Aisha's eyelids fluttered open, heavy as stone. For a moment she lay still, disoriented, staring up at a ceiling painted in delicate swirls of gold and ivory. It wasn't the flickering fluorescence of her lab. It wasn't anywhere she recognized.
Her body felt wrong—lighter, fragile, as if her bones had been remade overnight. The sheets beneath her were silk, cool and smooth against her skin, so unlike the scratchy university-issued bedding she was used to.
She tried to sit up, but her head throbbed with a dizzy ache. Her hair slipped forward, brushing against her face. It was longer, softer, and a shade darker than it should've been.
Heart hammering, she stumbled out of bed, clutching at the nearest surface. Her fingers met carved wood polished to a sheen. Across the room, a tall mirror stood propped against the wall, its frame gilded and ornate.
Her breath caught.
The girl in the mirror was not her.
Gone were the round glasses, the tired eyes, the plain features she knew so well. Instead, a pale, narrow face stared back, framed by long black hair. The cheeks were hollow, the lips dry and cracked, the eyes shadowed as though by exhaustion or illness.
It wasn't beauty. If anything, it was the absence of it—like a painting smudged and unfinished.
Aisha's hand trembled as she touched her cheek. The reflection mimicked her. "This… this isn't possible."
The door creaked.
Aisha spun around. A young maid entered, balancing a silver tray laden with porcelain bowls. She froze at the sight of Aisha standing unsteadily, eyes wide with confusion.
"Y-Young Miss?" the maid stammered. "You're awake?"
Her voice trembled between relief and disbelief, as if the very fact of Aisha's consciousness was unexpected.
"I…" Aisha began, then faltered. Her throat was dry, her voice softer than she remembered. "Where am I?"
The maid blinked, startled. "Where? You're in the East Wing chambers, of course. Your family has been so worried—though…" She trailed off, eyes darting over Aisha's figure.
Aisha caught the flicker of pity in her gaze.
Before she could demand answers, the maid hurried forward, setting the tray on a small table. The aroma of broth and herbs filled the room. "Please, Young Miss, you should eat. The physician said nourishment would help you recover. I'll fetch Lady Mira immediately—she must be told you've woken."
Without waiting for permission, the maid scurried off, skirts whispering across the floor.
Aisha sank back onto the bed, mind reeling. East Wing chambers? Lady Mira? Young Miss?
She pressed her palms against her temples. The last thing she remembered was the scanner's blinding light swallowing her whole. She had thought—what? That she'd blacked out? That she'd wake in a hospital?
But this wasn't a hospital. This was another world entirely.
Her gaze returned to the mirror. The girl staring back at her looked delicate, almost frail, with none of the ordinary sturdiness Aisha had grown up seeing in herself. She felt foreign in this body, like an imposter wearing another person's skin.
The door opened again. This time, two women entered: the maid from earlier and an older woman draped in fine silks, her posture regal, her expression sharp.
"Liora," the woman breathed, striding forward to grasp Aisha's hands. Her touch was warm, trembling. "Thank the stars, you're awake."
Aisha stiffened. Liora? Was that the name of this body?
The woman—Lady Mira, perhaps—studied her face with relief and then sorrow. "You had us frightened half to death. Three days without stirring… the physicians feared the worst."
"I…" Aisha's mind scrambled for words. If she confessed she wasn't this Liora, that she wasn't from this world at all, what would they do? Lock her away? Declare her mad?
So she only managed a weak, "I don't… remember."
The maid gasped. Lady Mira's eyes softened. "Memory loss. Perhaps from the fever." She squeezed Aisha's hands more tightly. "Don't strain yourself, child. Rest. Everything will return in time."
Aisha swallowed hard. Her mouth was dry, but she nodded.
Lady Mira released her reluctantly, instructing the maid to tend to her before sweeping from the room with the grace of someone used to command.
Silence settled again, broken only by the clink of porcelain as the maid ladled broth into a bowl.
"You've truly frightened us, Young Miss," the girl whispered, setting the bowl before her. "The others said you'd never wake. And with… with your ranking already so low…" She caught herself, biting her lip.
Aisha froze. "Ranking?"
The maid's eyes widened. "Forgive me, I shouldn't—please, eat first—"
"No," Aisha said sharply, surprising herself. "What do you mean, ranking?"
The maid fidgeted with her apron. "Your… beauty ranking, Young Miss. Everyone has one. You know that. It's… it's how society measures worth."
The words struck like a blow. Beauty ranking. A number that defined your value.
Memories of the scanner in her lab surged back—how it had judged her at 47.2, how she had seen those dazzling faces on the screen with scores in the nineties. Had the machine dragged her into a world built entirely on the very idea she had feared most?
Her pulse raced.
The maid looked down at the floor. "Yours… yours is very low. That's why… people don't treat you kindly."
Aisha turned back to the mirror. The hollow-eyed girl stared back, fragile and unwanted. A number seemed to burn in Aisha's mind, though she didn't know what this body's official score was.
Low. She was at the bottom.
Her stomach churned. The scanner hadn't just malfunctioned—it had thrust her into a nightmare version of her own theory, a society where beauty was the only law.
Her hand tightened on the blanket. What kind of world is this?