The sun had dipped below the horizon by the time Taylor returned to her chambers. Her hands were raw, her nails were caked with dirt, and her silk dress was likely ruined beyond repair.
She didn't care. The plumbing was fixed. It was a small victory, but in a world that seemed determined to kill her with dysentery and neglect, it felt like a triumph.
Luna, her maid, was waiting by the door. She gasped when she saw Taylor's state.
"My Lady!" Luna cried, rushing forward with a warm towel. "You look like you've been wrestling with goblins! The Count will be furious if he sees you like this."
"The Count can wait," Taylor said, taking the towel and wiping the grime from her face. "Draw me a bath, Luna. And burn this dress. I never want to see it again."
"Yes, My Lady," Luna curtsied, her eyes lingering on Taylor with that intense, slightly unblinking adoration. "I'll make the water perfect. Just for you."
Luna hurried off to the washroom. Taylor stepped into her bedroom and closed the door, leaning against it with a sigh.
The silence of the room was heavy.
She pushed off the wall and walked toward her bed, ready to collapse. But she stopped.
Sitting in the exact center of her pillow was a box.
It wasn't a wooden chest or a jewelry case. It was a sleek, black cardboard box tied with a pristine red ribbon. The material was alien to this room—smooth, matte, and undeniably modern.
Taylor's heart skipped a beat. She hadn't ordered anything. The System hadn't rewarded her anything.
She walked over slowly, the floorboards creaking under her boots. The air in the room felt suddenly cold, as if a window had been left open in winter.
She reached out and pulled the ribbon. It unraveled with a soft hiss. She lifted the lid.
Inside, resting on a bed of black velvet, was a miniature architectural model.
It was crude, made of glued toothpicks and scraps of wood, but the design was unmistakable. It was a suspension bridge with a unique, asymmetric pylon structure.
Taylor stopped breathing.
It was the **District 9 Expansion Bridge**.
It was the project Arthur had been working on the night he died. The files were on his private server back on Earth. The blueprints had never been published. No one in this world—no one in *either* world—should have known this design except him.
Nestled next to the bridge was a folded note.
Taylor picked it up. Her hands trembled, not from cold, but from a violation that went deeper than fear.
> *Hello, Arthur.*
>
> *I saw your little project in the courtyard. Very impressive. Concrete in the 14th century? You always were an overachiever.*
>
> *But be careful. You're building a kingdom on a foundation of lies. And just like that bridge you never finished, structural integrity is everything.*
>
> *If you think you can hide behind a pretty face and a title, think again. I know what you are. I know what you did.*
>
> *Clean up your mess, or I'll bury you in it.*
>
> *— A*
Taylor dropped the note. She stepped back, her eyes scanning the room. The shadows in the corners seemed to stretch, twisting into accusatory shapes.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
This wasn't just a threat. This was intimate. "A" didn't just know she was a reincarnator; "A" knew *Arthur*. They knew his work. They knew his failures.
*Creak.*
The sound came from behind her.
Taylor spun around, grabbing a heavy brass candlestick from the bedside table. She held it up like a club.
"Who's there?" she demanded, her voice sharp.
The large wardrobe in the corner of the room was slightly ajar. Slowly, the door pushed open.
A face peered out from the darkness of the closet. Large blue eyes, framed by golden ringlets, stared back at her.
It was **Violet**, her stepsister.
Violet crawled out from among the hanging dresses. She was clutching one of Taylor's old shoes to her chest. She stood up, brushing lint from her pink skirt, looking completely unbothered by the fact that she had been hiding in a closet.
"Violet?" Taylor lowered the candlestick, though her grip didn't loosen. "What are you doing in there?"
Violet blinked. A slow smile spread across her face. It wasn't the bright, bubbly smile she had worn in front of their father. This one was quieter. Sharper.
"I was waiting," Violet said softly.
"Waiting for what?"
"For you," Violet said. She took a step closer, invading Taylor's personal space. She tilted her head, her eyes scanning Taylor's dirty face, her ruined clothes, and finally, the black box on the bed.
"You smell like rain and wet earth," Violet murmured. "It's a nice smell."
"Violet, get out," Taylor said, her patience fraying. "I'm tired, I'm dirty, and I'm not in the mood for hide-and-seek."
Violet ignored her. She pointed a small, pale finger at the bed.
"Who gave you a present?" she asked. Her voice was light, but there was an edge to it. A sudden, cold curiosity.
"It's nothing," Taylor said quickly, stepping between Violet and the box. "Just... construction materials. For the project."
Violet leaned to the side, trying to peer around Taylor. "It looks like a toy. Did you make a toy house? Can I play with it?"
"No," Taylor snapped.
Violet recoiled as if she'd been slapped. Her lower lip trembled. "You... you're keeping secrets from me?"
She looked up at Taylor, and for a second, the mask of the innocent little sister slipped. Her eyes darkened.
"Secrets are dangerous, Big Sister," Violet whispered. "If you have secrets, you have to share them. Or else they rot. Like the food in the pantry."
The words hung in the air. Taylor felt a chill run down her spine. *Is she talking about the box? Or something else?*
"Everyone has secrets, Violet," Taylor said, her voice steady. "Now, please. Go to your room."
Violet stared at her for a long moment. Then, the mask snapped back into place. She giggled, bouncing on her heels.
"Okay! But promise you'll play with me tomorrow? We can have a tea party!"
"Sure," Taylor lied. "A tea party."
Violet beamed. She skipped to the door, humming a tune that sounded vaguely like a funeral dirge. Before she left, she turned back one last time.
"Lock your door, Taylor," Violet said cheerfully. "The draft makes the shadows move."
The door clicked shut.
Taylor immediately threw the bolt. She dragged a heavy oak chair and wedged it under the handle.
Only then did she exhale. She sank onto the floor, pulling her knees to her chest.
She looked at the black box. She looked at the door where her sister had just left.
She was trapped in a castle with a father who hated her, a maid who worshipped her, a sister who watched her from closets, and a stalker who knew her past life.
"Fine," Taylor whispered to the empty room. Her fear was hardening into something else. Something cold and calculating.
She picked up the note from "A" and held it over the candle flame. She watched the paper curl and blacken, the threats turning to ash.
"You want to test my structural integrity?"
She crushed the ashes in her hand.
"I'm an engineer. I don't break. I build."
[Ding!]
[New Main Quest: The Masquerade]
[Objective: Identify the Traitor within the Castle.]
[Suspects: 3]
Taylor stood up. She walked to the window and looked out at the dark courtyard, where her concrete latrine stood as a lonely monument to progress.
The game had started. And she was already behind.