Chapter 1: This Is Not My Room
Lissa had one rule in life: if you're going to fall, make it legendary.
The world blurred around her as her skateboard soared off the ramp. For a split second, she felt invincible—wind in her hair, adrenaline pumping, laughter echoing in her chest. Just another day chasing freedom on four wheels. But then came the tilt, the wobble, and the sharp, stomach-dropping realization: this landing wasn't going to be cool.
And it wasn't.
Pain exploded through her skull. Then, nothing.
Silence. Stillness. A weightless, floating feeling.
"Am I dead?" she thought. "Dang, that trick wasn't even worth it."
When she opened her eyes again, she wasn't in a hospital. No beeping machines, no sterile white walls, and definitely no nurse yelling at her to stop skateboarding on hospital grounds again.
Instead, she was lying in the softest bed she had ever felt. The sheets were silky. The pillows were like clouds.
Everything around her shimmered like a dream—the kind of royal Pinterest board her cousin would obsess over. Delicate curtains fluttered by the window. An ornate chandelier hung overhead, and antique furniture surrounded her, looking like it came straight from a drama set.
Her brows furrowed. "The heck...?" she muttered, or at least, tried to.
What came out was, "What in heavens..."
Wait, what?
She sat up too fast, instantly regretting it as a wave of dizziness hit her. Her body felt… different. She wasn't sore from falling. She wasn't even in her usual hoodie and jeans. Instead, she was wearing a silky nightgown, trimmed with lace, that screamed, princess hostage.
She yanked at the neckline. "This is not my style. This is not my vibe. This is…" Her eyes caught a shimmer.
A mirror.
She turned slowly, her heart thudding.
There, staring back at her, was a stranger—a stunning, porcelain-skinned woman with flowing, pale blonde hair that cascaded down her back like a shampoo commercial. Her eyes glowed red like fire, but delicate, almost sorrowful. Her lips were the kind that looked like they sipped expensive wine and said, "Oh, dear," when tea spilled.
Lissa screamed.
But even that sounded pretty. Like a damsel shriek. Ew.
"No, no, no, no, no—what the ACTUAL--!"
The door flung open.
In came a man dressed like someone out of a historical K-drama. Vest. Crisp white shirt. Slacks. Tall. Elegant. Sharp jaw. Glasses perched on his nose. His brown eyes flicked toward her with pure concern.
"Your Grace! Are you—?"
Lissa scrambled back on the bed like a raccoon caught stealing snacks.
"Who the hell—uh, I mean, who are you?!" she shouted, clutching a throw pillow like a weapon. Her voice still sounded wrong—softer, posh, like a British actress in a fantasy movie.
The man paused. "Your Grace, it's me. Elric Thornvale."
Lissa blinked.
Why did that name sound… familiar?
"Elric… Thornvale," she repeated slowly, like she was tasting the name. Then suddenly, a montage of memories hit her like a montage button got smashed.
Afternoons riding horses.
Dancing at a ball.
Letters sealed with wax.
A hand reaching out…
A voice calling, "Seraphine."
"I'm… Seraphine?" she whispered, eyes wide. Then louder: "I'm Seraphine Evandale… Duchess of… Vaelthorne?"
Boom.
More memories poured in like a floodgate opened—her noble duties, her family crest, her past scandals, her favorite tea, her…
"Oh my god, I'm not me," she muttered.
Elric stepped forward cautiously. "Your Grace? Are you unwell?"
Lissa dropped the pillow, stood up, then immediately fell to her knees.
"I reincarnated," she whispered.
"Pardon?"
"I. Reincarnated. No way. No. NOOO!" she screamed so loudly it echoed through the hall.
Outside the room, maids and butlers froze like deer in headlights.
Elric ran to her side. "Your Grace, what is wrong?!"
Lissa, still kneeling on the floor, let out a long sigh. Then a longer one.
Then suddenly shouted in the deepest voice she could muster, "I don't like this dress! Bring me pants and a hoodie!! WAAAAHHHH!!"
Elric flinched. "Are you possessed? Should I call the priest?"
"STAY AWAY FROM ME, YOU BEAUTIFUL STRANGER!" she screamed, then bolted out the door.
She ran down the hall barefoot, lifting the hem of her nightgown like a Victorian ghost. Her hair flew behind her like a shampoo commercial in fast-forward. Servants gasped and dodged out of her way. Somewhere, someone dropped a teacup.
She kept running until she got tired.
Which took about forty seconds.
She collapsed on a fainting couch in a nearby parlor, panting dramatically.
Elric caught up slowly, panting less dramatically.
"You—you shouldn't run like that, Your Grace," he said between breaths.
"I'm not your Grace. I'm Lissa. Lissa Park. I'm a 21st-century skateboarder who died doing an ollie," she groaned.
Elric tilted his head. "A… what?"
"An ollie. You jump with the skateboard. Never mind. Not important." She sat up, defeated. "I just wanted to live a happy life, you know? Eat street food. Skate all day. Maybe get a dog. Not wear ten layers of lace and pretend I care about embroidery."
Elric adjusted his glasses. "Do you… remember who you are now?"
"I remember both who I was and who this body was. And let me tell you, Seraphine had way too much emotional baggage."
He blinked. "That's… surprisingly accurate."
Lissa stared at him. "You're awfully calm for someone whose duchess is having a total identity crisis."
"I was trained to remain calm," he said coolly.
"Well, untrain yourself! I'm having a meltdown!"
A pause.
Then Lissa narrowed her eyes. "You're really handsome, by the way. Annoyingly so."
Elric cleared his throat and looked away. "…Thank you?"
She leaned in with suspicion. "You're the loyal butler type, aren't you?"
"I am your personal advisor."
"Same difference."
He gave her a polite but pained smile. "May I offer you some tea?"
"If there's no Red Bull or iced coffee in this world, I will riot."
Later that day…
Lissa sat miserably at the dressing table while two maids tried to brush her hair into fancy curls.
"This is torture," she muttered.
"You're glowing, Your Grace," one maid said cheerfully.
"I'm sweating under this corset."
Elric stood by the door, reading a ledger.
Lissa scowled at his reflection in the mirror. "What are you reading? Plans for my slow public humiliation?"
"Just your weekly schedule," he replied.
"Lemme guess. Breakfast. Tea. Talk about boring noble stuff. Tea. Pretend to care. More tea. Smile at someone I don't like. Ball. Tea."
"…Accurate."
She groaned loudly. "I would literally rather faceplant on a ramp again."
"You already did," he muttered.
She pointed at him. "Sarcasm. I like it. Keep it up."
Elric allowed himself a small smile.
Lissa turned to the mirror again and sighed. "Guess I'm stuck here."
"You're not alone," he said softly.
She looked at him. "Don't say nice things. I'll cry."
"Would you like some tea?"
She grabbed a pillow and chucked it at him.
That night, as she lay in the unfamiliar bed, staring at the ornate ceiling, fragments of Seraphine's memories slipped in like shadows behind her eyelids.
There were bodies. Blood. The scent of metal. A room dimly lit by candlelight, soaked in red. Screams—then silence.
Lissa sat up, drenched in sweat. The images faded too fast for her to grasp. But they were there.
"What the hell kind of past did Seraphine have…?" she whispered.
She touched her face again, stared at her pale hands.
"What if I reincarnated into a villainess?" she muttered.
She hugged her knees, her heart pounding.
"I don't even know what kind of person I am now…"
The memories weren't complete.
And that was the most terrifying part.