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CHAPTER 1 — "An Absurd Fate and a Completely Unjustified Push"
My name is Ana, and this… this is my strange story.
If I told it to you over coffee, you'd probably look at me like I collect conspiracy theories for fun. I wouldn't blame you. Honestly, I wish it were just a literary trick—pure fiction. But it's not. This actually happened to me. And yes, it sounds ridiculous.
As far back as I can remember, I never had a family. My first clear memory is a building painted an aggressively cheerful shade of blue: the orphanage. Inside, it smelled nothing like a place meant to be "modest." It smelled like good food—the kind you don't find in community kitchens—brand-new electronics, expensive perfume, and professional cleaning products. Strange things for an "austere" institution.
At twenty-four, everything collapsed.
Official reason: "irregular activities."
Reality: money laundering and drug trafficking.
Yes. I grew up in an orphanage that was basically a cartel with a garden.
And no, they didn't hurt us—at least, not directly. We were fed well, our books were paid for, we had classes, phones, internet access. The director—an old man with regret in his eyes, straight out of a tragic movie—spoiled us with speeches and celebration dinners.
"My children, my treasures," he used to say, voice trembling.
He always had something inspiring to say:
"I was born an orphan on the streets, and I won't let you suffer like I did. If you want medicine, study medicine. If you want ballet, dance until your feet bleed. I'll take care of the rest."
And he did.
Expensive schools. Private tutors. The promise to fund whatever career we chose once we came of age. I chose medicine—cardiology, to be exact. I dreamed of scalpels, of hearts opening and closing under my hands. It burned inside me like a calling.
Then reality hit.
The director died—illness, old age, irony at its finest—and someone from "the business" took over. Two years later, he screwed up badly. Investigations. Seizures. Scandals. The orphanage was shut down when I was twenty-four. Funds frozen. My scholarship vanished.
My career was left in limbo.
It was a long program—twelve years total. I had completed seven. Five years left to become a cardiologist. Five years. In my plans, it was nothing. In real life, it was everything.
In a matter of weeks, I went from "the girl studying medicine" to "the one with no degree who sleeps wherever she can."
And I should clarify what I looked like back then: anyone who saw me would've assumed I hadn't slept in weeks. Deep dark circles. Pale, almost gray skin. Dark hair tied however it could be. A dull, empty stare. Fragile. Exhausted. Like I was slowly falling apart.
I had twenty-five possible solutions and not a single real one.
I applied for aid. Filed paperwork. Sold what little I owned. None of it was enough. I slept in borrowed homes, then on a sagging mattress, then one night at a bus station. The luxury of the orphanage evaporated as if it had never existed.
What remained was shock—and shame.
One afternoon, standing in front of the sea, listening to the waves beat against my nerves, I decided I didn't want to get up anymore. My throat tightened with that same sensation you get when you break a bone: a cold certainty that this was the end.
I walked to the edge of the rocks and remembered the last time the director spoke to me honestly:
"Live however you want. If you make mistakes, that's fine—we're human. Just don't let others decide for you. Live without regrets."
Trembling, I whispered:
"I won't."
I wiped my tears with the back of my hand. Took a breath. Straightened up.
And then—because the universe has absolutely no sense of timing—I was shoved.
I barely saw it. I hit the water face-first, a freezing impact that knocked the air from my lungs. Surrounded by bubbles, I thought the most honest, concise sentence I've ever formed:
> Son of a b— 🖕🏻
The one who pushed me stood on the pier.
He was tall, lean but athletic, with a presence ripped straight from a premium cosplay poster: pale skin, jet-black hair falling halfway down his back, slightly damp from the sea breeze. Black wolf ears—furred, upright. And glowing yellow eyes that looked at you like they were dissecting your soul.
His face was… unreal. Too attractive to exist. Sharp yet soft, the kind you only see in illustrations and think, that's not real.
And yet—there he was.
He was a furry. There was no other explanation. A wolf-man straight out of a werewolf fan convention, casually pushing people into the ocean.
Without even blushing—as if shoving humans into the sea was part of his weekly routine—he spoke:
"I found you. You're the high-level healer from another world. Your magic can save my declining species. It can't awaken there because there's no magic, so I had to bring you."
I tried to respond while drowning.
Nothing useful came out.
After a dramatic pause—one that would've made me want to kill him again—he realized the obvious:
"Oh. Right. You're underwater."
A sentence that perfectly summarized his emotional intelligence: zero.
Still, the idiot pulled a portal out of thin air. Literally opened a glowing violet circle in his hands like it was an app. He jumped through it and, with the same lack of finesse he used to shove me, opened another one for me.
Like I was broken luggage that needed express shipping.
Light swallowed me. Currents dragged me under. I lost consciousness amid bubbles and a distant "see you there" while my common sense packed its bags and left.
I opened my eyes somewhere that smelled like things without names—warm air, whispering leaves, and a sky so vividly colored it almost hurt. I was soaked, gasping, pale, weak, dark circles still under my eyes. My heart was pounding—the very organ I once dreamed of saving.
And for the first time in a long while, I felt like my life had a purpose.
At least, that's the pretty version.
The honest one is this:
a furry idiot pushed me into the sea, and now I'm in another world.
And if you a
sk me whether any of this makes sense—yes. Perfectly.
Just as logical as everything else in my life.
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