Every day was the exact same.

  Wake up. Fix the bed. Bathroom. Breakfast. Online school. Homework. Doomscroll until my eyes burned.

  The routine wasn’t exhausting. It was worse than that. It was predictable. As if the days had been photocopied and stacked neatly on top of each other, lifeless and identical.

  Nothing ever interrupted the pattern.

  Until one day, it did.

  I went to bed like normal. The same ceiling. The same quiet hum of my room. The same expectation that tomorrow would be no different.

  Sleep came.

  And then—

  Pain.

  Not gradual.

  Not distant.

  Instant.

  It tore through me without warning—violent, absolute. My muscles locked. My chest seized. Air vanished from my lungs like something had reached inside and taken it.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  My fingers twitched uselessly against the mattress, no strength behind them. My jaw clenched so hard it hurt. My vision fractured, the ceiling splintering into pieces that no longer aligned.

  It felt wrong.

  Not just pain.

  Displacement.

  Like something inside me was being pulled somewhere it wasn’t meant to go.

  I tried to move.

  I couldn’t.

  The pain surged again—sharper, deeper—until thought itself began to collapse under it.

  And then—

  nothing.

  No pain.

  No body.

  No time.

  —

  When I opened my eyes, the pain was gone.

  Not faded.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Gone.

  I didn’t move at first.

  Above me stretched a dull metal ceiling, smooth and uninterrupted except for thin white lights embedded within it. They hummed faintly. Precise. Mechanical.

  The air felt clean.

  Too clean.

  Sterile.

  I inhaled slowly.

  The breath came easily.

  Too easily.

  I raised my hand.

  The motion worked.

  But something about it felt delayed. Not slow—just slightly out of sync. Like the decision and the action hadn’t originated from the same place.

  My hand hovered in front of my face.

  Smaller.

  The fingers were thinner. The skin smoother. Unmarked.

  I stared at it.

  Waiting for it to feel like mine.

  It didn’t.

  I touched my wrist.

  Warm.

  Real.

  A pulse beat steadily beneath the skin.

  My pulse.

  I think.

  My other hand rose to my face. My fingertips traced unfamiliar contours—softer structure, smaller proportions. My breathing stayed calm, but the calm didn’t belong to me. It happened automatically. Regulated.

  Installed.

  A quiet unease crept in.

  I swung my legs over the edge of the surface beneath me.

  The floor met my feet immediately.

  Cold. Solid.

  I stood.

  My balance held—but not perfectly. A slight shift too far to the left. My body corrected on its own before I could consciously react.

  Like it already knew how to exist.

  I swallowed.

  The room was empty.

  Smooth walls. Seamless. No doors. No seams. No imperfections.

  Containment.

  The word appeared in my mind instantly.

  Too instantly.

  I frowned.

  Why that word?

  Before I could examine the thought—

  “You are awake, Alya.”

  I froze.

  Something stood a few steps away.

  Not someone.

  Something.

  It hadn’t entered.

  It hadn’t moved.

  It hadn’t arrived.

  It was simply there.

  Like presence without origin.

  Watching me.

  Calm.

  Certain.

  My chest tightened.

  “How do you know my name?” I asked.

  My voice came out softer than I expected.

  Higher.

  Younger.

  The sound of it made my stomach twist.

  It didn’t answer immediately.

  It observed.

  Not my face.

  My reactions.

  “The original girl made a wish,” it said.

  The words stayed in the air.

  Heavy.

  Precise.

  My fingers curled slightly.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  It tilted its head.

  “It means,” it said, “you are here now.”

  Here.

  The word settled somewhere deep inside me.

  Not comfort.

  Not explanation.

  A conclusion.

  I stared at my hands again.

  They rested at my sides.

  Still.

  Obedient.

  Waiting.

  A thought surfaced.

  I want to go home.

  The feeling came with it instantly.

  Sharp.

  Desperate.

  Before I could speak—

  “You cannot return,” it said.

  My breath caught.

  I hadn’t said that.

  Not out loud.

  The thought had barely formed.

  I looked at it.

  Its body was there.

  Its presence was there.

  But there was nothing that made it alive.

  It hadn’t moved.

  Hadn’t reacted.

  Hadn’t done anything.

  And yet—

  it felt like it had noticed.

  A cold unease settled into my chest.

  I didn’t understand why that frightened me more than anything else.

  “What is this place?” I asked.

  Its head shifted slightly.

  “This is where you stabilized.”

  Stabilized.

  The word felt wrong.

  Like something that applied to objects.

  Not people.

  “I didn’t choose this,” I said.

  The words felt fragile.

  Uncertain.

  It watched me.

  “You adapted,” she said.

  Not reassurance.

  Not comfort.

  Observation.

  I tried to steady my breathing.

  Tried to hold onto something familiar.

  My name.

  Alya.

  I knew it instantly.

  Without hesitation.

  Without effort.

  The certainty should have reassured me.

  Instead—

  it didn’t feel remembered.

  It felt available.

  Like accessing something stored.

  My fingers twitched.

  The motion happened before I fully decided to move them.

  Small.

  Almost nothing.

  But enough.

  Enough to make a quiet, terrible thought surface.

  This body wasn’t becoming mine.

  It already was.

  And I didn’t know when that had happened.

  Or if I had been the one who made it happen.