Đinh Hồng Mai woke up with a jolt.
The bass-heavy club music still echoed faintly in her throat, but her nose was assaulted by something far worse — the stench of death. No more purple strobe lights, no more neon haze. Just the suffocating reek of rot.
She whimpered inwardly:
"My six-pack hero... did you just dissolve into bubbles too?"
A single drop of regret fell to the pit of her stomach, but reality allowed her no time to dream.
She was back in that familiar, dark, decrepit room — worse than before. The stench of dead rats clawed at her nostrils. Great, another rat dumped in here with me, she clicked her tongue.
Her body was sticky, clammy, each breath scraping against her skin.
Two maids stood in the room. They were regular tormentors of the original body's owner, and by rights they shouldn't be here at this time. Even if she'd been lying motionless, no one would call for them—unless...
Before she could finish the thought, a broom handle jabbed straight into her chest. The two maids pinched their noses as they poked her like she was a sewer rat.
"Think you're some kind of real young lady, lying around however you like?" they sneered, punctuating each insult with another jab. When she caught the broomstick, they shoved harder.
Hồng Mai staggered to her feet, scanning the corners for Đinh Ánh Tuyết. No sign of her. Is this a dream? Two regressions already and my brain's fried?
The stink and the stickiness made her stomach turn.
First life: she tried to curry favor. She stayed cautious. She still died.
Second life: she tried warmth and diplomacy. They still threw her out like a sewer rat.
Maybe now that compromise had failed, it was time for violence.
"Should I just beat the crap out of these maids? Hm? Hm?"
Her wandering eyes, her silence, her strange expression seemed to irritate them further. One raised the broom to strike again—until a deputy maid barked from outside, "What's taking so long? Get her washed and to the parlor already!"
They obeyed, one of them pressing the broom against her back to herd her out. They always did this when they found her filthy, like she was a criminal rather than a human being.
They shoved her into the servants' bath — a cramped, moldy cell. The warped wooden door creaked as though it might fall off its hinges.
Her gaze fell on a murky wooden tub filled with black water.
The smell of damp rot was suffocating. Outside, the two maids kept watch.
The servants' baths had their own hierarchy. Head maids had private baths with proper tubs. Lower maids bathed together in the new communal washroom. Hồng Mai, however, was relegated to the old disused shack, with no tub, only a dipper and water laced with algae.
In the beginning, this body broke out in rashes from the filth. Now it had adapted. Should she praise Ánh Tuyết's body for its resilience?
As for herself—no amount of regressions could make her get used to this.
Two lives ago she'd even created trinkets of value for "Father" just to escape this bath. Now she was back at square one. The voices outside grew harsher, barking crude orders through the door.
She swallowed her anger, raised the dipper, and was about to pour the foul water over herself—
—when Đinh Ánh Tuyết appeared behind her.
"There's a way to make it clean," the girl said.
Hồng Mai jumped so hard her heart nearly stopped.
Ánh Tuyết floated before her, pointing at the dipper, then at her.
"Your soul's synchronized with this body about sixty percent now. You can use its energy. Before, you couldn't because the body hadn't adapted. Now you can. Cleaning water is easy. Just put your hand in and picture the dirty and clean parts splitting apart."
She rattled off the explanation. Hồng Mai stared, blank.
Words slid from one ear out the other like water off a duck's back.
Ánh Tuyết paused. Maybe this expression—confused, helpless—was what really suited that young face. Usually Hồng Mai's eyes held a hardened maturity that clashed with her frail form. Now, stripped of direction, the dazed look fit.
Ánh Tuyết sighed. "Snap out of it. I'll guide you step by step."
Hồng Mai shuffled to the basin.
Through cracks in the rotted wall, thin strands of dusk light fell across the filthy water. For Ánh Tuyết, once the owner of this body, this wretched bathhouse was ironically one of the few places where any light reached at all. She stared at it with a suffocating hunger for freedom.
In the water, her reflection—this body's reflection—appeared: gaunt, lifeless, a ghost of a girl. Even that fleeting image made the room feel colder.
She dipped her hand, rippling the reflection until it dissolved.
In stark contrast, Ánh Tuyết's soul floated beside her, full and luminous. Black hair like a soft stream shimmered faintly even in the dark.
Hồng Mai couldn't ignore the contrast. The body was a husk; the soul was vibrant. She recalled how, in her past life, she'd studied energy frequencies. Perhaps Ánh Tuyết's soul, freed from the physical shell, was being nourished by some pure current, making her look so alive.
Ánh Tuyết didn't notice her thoughts.
"Give me your hand." Her voice wavered. "I'll show you. Close your eyes. Just imagine."
Hồng Mai tried. Failed. Tried again. The frustration rose. But even stronger was Ánh Tuyết's own frustration—not at Hồng Mai, but at herself for not guiding correctly.
Hồng Mai noticed it in the way Ánh Tuyết's fingers clutched the silver thread on her palm. She had studied this girl enough to know: raised under cold neglect, trained to self-blame, she always thought she was the problem. Comforting her was useless. The only "comfort" was success.
But for someone like Hồng Mai, no prodigy, it was hard. She felt like she was about to break through but something blocked her—a rejection from the body even after sixty percent synchronization?
She wanted to succeed quickly, to ease Ánh Tuyết's guilt, but it was truly difficult. She glanced sideways.
Ánh Tuyết saw it clearly—the girl's energy wasn't weak. It was clogged, like a river blocked by hidden stones.
The little one's brows furrowed tighter, fingers twisting as she searched for what she'd missed.
Watching her concentrate, Hồng Mai was suddenly reminded of her own daughter. A flicker of affection rose for this "child."
Ánh Tuyết's face suddenly relaxed as if she'd just realized something.
"I get it." She moved behind Mai, pressing a hand to her back. "Try again now."
Hồng Mai obeyed. This time the current surged like a clear stream from her back to her hands, smooth and powerful.
She'd done it.
Joy burst inside her. She wanted to hug Ánh Tuyết but couldn't, so she let her gratitude spill as warm energy. She knew Ánh Tuyết would feel it—this was the truest thanks, the truest acknowledgment.
Ánh Tuyết turned away, hiding a shy smile. But as she looked down at the faint silver thread in her hand, the smile faded.
"So it's true..." she murmured, clenching her fist before drifting away, leaving Hồng Mai privacy.
Hồng Mai sensed the change but stayed silent. She finished washing, escaping the moldy room.
The maids wrinkled their noses as they escorted her to a dressing room. They painted her face, sprayed cloying perfume—masking what they imagined was dirty blood and stench.
Under their hands, the gaunt, grimy girl transformed into a delicate maiden. They were pleased with their "work," which only deepened their contempt. In their eyes, Ánh Tuyết's appearance existed thanks to them.
Only the hair defied them—dry, lifeless, a glaring flaw.
"Chhk." One clicked her tongue at the imperfection.
Hồng Mai saw it too. The more dazzling the makeup, the more absurd the hair looked—a visible indictment.
If not for the scandalously revealing dress distracting attention from the sixteen-year-old's face, every eye would go straight to the hair.
If they could see Ánh Tuyết's soul—its glossy hair flowing—they'd probably want to drag it out and "style" it.
Hồng Mai's maternal instinct recoiled at the outfit, this peacock display on a child's frame. In two past lives, they'd only given her minimal makeup for parties. Why this sudden change now, even before any event? What was coming?
She knew they wouldn't dare without "Father's" orders. Some plan was underway, casting her in a new role she hadn't chosen.
She stood still as they worked, every brushstroke carving deeper the question: What is he plotting?
The maids didn't care about her discomfort. To them, she ranked below a rat. Pleasing the Master mattered more than a fallen girl's feelings.
Her fingers brushed the silver threads woven into her body.
She wondered how Ánh Tuyết felt right now.
The maids ignored her entirely, admiring their "creation." Then they called for the two earlier maids to escort her.
Walking the corridor toward the parlor, Hồng Mai glanced at Ánh Tuyết floating beside her. She wanted to speak but, seeing the maids behind, she kept silent. In a house like this, being labeled insane could mean a quick death and a quiet burial.
Ánh Tuyết understood. She raised a slender finger to the lone silver thread—her last link to this body, thinning as synchronization advanced—and sent her thought through it.
Hồng Mai blinked as Ánh Tuyết's voice rang in her head. We can talk now. What do you want to ask?
"Holy— you can do that?!" Her mental voice boomed so loud Ánh Tuyết winced.
"Stop yelling in your mind," she hissed.
Hồng Mai grinned sheepishly. "Sorry, sorry. I was curious. Didn't you say some people choose to stay in that mind-room forever? Why can't I?"
"I..." Ánh Tuyết's voice faltered. "Because those people were too weak. Their minds couldn't take it. The body locked them inside to protect them. You're just shocked. You're stronger than they were. And... just..."
She stopped. Her gaze turned inward, into her own hollow self, as if speaking to a past version of herself.
Hồng Mai whispered, "Just what?"
Truthfully, she didn't want to endure the bone-splitting, nerve-shredding pain of the body rejecting her—like a severe allergy, not to the world but to herself. She didn't really want to hide in that mind-room forever.
She just needed a refuge when the body's madness took over. A place to slip away and play while the pain ran its course. Then she'd return.
"...Just that I still want to live."
The words hung in the air.
Ánh Tuyết froze. Even she seemed startled by what she'd admitted. Her eyes flicked up, met Hồng Mai's. For a moment, that gaze pierced the walls she'd built.
A hot-cold shiver crawled down her spine. She wanted to retreat.
Like a kitten caught baring its claws, she pivoted toward the window.
Without another word, she slipped through the frame. The last light of day slanted through the curtain, dust motes glowing against her thin back.
And she was gone.
Hồng Mai stood frozen. She'd lived long enough to know: those words hadn't been for her. They were Ánh Tuyết's confession to herself.
As a mother whose children had grown in love and light, seeing Ánh Tuyết—trembling, fleeing from her own heart—hurt in a way she couldn't voice. Not because she didn't understand. Because she understood too well.
She saw in Ánh Tuyết's eyes that trembling hunger to exist, to keep going. And because she understood, her heart ached like holding her own child.
She'd traveled countries, met many people, always knowing whom to keep.
But with Ánh Tuyết... she didn't choose.
She cared.
Her fingers brushed the silver threads on her own hand, thinking of Ánh Tuyết's single, fragile strand.
A thought flickered: Is that thread the only thing keeping her here?
Lost in the image, she walked until a maid's tug snapped her back. She'd nearly walked too far.