They said my mother had framed her own child. It was all over the national news. A night worker turned killer, blaming her own daughter for a double homicide she committed. They called her a monster, the most vile woman alive, a mother who should never have been allowed to give birth.

In that part, I agreed. She should never have had me. She and my father were too young, too reckless, still half children themselves. They were not ready. They were not smart.

My mother told them I did it, her own child. She never tried to defend me, never even thanked me for saving her life. Jail would not give her the pills she loved so much, would it? She could not go there. She would rather die than live without her drugs... But nobody believed her. Even covered in blood, I was too small, too fragile for anyone to think it was true. There was no world where a little girl could have killed two grown men.

After that day, I stopped speaking. My mother refused every visit, calling me a devil, a stranger, spinning her story again and again until it became her truth. The memory faded, buried somewhere deep. I let myself believe she was the one who killed them. Maybe my mind decided it was better that way. But now, standing here, with blood still warm on my hands, I remembered everything.

I was born to face people in their deaths. Maybe that is why I became a doctor, to hide the truth behind a white coat, to pretend it was redemption. If I saved enough lives, maybe it would balance the two I took. Maybe that would wash away my guilt, my sins, my madness.

Right?

Wrong.

Even if I saved more lives than any doctor my age, I still took two before I ever began. That stain would never fade. And now, in this world, I have lost count of the ones I killed. But they are not real, are they? This is only a book, a fever dream in my dying breath at the hospital. None of it is real.

I am not in a fantasy. I am not some heroine on an adventure. My life was never a fairy tale. It was always a horror story.

The people I killed are not real. They are not real. I—

I knew it was real. Even through the chaos twisting in my mind, I knew this world existed. The warmth of the sun on my face, the sting of air in my lungs. No dying breath could create something this vivid. No imagination could make it feel this alive.

"B-Beatrice… are you okay?"

That voice. Softer than anything in existence. Warm fingers brushed my cheeks, lifting my face from the corpse beneath me. His body had long since gone cold. I had been staring at it like a vulture, waiting for it to move again. But it never would.

Elira's face came into focus. The shadows that had clung to my vision melted away, leaving only sunlight and the gentle sway of the wind. Her eyes were tired, her expression heavy with worry, but she was real. She was my warmth. She was the only light that still reached me.

In that moment, I understood. I had met my guardian angel in a world that should never have existed, a world spun by the hands of one man—the author of this madness.

Thank you, William, for this gift.

I wanted to dance in that moment, to drown in the warmth of her gaze. No one had ever looked at me the way she did. No one had ever cared so simply, so selflessly. Everyone before her had been fake, masks painted with politeness. They congratulated me on my surgeries, praised my skill, and then whispered behind my back the moment the lights went out. Did they think I was deaf? That I could not hear the jealousy dripping from their tongues in the hospital halls?

They hated me. Every single one of them. I had stolen their spotlight, taken the rewards they believed were theirs. As long as I existed, there could be no other star. Now, with me gone from that world, they were probably celebrating. They could finally rise, finally bask in their illusion of greatness.

I didn't care. Let them rot in their pride.

All I wanted was to stay here, beside Elira.

"Come, get up. We need to go. You can't sit here. Please." Her tone was soft, unshaken. Her eyes smiled as they pleaded for me to move.

Beelzebub landed lightly on my shoulder, his tiny head nudging my cheek as if to agree. His fur was warm, comforting. After all, I was still sitting on the corpse.

Anyone who saw me now would think I was insane. Maybe they would be right.

I nodded at Elira, though my gaze drifted somewhere far beyond her. Something was calling to me—or someone. The sound was soft, almost tender, yet veiled in shadows. It came from the west, words twisted into gibberish that I couldn't understand, but still, I felt their pull deep inside my chest.

"Beatrice?" Elira's voice reached me again, pulling me back from whatever place my mind had wandered. I shook my head, the haze thinning, and pushed myself up with her help. Her body was trembling, yet she still supported me. The ground beneath us was soaked in blood. When my eyes fell on the corpse beside me, I noticed deep claw marks across his body, more than I remembered leaving.

Had I blacked out? Had I kept clawing him even after he was dead? The thought didn't feel far-fetched. My mind was fogged, heavy. I looked down at my nails. They were caked with blood and flesh, proof enough of my madness.

"Let's go wash ourselves in the river," I said, my voice flat but steady. "Then we run from here."

Maybe I was trying to sound like a leader, maybe it was a habit, the tone I used to command the operating room. Either way, Elira didn't protest. She smiled, that same soft smile I would never forget, one filled with warmth and quiet joy.

"Thank you for saving me, Beatrice."

Before I could respond, she leaned in. Her movement was too fast for me to process in my dazed state, and then something soft and warm brushed against my cheek—her lips. I froze, the world falling silent, her hand already tugging mine as she pulled me away from the corpse.

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