The operating room was a symphony of urgency—monitors beeped in erratic rhythms, surgical instruments clinked under hurried hands, and the air was thick with antiseptic and adrenaline.
Dr. Akiko Takahashi, at 30, stood at the center, her gloved hands deep within the chest cavity of a young boy named Masaki Kobayashi. Blood pulsed beneath her fingers as she worked to repair the torn aorta, her mind laser-focused, shutting out the chaos around her. Sweat trickled down her brow, but she didn't flinch. The boy's life hung in the balance, and failure was not an option. After what felt like an eternity, the bleeding slowed, the heart rhythm stabilized, and the monitors began to emit a steady, reassuring beep. Akiko exhaled, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she instructed, "Stabilize him. ICU in ten." The surgical team exchanged glances of relief and admiration, but Akiko was already peeling off her gloves, her mind bracing for the next challenge.
Stepping into the hospital corridor, Akiko was met with the blinding glare of camera lights and the murmurs of a press conference. At the center stood Dr. Sayo Hinamura, her colleague and, unbeknownst to many, her rival. Dr. Ishida, the Director of Surgery, stood beside Sayo, his arm around her shoulders as he addressed the reporters. "Dr. Hinamura led the emergency response tonight. Her quick thinking saved three lives." Sayo smiled modestly, her eyes flickering with a hint of triumph. Akiko's stomach churned. She had been the one in the operating room, the one who had fought to save Masaki's life. Sayo had been nowhere near the OR. Akiko approached, her voice steady but laced with restrained anger. "Director Ishida, the boy from Bay 3—Masaki Kobayashi—is stable." Ishida turned, momentarily surprised. "Ah, good work, Dr. Takahashi." Sayo interjected, feigning surprise. "Oh, you were in Bay 3? I thought Dr. Nakamura assisted you." Akiko's eyes narrowed. "He did not." The reporters, already captivated by Sayo's narrative, paid no heed. Akiko walked away, her fists clenched, the injustice burning within her.
In the locker room, Akiko changed out of her bloodied scrubs, her movements mechanical. The fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow, highlighting the exhaustion etched on her face. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, searching for answers, for validation, but found none.
Her phone buzzed as she sat behind the wheel in the dim glow of the parking lot, the rain tracing jagged paths down the windshield like veins. She glanced down. A message from Renji. Running late. Don't wait up. Again. Akiko stared at the screen for a long moment, numb. She had met Renji Nakamura four years ago during a midnight trauma rotation—their hands brushing as they passed instruments across a blood-soaked table, two strangers locked in a battle for life and death. He had been charming back then, kind in a way that pierced through her walls.
A cardiologist with an artist's mind and a gentle smile, he made her laugh even on the worst days. They used to spend hours at tiny ramen shops, sharing stories between shifts, his fingers always brushing the small of her back like she was someone worth anchoring. He had seen her as more than just a scalpel in a coat. But over the last few months, something had shifted. His touch grew brief. His eyes, once full of fire, now flickered away when she entered a room. Late nights became later. Conversations thinned into routine texts and silence. No arguments. No confessions. Just distance. A quiet, cold retreat that left no evidence, only an ache. She had asked—once, maybe twice—what was wrong. He'd smiled and kissed her forehead like she was a child asking foolish things. And so she had stopped asking. But tonight, in the aftershock of saving a child and watching her rival steal credit, her heart felt hollow.
The question she never dared voice echoed louder than ever. When exactly had she lost him?" A familiar pang of disappointment settled in her chest. She drove home through the rain-soaked streets of Tokyo, the city lights blurring into streaks of color. Her apartment, a minimalist sanctuary in Shinjuku, offered little comfort. But something was amiss. Mika's shoes were by the door, and Renji's coat was missing. A sense of dread crept over her as she moved through the silent apartment. The bedroom door was ajar. She pushed it open and froze. The tangled sheets, the whispered voices—it was unmistakable. "Mika—wait—Akiko's not home—" Her sister's giggle pierced the silence. Akiko turned and walked out, her face expressionless. She didn't scream. She didn't cry. She simply left.
The rain came down heavily, relentlessly, and cold, beating against the windshield like a thousand tiny fists as Akiko drove without destination, her fingers clenched around the steering wheel so tightly they had turned bone-white. Tokyo blurred past her in streaks of color—neon signs bleeding into puddles, brake lights dragging long red shadows down glistening asphalt. Her breaths came slowly but shallow, each one tight with everything she refused to feel. The betrayal—layered, silent, and intimate—curled like smoke in her lungs.
Her sister's laughter still echoed in her ears. Renji's voice, muffled behind a bedroom door that should have never been closed to her, haunted the back of her skull. The silence afterward had been the worst part. Not a scream. Not an apology. Just absence, like she'd never existed in the first place. She didn't remember turning into the convenience store parking lot—only the flicker of garish fluorescent lights that painted her dashboard in sickly hues. Her car idled in the rain, the wipers swiping furiously at the chaos outside. She sat still, numb, her chest aching.
Then her phone lit up. One message. Unknown number. Just four words: He was never yours. The sentence hit her harder than any collision could. She stared at it, her pulse thundering. Who sent it? How did they know? Her hand trembled as she reached for the screen—but before she could breathe, a blinding flash of headlights pierced the downpour. Tires screamed. Her world exploded. A roar of metal against metal. The windshield shattered like crystal. Her head snapped back. A burst of heat and pain. Then nothing—only silence.
***
A deep, infinite silence that devoured everything. Not the sterile silence of a hospital. No soft beeping monitors. No antiseptic scent. This silence was deeper—older. It breathed with the weight of centuries, pressing in on her chest. Akiko's lashes fluttered. The dim light stung her eyes. She couldn't move at first. Couldn't even think. There was only the slow return of sensation: the scratch of coarse cloth beneath her fingers, the damp coolness in the air, the faint crackle of oil lanterns burning low. A strange fragrance coiled into her nostrils—incense, thick and woody, mingled with something ancient and earthen. Wet stone? Moss? Her throat felt parched. Her skin, clammy. Her muscles twitched as if awakening from death.
She blinked slowly and saw it—the carved wooden ceiling above her, its surface etched with curling dragons and lotus flowers. Not hospital tile. Not Tokyo. Panic rose sharp and sudden, squeezing her ribs like a vice. Her heart began to pound as she pushed herself upright, dizzy and disoriented. She was lying on a futon, draped in embroidered silk that felt nothing like her usual hospital linens. Her breathing hitched. Where was the fluorescent light? Where was the sound of heels on linoleum floors, of nurses rushing, of machines keeping people alive? She looked down at herself—robes, not scrubs. Bare feet, not sneakers. Small hands. Slim wrists. Lighter bones. Her body felt… off. Younger. Smaller. Not hers.
A flicker of movement caught her eye. A mirror—tall, wooden, and aged—stood against the far wall. Unsteadily, she rose to her feet, legs trembling. Her knees almost gave out, but she caught herself on the wooden beam beside her. She staggered forward, the tatami mat rough against her feet, and came face to face with the reflection.
She gasped.
The woman in the mirror wore her shock like a mask. Her face—almost hers—but distorted. Familiar yet foreign. Wide, haunted eyes stared back. A swollen cut split her bottom lip. Bruises—faint but unmistakable—circled her pale throat like ghostly fingers. Her hair was longer than Akiko's had ever been, wild and black, spilling messily over her shoulders. Silk robes clung to her narrow frame. Regal robes. Nobility. But the woman in the mirror, about 19 years old, looked like she'd been dragged through hell. Akiko reached up and touched her cheek. So did the reflection. Her heart stopped.
"No," she whispered. Her voice was hoarse. "No. This isn't real."
She stumbled backward, her shoulder hitting the beam. A choking sound rose in her throat. She clutched her sides, shaking her head. This was impossible. She had died. She had seen the lights, heard the screech of tires, felt the crash, the searing pain, the dark. She remembered it with terrifying clarity. So how—how—was she here?
She turned, intending to bolt from the room—maybe out into a street, a hallway, something—but a creak at the door froze her in place.
The door opened slowly, and a young girl, perhaps 20, entered and bowed deeply. "My lady… you're awake?" Akiko's voice was hoarse. "Where… am I?" The girl hesitated. "You're in the Moon Shrine, Lady Kiyomi. After your fall, they thought you'd… well, never mind." Kiyomi. The name resonated within her, foreign yet familiar. "What year is it?" The girl blinked. "The 18th year of King Kaito's reign."
Akiko sat down hard, the reality sinking in. Another life. Another world. She was inside the body of Lady Kiyomi—a woman with bruises, a broken spirit, and secrets. She glanced at the mirror again, questions swirling in her mind. Who was this woman? And why did someone want her gone?
Outside the shrine, two noblemen whispered beneath the crescent moon. "She lives?" "For now." "She wasn't supposed to." "Then we'll just have to make sure she doesn't win." "Win?" "The Maiden Wars begin in three days. If she dares enter the palace again…" A pause. "…We finish what we started."