Dealing with the new DNA

I spent the rest of the night in silence, lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling as if I could rip answers from the shadows. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Wobo’s smile. Every time I remembered the kiss, I felt anger at myself for letting it happen.

If the body doesn’t return now… then I’ll use it. I’ll turn this curse against them.

I turned my face toward Oliver, who was watching me, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

— Oliver… — I murmured, my voice steady despite the confusion.

— Do you know anyone who has the ability to teleport? — I asked him.

He raised an eyebrow.

— Teleportation? That’s rare. — Oliver replied.

Oliver grew thoughtful for a few seconds.

— Yes… there’s a noble in Argarill. Romeo Smith. He has that ability. — Oliver told me.

My heart raced. Teleportation meant freedom. It meant movement. It meant an advantage against Margarida and the traitorous heroes.

I sat up in bed and looked straight into his eyes.

— Then take me to that man. — I told him.

Oliver frowned.

— What for? — Oliver asked.

I took a deep breath.

— You’re going to offer me to him as a slave. — I told him.

— Are you crazy? — Oliver said, eyes wide.

— No. I’ll find a way to kill him and copy his ability. — I answered firmly.

Oliver stared at me as if trying to read my soul.

— This plan is far too dangerous. — Oliver said.

— It’s the only chance I have. I have to take advantage… of being in this body now. — my voice trembled with anger and conviction.

The silence stretched. Then Oliver smiled, in a strange way.

— I’ll help. — Oliver said with a grin.

I raised an eyebrow, suspicious.

— You’ll help… just like that? What’s the reason, Oliver? — I asked him.

He uncrossed his arms, slowly walked closer until he was just a few steps away from me. His blue eyes gleamed in the dim light.

— The reason is simple. I love courageous men. I’ve always admired that. — said Oliver.

He paused, and his voice grew deeper.

— I felt like dating you from the first moment I saw your determination. — Oliver continued.

My stomach churned.

— You… what? — I asked in disbelief.

Oliver looked away, clenching his fists.

— And seeing you turned into a woman… I hated it. I swore to myself I’d find a way to reverse it. — Oliver said.

I stayed silent for a few seconds, trying to process it. He’s completely strange…

I crossed my arms, took a deep breath, and looked away.

— Oliver… you really are bizarre. — I told him.

He just gave a crooked smile, as if proud of it.

Deep down, something told me this partnership would be as dangerous as it was necessary.

I did everything as if stitching a trap, stitch by stitch, leaving nothing to chance. The two weeks of the DNA Flower’s effect were clocks running against me, if I failed, everything would end there, so I turned my panic into precision.

Ryn was the first to step into the concrete game. That old elf worked with sharp calm, took measurements, chose fabrics, and spent the night sewing a tunic that swore exoticism without falling into the obvious. He also forged the paper we needed, a receipt with a seal, a convincing stamp, even a buyer’s name that seemed real. While he sewed, he spoke softly about positioning, angles, and the importance of the gesture: “don’t touch the forehead like a thief, touch it like someone wiping the forehead of a weary lord.” Each of his words was a thread in the web I needed to cross.

Kaela took on the role that always suited her best, studying the city as if it were a living body. She walked streets, observed guards, marked the times when patrols slackened, and memorized shortcuts between stalls and arches. She bought the silence of a watchman with small coins, not so much to bribe honesty, but to buy a few seconds of distraction. She chose a perfect vantage point, five minutes from Romeo’s gate. Sometimes, when explaining, her soft voice sounded sharper than a blade, “If something turns, I’ll draw a servant to the garden. You have to touch and withdraw your hand as if nothing happened.”

Oliver did what he knew best: built the façade. With his merchant’s experience, he stitched together the narrative that would open the doors of the noble district for us. He bought arguments, retained servants’ names, and suggested the simplest time: early morning, when Romeo accepted “curiosities” and exotic guests. He was responsible for ensuring that, if a guard asked for a ticket, there would be a receipt with a seal that looked legitimate. His arrogance was a weapon; he would use it to speak to gatekeepers and suspicious eyes as if he owned the world.

I rehearsed. For hours. In the courtyard, Ryn pretended to be a demanding buyer, and Kaela taught me to tilt my head at the right moment, to hold the goblet with delicate fingers, to wipe a forehead with the naturalness of someone who has done it forever. I trained the touch, the small and quick gesture, bringing the cloth closer, passing it across the forehead, the thumb lightly pressing a point that should be exactly the man’s forehead. It was a choreography of two seconds; two weeks of life depended on those two seconds.

We agreed on signals and redundancies. There was a meeting point marked: a narrow alley with a loose stone, where I would leave, hidden, the spare change of clothes in case I needed to disappear. Ryn kept two spare keys and a small purse of coins I could rely on if the gates choked me.

The contingencies were written as if planning for death: if Romeo grew suspicious, I would retreat complaining about the merchant; if I was detained, Kaela would cause a small chaos to force an opening; if the touch failed, there was a plan B to lure Romeo to the garden, an “exotic animal” let loose, a vase knocked over, anything that would draw him out of the hall and give me a second chance at contact. Everything was timed, no more than thirty minutes inside the estate; extraction in fifteen. The clock was a swift dog with teeth.

The night before execution, Ryn did the final test of the clothing, running his fingers over the fake seal as if testing a lock. Kaela positioned herself at her post, eyes like knives, and Oliver posted the paper that justified my presence. I put on the outfit, felt the strange fabric press against the new curves, and breathed, aware that I was going to offer myself as bait, without glamour, with every move studied.

Leaving the lodging was simple, entering that district was the complex part. All that remained was to turn a lie into naturalness, a touch into a copy, and then disappear before anyone realized that something had truly changed. Preparing and learning was half the battle; I had stitched every fold, every seal, and every route with the coldness of someone planning vengeance.