A sharp gasp cut through the silence, swallowed quickly by the soft patter of rain tapping against the window ledge.
The room was still.
She sat upright, motionless, drenched in sweat. Strands of hair clung to her face, her eyes blown wide as they scanned the room, disoriented. Her fingers clenched the edge of the blanket, knuckles pale.
A breath shuddered past her lips as she tried to piece together just what the hell was going on.
Anastaria thought back to the last hour.
She was walking home from the convenience store, a blue popsicle in one hand and a plastic bag filled with instant ramen in the other. Nothing unusual. That was dinner for the week—again.
A paperback novel her friend had lent her was wedged between the bag and her fingers, its cover bent from being carried so carelessly. She read it as she walked, flipping pages one-handed with the kind of practiced boredom that came from reading while dodging potholes and street cats.
She didn't have much—never did. An orphan who aged out of the system, she worked shifts at a corner store for barely enough to afford her shoebox apartment that might as well have been held together with prayer and duct tape.
She was three blocks from home when a hand clamped over her mouth.
Cold. Rough. Fast.
Then came a voice in her ear—low, slick, and too calm.
"Move and you're dead."
She went still. Something hard pressed into her back—probably a gun.
Her eyes narrowed. She was truly scared. Ah!
"If it's money you want," she muttered under her breath, "you're wasting your time. All I've got is off-brand ramen and a melted popsicle, so… please spare me, brother!"
The man hesitated for a second, then shoved the gun into her back again.
"Stop playing with me. Just give me what you've got."
Anastaria sighed like she was being inconvenienced at a customer service counter.
"Please, brother," she said, turning her head just enough to glare at him. "Don't make me repeat it. I'm already depressed enough as it is."
She gestured loosely to her plastic bag like it was proof in court.
"I'm broke, okay? Flat. If anything, I should be the one in a mask with a gun. You're lucky I didn't beat you to it."
Something in her snapped.
Before she could stop herself, Anastaria started trauma-dumping on the armed stranger behind her.
"I work at a convenience store the size of a broom closet," she said, voice flat. "My toilet is in the same room as my bed. I eat instant noodles for dinner—when I can afford it. At night, rats throw parties in the walls, and I just lie there listening. I haven't had a good night's sleep since middle school."
"Matter of fact, just do it! Kill me, please." After hearing her own self speak, she realized she truly did not have the will to live. Her life was truly pathetic. Maybe this was a blessing in disguise!
The man behind her froze.
What was supposed to be a quick mug-and-run was now a full-blown existential meltdown. The girl he picked was somehow even more broke than him and apparently two seconds away from using his gun on herself.
Awkwardly, he placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Shhh… it's okay," he whispered, trying to calm her like she was a wild animal. "It's my fault, alright? I didn't know, so please don't cry. Please. You're freaking me out."
Of all the people he could've robbed tonight, he had to pick the one who came with backstory and baggage. This wasn't a robbery anymore—it was a counseling session.
Anastaria sat on the cold ground, hands covering her face as she wept. Full-on breakdown. Snot, tears, the works.
The would-be robber stood stiffly beside her, patting her back like someone handling a wet cat.
"Uh… look," he muttered, "maybe you should just try doing what I do. It pays okay. Sometimes… when stuff like this doesn't happen."
She didn't respond—just kept crying.
He glanced around awkwardly. "Anyway… I gotta go find my next target. You'll be fine, kid."
He took a step back to leave—then his foot hit something slick.
The blue popsicle.
It skidded under his heel like divine irony. He flailed, slipped hard, and hit the pavement with a thud.
BANG.
A shot rang out.
Next thing Anastaria knew… she wasn't on the street anymore.
She didn't even have enough time to process what had happened, because as soon as she woke up—
Impending someone else's memory in 3… 2… 1…
Anastaria Noir.
That name shouldn't have meant anything to her.
Besides the weird coincidence that they shared it.
It was the villainess from the cheap paperback her friend shoved into her hands last week. Just a side character in a fantasy world she barely cared about.
And yet—here she was.
Waking up with someone else's memories.
Anastaria noirs memories.
What the hell?
Anastaria had been the second-born twin in the Noir family. Not the heir. Not the cherished one. Just the other one—the "dark twin," as people liked to whisper.
Born with hair black as ink and strange violet eyes, slit down the middle like a cat's. Creepy, they said. Cursed, even. It didn't help that some priest showed up before their birth and rattled off a prophecy about "one born of light and one born of darkness."
Real original.
The younger twin got the light.
Anastaria got the rest.
Don't get it twisted—their parents loved them both. Fiercely. They didn't tolerate even a whisper of slander against Anastaria. If anyone dared call her cursed or evil, they were shut down fast. The household treated both daughters with equal care.
But Anastaria?
She took it upon herself to prove the world right.
From what she remembered from reading the novel. the girl was awful. Picking on her younger siblings like it was sport, snapping at servants, acting like the whole world owed her something.
And maybe it kind of did.
It's not like she couldn't see where she was coming from.
Imagine being told—nonstop, since birth—that you're doomed. That you're darkness, a curse, a mistake. Meanwhile, your younger sister walks into a room and people act like she's the second coming. Kind, beautiful, a "blessing" from above.
In her situation she would most likely have turned bitter too.
But under all that cruelty…
There was something else in Anastaria's memories. Something raw. Sad.
She didn't want to be feared. She just wanted what her sister had.
Not the light.
Not the glory.
Just one person.
Someone who would look at her like she was worth something—special, cherished, adored. Like how people looked at Elaira. Like how their brothers used to dote on her. Like she mattered.
That's all she ever wanted.