit, grand, and somehow sorrowful.
Dark-orange walls bathed in shadows. Candle sconces flickering low. Ornate paintings line the hallway—each more haunting than the last. Nude figures curled in fetal positions. Dying flowers. Trees stripped bare of leaves, reaching for a sky that is not there.
This woman—whoever she is—has lived a life drenched in loneliness.
Her world is painted in decay.
The manor—no, palace—is vast. Beautiful in a cold, melancholic way. The kind of place designed to trap its inhabitants in gilded isolation.
Then I reach the main staircase.
My breath catches.
A massive portrait looms above the landing.
A woman in a deep crimson gown stands with a tiara upon her brow and rubies glittering at her neck. Regal. Elegant. Untouchable.
But those eyes.
Dead.
Haunted.
Mine.
I step closer, my eyes scanning the carved frame.
Princess Madeleine Ceres Habsburg.
A name fit for a fairy tale. Or a nightmare.
That was who I am now? A princess?
I laugh—a bitter, hollow sound that echoes through the empty corridor.
From murderer to monarch. What a delicious irony.
But before I can think further, a voice slices through the silence.
"Ahem. Your Highness," a man says firmly, "wandering the halls in your nightgown is not appropriate for a lady of your standing."
I spin around, startled.
He stands tall, hands clasped behind his back. His silver hair falls neatly across his brow. His skin is pale, smooth, perfect. His eyes—sharp, cold, and ocean-deep—regard me with subtle disapproval. Everything about him is pristine. Controlled.
Beautiful. But distant.
He looks at me like I am delicate. Breakable.
Like I am someone I am not.
I say nothing, trying to still my expression.
Who is this man?
And why does he look at me as if I have always been Princess Madeleine?
Ladyrihaveinlafoli