Chapter 1: The Morning After

The sheets are wrong.

Don’t open her eyes yet. Years of training have taught one to assess an environment before revealing consciousness. The thread count is too high—Egyptian cotton, at least 800—and the weight distribution across her body is off. Too light on the chest. Too much fabric gathered at the hips.

Breath in. Count to four on the inhale. Hold. Count to four on the exhale.

The scent is unfamiliar. Lavender and something synthetic—hotel detergent, high-end. The ambient noise is Manhattan: distant traffic, HVAC cycling, the muffled bass of a television through walls. But there's also breathing. Multiple sources. Three, possibly four people in adjacent spaces.

Open your eyes.

The thought arrives sharp and cold, like a blade across ice.

Eye now open.

The ceiling is white. Recessed lighting, currently off. A crystal chandelier hangs at the room's center—ostentatious for a hotel, which means it's a suite. The morning light filtering through blackout curtains suggests east-facing windows. Its January first, based on the last coherent memory. New Year's Day, 2026.

Sit up.

The motion is wrong. - Center of gravity has shifted. Arms push against the mattress with unfamiliar leverage, and when legs swing over the side of the bed, they don’t reach the floor at the expected distance

Look down.

The hands resting on the thighs aren’t familiar. Smaller. Tapered fingers. Unpainted nails filed into neat ovals. Skin smooth and unblemished, several shades lighter than memory says it should be. Younger hands.

Don't panic. Assess.

The internal voice is familiar—but colder. More detached.

Now standing. The floor is cold under bare feet that are too small. Taking three steps toward the full-length mirror beside the closet, the gait unsteady as if learning to walk again.

The reflection brings everything to a standstill.

A young woman stares back. Asian features, Japanese or mixed heritage, maybe eighteen or nineteen years old. Straight black hair falls past her shoulders, slightly tangled from sleep. The face is angular but soft—sharp jawline, high cheekbones, full lips slightly parted in what looks like shock. The eyes are wrong. They're amber, almost gold, catching the light like cat's eyes.

A right hand lifts. The reflection lifts its right hand. Fingers touch the face. Smooth skin. No stubble. The jaw smaller, the cheekbones sharper, the lips—

This is not possible.

A turn. Profile view. The silhouette is unmistakably different —female —athletic but slender. The oversized T‑shirt—one that doesn’t register in memory—does nothing to hide the altered proportions.

"Good morning, Hana-chan!"

The voice comes from the doorway. She spins—too fast, her balance compromised by the unfamiliar body—and catches herself on the dresser. The impact sends a glass of water crashing to the floor.

A girl stands in the doorway. Petite, with a bob cut and warm brown eyes. Maybe seventeen or eighteen. She's wearing pink pajamas with cartoon cats on them, and she's smiling like this is the most normal thing in the world.

"Sorry! Didn't mean to startle you." The girl—Yuki, something in Hana's mind supplies, though she doesn't know how she knows that—takes a step into the room. "Are you okay? You look pale. I mean, paler than usual."

"I—" Hana's voice comes out wrong. Higher. Softer. She clears her throat. "I'm fine."

You're not fine. Nothing about this is fine.

"The others are already up," Yuki continues, seemingly oblivious to Hana's distress. "Sora wants to run through the choreography again before breakfast. The showcase is in two days and she's worried about the transition into the second verse. You know how she gets."

Hana stares at her.

"The showcase," she repeats flatly.

"The Midnight Rose promotional event? We've been rehearsing for weeks?" Yuki tilts her head, studying Hana with sudden concern. "Hana-chan, are you sure you're okay? You seem... off."

Gather information. Don't reveal confusion.

The cold voice again. Hana latches onto it like a lifeline.

"Just tired," she says. "I'll be out in ten minutes."

Yuki hesitates, then nods. "Okay. Don't take too long—Rei ate half the pastries already and Miya's threatening to hide the rest." She disappears down the hallway, her footsteps light on the hardwood floor.

Hana closes the door. Locks it. Presses her back against it and slides down until she's sitting on the cold marble, her too-small hands pressed against her too-small face.

Breathe. Assess. Survive.

She reaches for her phone—her phone is on the nightstand, she realizes, a model she doesn't recognize but which feels familiar in her palm—and presses the home button. The screen illuminates with a wallpaper she didn't set: five girls in matching outfits, peace signs and practiced smiles. She's one of them. The girl with amber eyes, second from the left.

The lock screen shows no unread messages. The date confirms: January 1, 2026.

She swipes to the photo gallery.

Image after image scrolls past. Her—this body—in rehearsal studios, in recording booths, in makeup chairs. Group photos at restaurants, at shopping malls, at what looks like a music video shoot. Candid shots with Yuki, with a tall girl who must be Sora, with others she doesn't recognize but whose names float up from somewhere in her fractured memory: Rei. Miya.

The metadata on the oldest photos dates back three months. October 2025.

Three months of memories she doesn't have. Three months of a life she never lived.

The reality alteration is extensive.

Another voice, this one warmer but more distant. Analytical rather than cold.

Hana freezes. She didn't think that. The thought arrived fully formed, as if spoken by someone else sharing space in her skull.

She grabs the empty water glass from where it fell—intact, thick crystal—and squeezes. The pressure feels wrong, her grip different than she expects.

She stands. Crosses to the bathroom. Runs cold water and splashes it on her face—her new face, smooth and young and utterly wrong. She stares at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, watches the water drip from features that don't belong to her.

The last thing she remembers clearly is midnight. Times Square visible on a rooftop monitor. A crowd of strangers who didn't notice her. Then... emptiness. A sense of profound isolation. The decision to find somewhere quiet.

The pool level. That's right. The hotel pool was closed for a private event, but the observation deck was empty. She remembers sitting on a lounge chair, listening to the muffled celebration below, wondering if she'd made a mistake coming to New York at all.

There was someone crying.

The memory surfaces like a bubble from deep water. A girl, curled up in the corner of the deck, sobbing into her hands. Hana had approached. Asked if she was okay. The girl had looked up with red-rimmed eyes and said—

What had she said?

The memory fractures. Hana sees fragments: the girl's face—Yuki's face—illuminated by distant fireworks. The weight of grief in her voice. Hours passing as Hana listened. A sense of connection, fragile and unexpected, like finding shelter in a storm.

Then nothing.

You comforted her.

The warm voice again.

And she did this to you.

The cold one.

Hana grips the edge of the sink. The porcelain groans under her fingers.

A knock on the bathroom door makes her flinch.

"Hana?" A different voice—older, more authoritative. Sora, according to the information bleeding into her awareness from somewhere she can't identify. "Rehearsal in the main room in five minutes. I need everyone focused today."

"Coming," Hana manages.

She releases the sink. Checks for damage—none visible, thankfully—and turns off the water. Her reflection stares back at her with amber eyes that hold a mixture of terror and something colder. Something calculating.

Observe. Learn. Find answers.

She finds clothes in the closet. Most of them are wrong—too bright, too revealing, designed for stage performance rather than daily life—but she locates jeans and a plain sweater near the back. They fit this body perfectly. Of course they do.

When she emerges from the bedroom, the suite opens into a spacious living area with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan. The skyline is gray with winter, the Hudson River a dark ribbon in the distance.

Four girls are waiting.

Yuki sits cross-legged on the couch, scrolling through her phone. Beside her, a taller girl with long dark hair and a model's posture—Sora—reviews something on a tablet, her expression sharp with concentration. A girl with waist-length hair and punk-adjacent clothing—Rei—is stretched out on the floor doing what looks like a hamstring stretch. And the smallest of them, maybe sixteen or seventeen, delicate features and large dark eyes—Miya—sits at a small table, her attention fixed on a plate of fruit, her fingers hovering over the food without actually touching it.

They all look at Hana when she enters.

"There you are," Sora says. Her English is accented but fluent—international school, probably. "We lost fifteen minutes to sleep-ins yesterday. I don't want a repeat."

"Sorry," Hana says automatically. The word feels strange in this voice.

"You look exhausted," Rei observes from the floor. Her tone is flat, pragmatic. "New Year's Eve finally catching up?"

"Something like that."

They accept this. They believe you've always been here. The alteration goes both ways—their memories were changed too.

The warm voice again. Hana pushes it away and focuses on the physical details of the room. Three exits: main door, service entrance near the kitchenette, emergency stairs through the bedroom. Security camera in the corner, red light blinking. The furniture is too heavy to use as cover but could serve as obstacles in a pursuit scenario.

Old habits.

She doesn't know which voice that thought belongs to.

"Let's start with positions for the opening," Sora says, rising from the couch. "Hana, you're stage left for the first eight counts, then transition center for the bridge. Same as yesterday."

Hana nods like she understands. She doesn't. But her body—this body—seems to have muscle memory she lacks. When Sora counts them in and the others begin moving, Hana's limbs follow a pattern she's never learned, executing steps she's never practiced.

It's like being a passenger in her own flesh.

The body knows. The spell included physical programming. Useful, if unsettling.

"Good," Sora calls out. "Yuki, watch your spacing on the second verse. You're drifting right."

"I know, I know." Yuki adjusts, her expression briefly frustrated before settling back into practiced cheerfulness.

They run the routine three more times. Each repetition feels less alien to Hana, her conscious mind learning what the spell apparently already installed. By the fourth run-through, she's hitting marks on instinct rather than desperation.

"Better," Sora pronounces. "Much better. Take ten, then we'll work on vocals."

The group disperses. Miya retreats to the table, still not eating. Rei checks her phone and makes a disgusted noise at something she reads. Yuki wanders toward the windows, her earlier cheerfulness dimmed.

Hana approaches her.

"Hey."

Yuki turns. Her smile returns, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Hey. Nice job on the routine. You were really on point today."

"Thanks." Hana pauses. Chooses her words carefully. "Listen, I wanted to talk about last night. About what happened before you joined us in New York."

Yuki's face goes pale.

The room falls silent. Sora looks up from her tablet. Rei stops mid-stretch. Even Miya's attention shifts from the untouched fruit.

"Before I joined?" Hana continues, watching Yuki's reaction with careful attention. "You said I'd been with you for three months. But that's when I joined—in October, right? So what happened before that? Before you came to New York for this event?"

Yuki's mouth opens. Closes. Her hands begin to shake.

"Yuki," Sora says quietly. A warning.

"I don't—" Yuki's voice cracks. "I didn't mean to say that. I—"

"What happened last night?" Hana presses. Her voice stays level, but something cold is building in her chest. "On the pool deck. After midnight. What did you do?"

The others are staring now. Sora's expression has gone carefully blank. Rei has risen to her feet, her body angled as if preparing to intervene.

Yuki's eyes fill with tears.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "Hana, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—it wasn't supposed to—"

"Yuki." Sora's voice is sharp. "Stop."

But Yuki shakes her head, the tears spilling down her cheeks. "She deserves to know. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. You weren't supposed to remember."

Hana's hands curl into fists at her sides.

"Remember what?"

Yuki looks at her with an expression of pure anguish.

"Before you joined us in New York," she says, her voice barely audible. "Before... you weren't. You weren't Hana. You weren't one of us. You weren't—" Her voice breaks completely. "You weren't even female."

The words hang in the air like smoke after an explosion.

Hana's vision narrows. Her pulse pounds in her temples. Every instinct screams at her to run, to fight, to do something—but she's frozen, trapped in a body that isn't hers, surrounded by strangers who have stolen her life.

"Before I joined," she repeats slowly, her voice flat and dangerous. "I thought you said I'd been with you for three months."

No one answers.

The silence stretches until it threatens to snap.