Caruncle woke with a gasp.

  The ceiling was white. The walls were white. The room was dark, but she could see the outlines of furniture now. This wasn’t the basement. She wasn’t there anymore.

  But it still didn’t feel real.

  Her head throbbed, her limbs were heavy, her skin prickled with the memory of something that no longer touched her. A week had passed. A week. But everything in her mind remained wrapped in fog, sharp at the edges, blurred in the middle.

  She pushed herself up. Pain lanced through her leg. She collapsed. The bell clattered to the floor, and she grasped for it, shaking it with the strength she had left as she dragged herself toward the door.

  Footsteps.

  Mortimer and Custodio entered before she could reach the handle. Hands grabbed her, lifting her, putting her back in the bed.

  Her chest was tight. The room was tilting. Her heartbeat was an animal trying to break free.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Another panic attack, sir.” Custodio’s voice was steady. “We’ll have to sedate her again.”

  “That thing isn’t meant to be used this often!”

  “Sir, her pulse is skyrocketing. Unless you have a better idea—”

  “Just do it.”

  Cold. Fuzzy. Then black.

  Hours later, she woke up again.

  Pain. A dull, insistent ache behind her eyes. The panic had settled, but something in her still felt wrong, out of sync with the world around her. The room was quiet. No imminent danger. But the unease remained.

  “Miss, you’re awake.”

  Mortimer sat beside the bed in his usual chair. Custodio was slumped against the wall, arms crossed, half-asleep.

  She didn’t respond. Just stared at them, at the way their presence filled the space, solid and real when everything else felt like mist.

  Mortimer handed her a small chalkboard and a stick of chalk. “How are you feeling?”

  She hesitated before writing: Uneasy.

  Mortimer sighed. “We need to talk. Seriously, this time. You keep having panic attacks. Something is bothering you. Maybe if we address it, you can actually rest.”

  She looked at him. Then at Custodio. She didn’t answer right away.

  The dreams. The memories. The feeling that wouldn’t leave.

  Finally, she wrote: I keep dreaming about the basement.

  Mortimer’s face darkened. He looked away, jaw tight. Custodio shifted but said nothing.

  “Miss Elena,” Mortimer said softly, “you aren’t there anymore. You aren’t even the same person. If anyone comes looking for you, they won’t find you. It’s over. You’re safe.”

  Caruncle exhaled slowly. Then, she wrote something else.

  I feel angry.

  Mortimer frowned. “Angry? Did… did we do something wrong?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then what is it?”

  Caruncle wanted to write everything, every thought, every miserable moment, every rage-fueled memory—but there was no space. She could barely get through a full sentence without erasing it. Her hands trembled, and the sheer stupidity of it made her want to scream. Except she couldn't.

  Tears burned in her eyes. She wiped them away and forced herself to keep it simple.

  "I hate the man who kept me chained all these years."

  Mortimer read it, thoughtful.

  “I see…”

  Custodio, who had just finished rubbing his eyes, looked between them. “What is it?”

  Mortimer turned the chalkboard toward him.

  Custodio squinted. “Who? Mr. Lopez?”

  Caruncle nodded.

  He blinked. “Why? He was just doing his job.”

  Silence.

  Caruncle’s entire body went stiff. The rage spread instantly, her hands shaking so violently it looked like she might combust.

  "Okay, calm down! I take that back!" Custodio waved his hands defensively. "But even if you're mad—and I get why you are—there’s nothing we can do about it."

  Caruncle snatched the chalkboard from Mortimer and furiously scribbled.

  "Why?"

  Custodio sighed. “Because Mr. Lopez is a well-known man around here. Even if you wanted to say something to him, do something to him, people would find out. And then we’d all have a lot more problems than it’s worth.” He crossed his arms. “Seriously.”

  Caruncle stared at him. Then at the chalkboard. Then back at him.

  With shaky hands, she wrote: "I cannot believe you."

  Mortimer glanced at Custodio, who just shrugged. "Most people don’t get to escape their captors and start over. You should be grateful for what you have—which, by the way, is thanks to me, not him."

  Caruncle clenched her fists. Then, in a fit of anger, she started hitting her legs. Bad idea. The pain from her injured muscle shot up instantly, doubling the intensity. She sucked in sharp breaths but didn’t make a sound.

  "You are the worst."

  Custodio scoffed, smirking. "Oh, I’m the worst? How am I the worst?"

  Caruncle’s writing was practically stabbing into the board now. "Wanting to marry your daughter. That is gross. Disgusting."

  Custodio threw his hands in the air. "Ha! I knew it was going to be about that!" He stood up. "I don’t have time for these tantrums."

  And with that, he walked out, leaving Caruncle fuming and Mortimer looking deeply uncomfortable.

  She wiped the board clean and wrote again. “You just let all these things happen.”

  Mortimer’s face tightened. “Miss, please…”

  She didn’t hesitate. “You are as bad as him.”

  “Miss, let’s not make this more complicated than—”

  She turned her back on him and pulled the covers over herself.

  “Miss Elena, I’m so sorry…”

  No response.

  Eventually, exhaustion took over, and Caruncle drifted back to sleep.

  Later, she woke up again, groggy and disoriented.

  The room was quiet. Too quiet.

  Then the door swung open. Mortimer practically burst inside, looking way too enthusiastic for this hour.

  “Miss! There’s a new instructor waiting to meet you.” He gave her the kind of hopeful smile that made it clear he was trying way too hard.

  Caruncle slowly sat up, still half-asleep.

  “Trust me! We found someone who we think can cheer you up! You’ll see!”

  She wasn’t sure whether to be curious or deeply concerned.

  ***

  The woman in front of Caruncle was short—probably around 1.60m. Her wavy brown hair framed a face that looked like it had seen too many late nights and even worse mornings. She had that permanent air of exhaustion, the kind that said she wasn’t tired right now, she was just tired in general.

  She wore a deep plum jacket, fitted but not stiff, its broad lapels giving it an almost effortless sharpness. The brass buttons added a touch of rugged elegance, though the top one was left undone, revealing a plain white shirt underneath. Instead of a traditional skirt, she wore high-waisted, straight-legged trousers in matching fabric, cinched at the waist with a wide leather belt.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  She studied Caruncle for a moment, then exhaled. “So, you’re Elena.”

  Her voice was deep. Sultry, even. Or maybe Caruncle was just too damn horny.

  Caruncle nodded.

  “How old are you?”

  She picked up the chalkboard. “29.”

  The woman raised an eyebrow. “Huh. You’re older than me. Your father told me I needed to teach you ‘lady stuff’ and try to befriend you. Can you explain why I have to teach someone older than me how to be a lady?”

  Caruncle hesitated before writing: “I have amnesia.”

  She turned the chalkboard toward her, but the moment the woman read it, she let out a slow, unimpressed sigh and looked away.

  “Right. You know that’s not true.”

  Caruncle frowned. What did she know?

  “I know you’re lying.” The woman crossed her arms.

  Caruncle dropped her gaze, suddenly feeling very scolded.

  “Look,” she continued, “if you actually want my help, you need to tell me what’s going on. Otherwise, I’m not wasting my time.”

  Caruncle scratched her head. The urge to say everything was overwhelming, the same feeling she’d had around her family before all of this. But words weren’t an option.

  Fine. She’d write it.

  She picked up the chalkboard and began.

  “I had a brain transplant.”

  Silence.

  The woman narrowed her eyes. “…A brain transplant?”

  “I had another brain transplanted into me three and a half months ago.”

  The woman took the chalkboard from her hands and stared at it, expression unreadable.

  Then she scratched her head. “So he did it. He actually figured out how to use the damn spell.” She let out a dry chuckle and shook her head. “I apologize for what I’m about to say, but this whole situation is fucked up. I hope you’re aware of that.”

  Caruncle gave her the most pathetic, wide-eyed look imaginable.

  The woman was unmoved.

  She sat on the desk of the small study, tapping her fingers against the wood. "What was your name before this?"

  Caruncle hesitated.

  "You know what I’m asking. If you had a brain transplant, then you had to be someone else before. Did we know each other?"

  Caruncle shook her head.

  "Then, who were you?"

  She took a deep breath and wrote: "My name was Caruncle Periwinkle, and I was a slave for the last ten years."

  The woman took the chalkboard again, reading it over carefully. She turned it in her hands, weighing it like the words had actual physical weight.

  Finally, she spoke. “Never heard that name before. Was it a man’s name?”

  Caruncle nodded.

  It insulted me that out of everything I just told her, that was the detail she latched onto.

  “Right, so you were a man.”

  Another nod. Her eyes stayed fixed on the floor.

  “I see. So that’s what we’re working with.”

  She handed the chalkboard back, still watching her like she was trying to solve a puzzle.

  “Tell me, then—what’s it like? Being on the other side?”

  For a second, I thought she was going to mock her, but then her expression stiffened. I couldn’t tell if she was angry or holding back a laugh.

  Caruncle hesitated before writing: "I don’t know yet."

  The woman frowned. “You don’t know?” She leaned forward. “Be honest. Do you hate it? Do you hate being a woman? Are you irritated? Sad? Mad? Something has to be going through that head of yours. This isn’t exactly an everyday procedure.”

  Caruncle stared at the board for a long moment before writing. "It doesn’t feel real."

  “Right, okay, but—do you hate it? Don’t you think it’s a bit… I don’t know, denigrating? Like, surely you have some feelings about this.”

  Caruncle didn’t hesitate this time. "I have wished to be a woman since I can remember."

  The woman blinked. “…Oh no. No, that I don’t believe.”

  Caruncle scowled, quickly scribbling. "Why not?"

  The woman tilted her head. “Let me ask you something first. Don’t you think, maybe, you’re deluding yourself? Like, convincing yourself this is what you wanted because it makes this whole insane situation easier to deal with?”

  Caruncle tightened her grip on the chalk. "No. My memory doesn’t fail me. I remember it clearly."

  The woman exhaled sharply. Then let out a dry, humorless laugh. “So what, you were just—what? Some sort of pervert?” She rolled her eyes. “That’s just—great.”

  Caruncle’s hands shook. Tears welled up, spilling over before she could stop them.

  The woman winced.

  “Oh, come on, don’t cry.” She rubbed her forehead. “I can’t deal with this right now.”

  Caruncle covered her face with her hands, trying to control her breathing.

  The woman sighed. “Fine. I won’t call you a pervert again, alright? Is that what you want?”

  Caruncle nodded.

  “And you want me to treat you like a woman? All that?”

  Another nod.

  “Fine. For the sake of my sanity and yours, we’ll just roll with it. Now, please—for the love of God—stop crying.”

  Caruncle sniffled, reaching into her pocket for a small handkerchief. She blew her nose loudly and kept going until the fabric was fully disgusting.

  The woman grimaced. “Hell. That thing’s a biohazard.”

  Caruncle wiped the last of her tears and picked up the chalk again.

  "I was sent by Jazmin to this world 20 years ago."

  The woman did not blink. Did not react.

  She just handed the chalkboard back and said, “Yeah, I’m not dealing with that.”

  "But—" Caruncle started writing, but the woman took her hand to make her stop writing.

  "Nope." She crossed her arms. "Too many things in your head, you can tell me that later once I have figured out the rest."

  Then she pointed at the board. "Now go back to the brain thing."

  Caruncle frowned. That was not the reaction she wanted.

  Sorry, hon, but you can’t deny that sounded pretty stupid.

  Fine. Whatever. She wiped the board and wrote something new.

  "I hate Custodio."

  The woman perked up. “Oh, nice. Mutual hatred. Why?”

  "He says he’s going to make me his wife."

  The woman froze. “…I’m sorry, what?”**

  "He says he’s going to marry me."

  “…Aren’t you his daughter?"

  "Yes. But that’s what he said."

  The woman slowly dragged her hands down her face.

  "Oh, for fuck’s sake."

  Caruncle had completely regressed into a child-like sulk, and her mopey eyes were pissing me off. I didn’t want to look at her.

  I turned away, but Lucia didn’t just look away—she left. Fast.

  Caruncle and I both watched the door, puzzled.

  Then, from the floor above—yelling. Lucia and Custodio.

  A door slammed. Then silence.

  A vase—or something very porcelain—shattered.

  Several minutes passed. Caruncle considered stepping outside for some air. Even fog and cold had to be better than staying here.

  Then, Lucia returned.

  Her hair was messy, her jacket was askew, and she looked like someone who had just gone ten rounds with a migraine.

  She exhaled. “So… about the marriage thing. I think you should stop worrying about that.”

  Caruncle frowned, raising her hands as if to ask why.

  Lucia rubbed her temples. “You… you just shouldn’t. For now.”

  "What do you mean? Did he decide to stop the marriage?"

  "No, no… I just… Look, just don’t think about it right now."

  “I don’t want to be with that man.”

  Lucia sighed. "Yeah, well, I can’t help you with that. Sorry, but I can’t." She looked away.

  Caruncle hesitated. She wanted to argue, but she stopped herself. Lucia didn’t owe her anything.

  A complete stranger had just yelled at Custodio on her behalf.

  Maybe the least she could do was not blame her for failing to fix the entire situation.

  Caruncle took the chalkboard and wrote: "Okay."

  Lucia’s shoulders visibly relaxed. "Yeah. Well. Let’s move on from that. Anything else bothering you?"

  Caruncle nodded.

  “Alright, speak up.”

  "I'm angry at other people."

  Her wrist was getting tired. It was a strange feeling—having fingers again, only for them to go numb.

  She thought of the basement. Then pushed the thought away.

  "What people?"

  "The man who kept me as a slave. And my family."

  Lucia narrowed her eyes. “Your family? Why them?”

  Caruncle swallowed, then wrote: "They sold me."

  Lucia didn’t speak right away.

  When she did, her voice was quieter.

  “…Oh.” She scratched the back of her head. “I don’t have words for that. I’m sorry that happened to you.”

  Caruncle’s grip on the chalk tightened. "I want revenge."

  Lucia froze mid-scratch.

  "…Revenge?"

  Caruncle nodded.

  Lucia let out a slow breath and dragged a hand down her face. “Okay. I somewhat get it. Trust me, I do. But you can’t be thinking about revenge. You need to move on.”

  Caruncle’s jaw tensed. "No. I can't forget. I won't forget."

  She clenched the chalk in her fist and—snap. It broke in two.

  Tears welled up again.

  Lucia winced. Then sighed. Then rubbed her forehead so hard it left red marks.

  "It always comes back to this," she muttered under her breath.

  Caruncle wiped her nose with her disgustingly overused handkerchief.

  Lucia grimaced. "Okay, that thing needs to be burned."

  Caruncle sniffled.

  Lucia exhaled, squared her shoulders, and abruptly changed gears. “You know what? What do you say we focus on what I actually came here for?”

  Caruncle blinked. Then nodded.

  "Good. Since we skipped introductions—let’s fix that. My name is Lucia Knox Ashford. And you?"

  Caruncle hesitated. Then wrote: "Elena Esparza."

  Lucia raised an eyebrow. “I know, but didn’t you say you had another name before?”

  Caruncle looked at the board, confused.

  Lucia waved a hand. “Never mind. I’ll call you Elena. If that’s what you want, we’ll roll with it. Sound good?”

  Caruncle nodded.

  Lucia cracked her neck. “Alright, now—about your father.”

  Caruncle stiffened.

  “Relax. I just mean I know him because I’m part of the Supernal Circle of Mountain Mystics. Ever heard of them?”

  Caruncle shook her head.

  Lucia scoffed. “Not surprised. Basically, we—" She hesitated. Then waved a hand. "You know what? Doesn’t matter. Some of them do archaeology, most of them screw around. It’s one of the few places where a woman can actually make herself heard. Not always, but enough."

  She rolled her shoulders. "Anyway, I owe your father some favors. He asked me to come here, teach you—his words—‘lady stuff.’”

  Caruncle raised an eyebrow.

  Lucia smirked. "Yeah. Exactly. Now, I was grilling you earlier because I needed to know if he was trying to screw me over or just screw around. But I also don’t like seeing him screw around with other people either. So, if something’s bothering you, tell me. I’ll see what I can do."

  She stretched, then added, "Now. Your father probably thinks ‘lady stuff’ is some big fancy curriculum with grades and exams. But let’s be real—what you actually need to know is how to deal with men.”

  Caruncle blinked.

  Lucia smirked. “Because from now on, men are going to treat you like shit.”

  Caruncle blinked again.

  “…That’s lesson one?”

  “No. Lesson one is hygiene.” Lucia cracked her knuckles. “You’re gonna need a couple of rags, and you better clean them well.”