“It’s just a coincidence,” Juliet muttered to herself, clutching the edge of the table, her fingers digging into the wood.

  Evan leaned closer, concern soft in his voice. "Hey… what are you talking about?"

  Juliet flinched under his gaze but forced a small, strained smile. "Nothing," she said quickly, shaking her head.

  Her mind was a storm, whirling too fast for words.

  She steadied her breathing and casually asked, "Where do you live, Evan?"

  For a moment, he hesitated—just a flicker—before he smiled and shrugged, dodging the question entirely.

  Something cold prickled at the back of her neck.

  Juliet stood abruptly. "I… I have to go somewhere. We can meet tomorrow."

  Evan’s smile didn’t falter. He simply nodded and said, "Goodbye," his voice warm and understanding.

  When the door closed behind him, Juliet sagged against it, gasping as if she’d been holding her breath all along.

  It’s not real. It can’t be real.

  Accidents happened all the time. And handsome men like Evan—surely he was just someone her imagination had pulled from countless strangers in the city.

  Desperately clinging to that thought, she grabbed her notebook again, fingers trembling slightly.

  She hesitated, then wrote: A horse appeared to take the princess to her friend's funeral.

  She stared at the words. Waited.

  One minute passed. Two.

  Nothing.

  Juliet ughed—a short, shaky sound—and dropped the pen onto the table. She covered her face with her palms, feeling both foolish and relieved.

  See? Just a coincidence.

  But then—

  BEEP! BEEP!

  A car horn bred outside.

  Juliet froze, her heart seizing in her chest.

  No. It's not for me. It’s just traffic.

  But the horn kept bring—urgent, insistent.

  Panic cwed at her as she slipped on her shoes and hurried to the door.

  Outside, under the pale streetlight, an old, battered car was parked crookedly at the curb. No horse—but something even stranger: reality bending to meet fiction halfway.

  From the car, a figure stumbled out.

  "Juliet!" a voice sobbed.

  It was Rudy—Amelia’s sister and one of Juliet’s oldest friends. Her face was streaked with tears as she ran to Juliet, throwing her arms around her.

  Juliet stood stiffly, her mind still trying to catch up.

  "I’m sorry," Rudy choked out. "I’m so sorry. I just... I couldn’t go alone."

  Juliet swallowed hard, her mouth dry.

  "They're... they're taking Amelia for an autopsy," Rudy whispered. "It’s the st chance to see her."

  Juliet nodded, mute, her whole body numb. She wasn’t crying. She couldn’t. Shock held her in its frozen grip.

  Without another word, she climbed into the passenger seat.

  Rudy’s hands shook as she started the car, and together, they drove into the cold, silent night—toward a truth Juliet was no longer sure she could deny.

  The hospital smelled like bleach and sorrow.

  Juliet and Rudy were led down a cold, sterile corridor to a small room at the end. A nurse met them at the door, her face grim.

  "Just a warning," she said quietly. "The damage to the face… it’s severe."

  Juliet felt her stomach turn, but she nodded, clenching her fists tightly.

  Inside, Amelia’s body was id out on a metal table, wrapped in a thin pstic sheet. The nurse, wearing thick gloves, gently pulled the cover back—just enough to reveal what was left.

  Juliet gasped, staggering back a step. Half of Amelia’s face was gone—brutally crushed, unrecognizable.

  Beside her, Rudy gave a strangled sob and vomited into a trash can, unable to hold it back.

  The moon outside the hospital window shone blood-red, staining the linoleum floor with its ghostly hue. Blood on Amelia's ruined face. Blood on the night itself.

  Without thinking, Juliet yanked out her soaked notebook.

  Her fingers trembled as she scrawled across the damp pages: The princess’s friend rises from the grave, a miracle.

  She waited. She watched.

  Nothing.

  Minutes dragged by—slow and cruel—but the body remained still. Cold. Silent.

  Reality didn’t bend this time.

  The nurse gently ushered them out, and Juliet found herself standing in the hallway, staring at the floor, waiting... still hoping.

  Half an hour passed. Nothing.

  The weight of it crushed her chest—she had limits. Her words couldn't undo death.

  Clutching the notebook tightly to her chest, Juliet slipped away without saying a word to Rudy.

  She walked the long road back to her apartment, her mind a blur, her heart numb.

  Halfway home, the skies broke open. Rain poured down like a broken dam, soaking her instantly.

  Juliet ducked under the awning of a closed shop—just enough shelter to escape the worst of it.

  She stood there, shivering, the notebook heavy and dripping in her hands.

  How? How is this happening?

  The world around her felt wrong—twisted—like the very sky was ughing at her.

  Time slipped away without her realizing it. By the time she looked up again, it was deep midnight. And she was alone on the empty street.

  Not safe.

  Two men, clearly drunk, staggered toward her from across the street. Their voices were loud, slurred, mocking.

  Juliet shrank back, but they were already crossing toward her.

  "Hey, sweetheart," one of them slurred. "Whatcha doin' out here all alone?"

  She ignored them, heart pounding.

  But they didn’t like that.

  One of them grabbed her wrist, rough and demanding.

  Without thinking, Juliet spped him—a sharp, cracking sound.

  For a moment, everything froze.

  Then the man's face twisted in rage.

  He lunged at her.

  Juliet turned and ran, her soaked sneakers slipping against the wet pavement.

  But she wasn’t athletic—months of living inside her tiny room had left her weak.

  Her lungs burned. Her legs screamed.

  Think, Juliet. Think!

  Desperately, she fumbled for her notebook even as she ran, the rain smearing the pages.

  Clutching the pen with numbed fingers, she scribbled frantically: When bandits chased the princess, the prince appeared to rescue her.

  She kept running, the words barely legible through the smudged ink.

  But she was cornered—an alley with no way out.

  The two drunkards staggered closer, twisted smiles on their faces, relishing her fear.

  Juliet backed up until her spine hit the cold brick wall.

  No way out.

  And then—

  THWACK!

  A metal rod hurtled through the darkness, striking one of the men square in the skull. He dropped instantly, a sickening, lifeless thud.

  The second man turned to run—but another rod speared through his head, ending him before he could scream.

  Juliet pressed her hands to her mouth, fighting the scream that cwed its way up her throat.

  Blood pooled in the rain-soaked alley.

  Through the heavy mist, a figure stepped forward—elegant even in the chaos.

  Evan.

  "I’m here to save you," he said, reaching out a hand.

  But Juliet wasn’t looking at him. She was staring at the bodies.

  At the blood.

  At the nightmare her words had summoned.

  "No," she whispered, shaking her head violently. "No... no, that's not what I wanted..."

  Tears blurred her vision.

  She spped Evan's hand away and ran—ran without looking back.

  Rain and darkness swallowed her whole as she fled into the night.

  She ran. She didn’t look back.

  When she finally stumbled into her tiny apartment—still messy, still cold, still too small—she colpsed onto the floor. Her dress clung to her, soaked through from the rain. Her hair dripped water onto the cracked tiles. But she didn’t care. She couldn’t think. She could only cry.

  Sobbing, she flung the notebook across the room, watching it skid against the wall and fall limp like a wounded bird.

  All night, she stayed awake—crying, shaking, lost. "What are you doing...?" she whispered hoarsely to herself.

  When the tears finally dried, when exhaustion hollowed her out until she was nothing but a shell, Juliet crawled across the floor and picked up the notebook again.

  "You had everything now, Juliet," she whispered with a broken ugh. "Why are you still crying?"

  Even as she said it, fresh tears welled in her eyes. She wiped them away stubbornly, angrily.

  Outside the window, a new sun was being born—the soft, painful light of another day.

  She stared at the notebook in her trembling hands.

  Memories cwed their way up from the depths—her family, who had thrown her away like garbage. The publisher, who had used her desperation and crushed her dreams. All the years of loneliness, humiliation, failure.

  Her crying stopped. Slowly, a new expression twisted her face—not sadness, but something darker. A sly, mischievous grin stretched across her lips, gleaming under the newborn sunlight.

  If this world would obey her words… then maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t be the victim anymore.