"Ugh… hrrgh…"
A groan escaped my lips, hoarse and broken. My throat felt like sandpaper. Every breath was a struggle, every movement a war.
"…Why… is my voice like this?" I whispered, barely able to hear myself.
Pain pulsed through every inch of my body. My muscles throbbed as if I'd been thrown down a flight of stairs, then trampled by a horse for good measure. My head thudded with a dull ache, making it almost impossible to think, let alone move.
I forced myself to move, trying to crawl toward what I thought was my nightstand. There should be a glass of water there. But no matter how much I reached, my hand wouldn't make contact. My body felt foreign—heavier, unfamiliar. My eyelids refused to open, like they'd been sealed shut with glue.
I inhaled deeply, hoping the breath would clear my mind. But even the air felt... off. The scent, the humidity, the weight of silence—it wasn't my apartment. And the bed underneath me felt too hard.
Finally, with great effort, I pried my eyes open.
And immediately froze.
"This... isn't my room."
Panic surged. I sat up quickly despite the pain. My eyes scanned the dim space: stone walls, dusty wooden beams, and an oil lamp flickering on the wall. The mattress I lay on was thin and lumpy—more like a cot. I staggered to a small window nearby. It was too high to see outside, but the reflection was enough.
I saw her.
A girl—familiar yet entirely not—stared back. Pale skin. Hair color I didn't recognize. Clothes I'd never wear. That face wasn't mine.
"Aaarrghhh—!" I stumbled backward, heart racing. Was I still dreaming? Was this some vivid nightmare?
The door burst open.
"Anna! What's wrong? Are you okay?!"
A woman rushed toward me, concern etched deep into her face.
"Who... who are you?" My voice trembled.
She looked at me, confused, panicked. "Stop messing around. Are you in pain?"
She reached out, checking my forehead. Her touch was warm and practiced, like someone used to caring for me.
"I... Wh... where—what is this?" I couldn't form proper sentences. My brain buzzed with confusion.
"You must be hungover. Sit down before you collapse," she muttered gently, guiding me to sit. "Honestly, drinking that much? What were you thinking? You've really overdone it this time," she said, half-scolding, half-laughing
Hungover? I barely even drank in my real life.
She brought over a cup of warm water. "Drink this. You'll feel better. I'll start breakfast."
Still dazed, I obeyed. The water soothed my throat, but not my nerves. Everything felt wrong, but real. The old wooden chair, the scent of something cooking, the small cabinet in the corner—it all had weight, presence, life.
She returned moments later with a tray. "Here. Your favorite soup. I made it extra this morning."
Favorite?
The soup's steam curled gently in the air, and despite my panic, my stomach growled. I ate slowly at first, then ravenously.
Maybe food would clear the fog.
She watched me with a knowing smile. "Better? You really scared me last night, you know. You drank nearly half a barrel of rum"
Half a barrel? Is this woman serious?
"You're lucky you didn't do something embarrassing last night," she continued, moving about the room. "I had to carry you back here. My back still hurts!"
She tied back my hair with practiced ease, humming softly.
"I know it must feel awful—being fired and all—but drinking yourself senseless isn't the solution," she said, placing a steaming bowl of soup in front of me. "Your favorite. Made just for you."
I swallowed, hesitating. "Um... if I'm Anna… then… what's your name?"
Her smile faded. "And now you're acting like you don't even remember me," she chuckled, but her eyes were worried. "You're seriously asking that?"
She leaned forward, studying my face. "You forgot your childhood best friend's name?"
I gave her a sheepish shrug, trying to look apologetic.
"You're joking."
I offered a weak smile. "My head's still foggy. I think I hit it last night."
"Sain," she said slowly, then sighed. "I'm Sain. And clearly you hit your head harder than I thought. Stay home today. Rest. Your room has your stuff. I'll be back by noon."
And just like that, she dashed out the door.
I stared after her, the remnants of breakfast half-forgotten. Sain. Anna. My name isn't Anna. It's Hanna Sue. I'm thirty-two. A journalist. I was in my apartment just last night. Reading a novel I found frustrating.
I cleared the dishes, washed them in the small basin, then wandered back to the bedroom. There, I found a canvas bag filled with worn clothes, a thin scarf, a small music box and a diary.
I opened the first page.
Annania. This is my first day working at the Mollota residence. I'll work hard and send money home. I hope Kira can study at the Academy, and Keigo grows up healthy. I already miss them. Just one week in the capital and I'm homesick. But I'll be strong. I'll save up. I'll write tomorrow.
Mollota.
The name yanked at my memory. I knew that name.
Mollota was the powerful noble family from that novel. The same novel I read last night. With a cruel patriarch. With an illegitimate daughter he refused to acknowledge—Riella.
I flipped more pages.
Miss Riella. Marchioness Isthar. Head Butler Edgar.
All the names were there. Familiar names.
These weren't coincidences. These were characters from the book.
My chest tightened.
No.
No, no, no.
It couldn't be.
I looked down at myself—these rough clothes, this unfamiliar body. That names. This... this wasn't a dream.
"Don't tell me… I'm inside the novel?"
"I don't even believe in reincarnation," I muttered. "Okay, well, maybe a little. I mean, I believe in God, I swear, but this?! A freaking novel?!"
I stared at the diary, disbelief warring with panic.
I wasn't supposed to be here. Anna didn't even appear in the novel. She was never mentioned. A background nobody.
So then—
Why am I here?