Chapter 5: A Symbol of National Health (First Half)

Part 1

The sanctuary of Erika’s bedroom smelled of tea tree oil, clinical-grade witch hazel, and the low, electronic hum of a computer tower that never truly slept. It was a room designed to be a vacuum, a place where the entropic chaos of the outside world—and her friends—came to die.

She had just emerged from the bathroom, steam still clinging to her skin as she stepped inside. Unlike the rest of her life—which felt like a constant skirmish against the chaos of her friends—this space was a masterpiece of categorization. Her desk was a perfect grid of highlighters and journals; her bed was made with military precision, the pillows fluffed to an exact, satisfying loft.

“There is nothing,” she whispered, her voice echoing in the sterile quiet, “like bathing in the scent of lavender-infused bath bombs to reset the soul.”

Erika sat at her vanity, her movements practiced and stiff. On her stand, there were no glittery palettes or impulsive, strawberry‑scented lip glosses like the ones littering Olivia’s floor. Instead, she kept an array of specialized foundations, color‑correcting primers, and serums labeled with chemical percentages.

She began her routine with the focus of a surgeon. A dot of toner. A precise, agonizingly slow sweep of a cotton pad.

Swish. Swish. Swish.

“Homewrecker.”

The word echoed in the quiet, cutting through the white noise of her desktop fan. Erika’s hand froze mid-air, a bottle of hyaluronic acid clutched between her fingers. She stared at her reflection. Her eyes looked tired, the dark circles a biological receipt for a day spent in the "Losing Heroine" trenches.

She let out a sigh that started in her toes and ended in a weary, vocalized puff.

“What does that even mean in the context of a brother?” she wondered out loud.

Families didn't just break; they eroded. She applied a layer of lotion, her fingers tracing the line of her jaw with mechanical efficiency, but her grip was too tight. She wanted to open a spreadsheet, list the variables of Sera’s behavior over the last three years, and find the anomaly that would lead to such a violent accusation.

Erika’s sighs grew louder, more rhythmic. Every time she closed her eyes to blend the lotion, she saw the way the golden-hour light had died the moment Ken appeared. A tonal shift so aggressive it made her skin crawl.

"Logic," Erika whispered to the mirror, "is a very poor shield against family trauma."

As if on cue, the stillness was shattered. Her phone, sitting face-up on the vanity, erupted into a frantic, buzzing vibration that made her bottles of foundation dance against the glass.

The caller ID flashed: IDIOT (DO NOT ANSWER AFTER 10 PM).

Erika stared at it for three seconds, her finger hovering over the decline button. But the silence of the room felt too heavy, and the memory of Sera’s face was too loud. She needed a distraction, even if that distraction was a delusional knight-king.

She swiped to accept the video chat.

"Olivia, if this is about your 'Level 3' outfit, I swear I will—"

The screen flickered to life, but Erika didn’t see an outfit. She didn’t even see a room. The camera was swallowed by a thick, swirling vortex of grey‑white fog. Echoing splashes and a rhythmic drip‑drip‑drip filled her speakers.

As the steam cleared slightly, Erika’s eyes widened. Olivia’s face appeared—braids undone, hair plastered to her forehead, shoulders bare and glistening with soap bubbles. Erika’s brain processed the geometry of the background: the porcelain curve of a tub, the chrome of a faucet.

"Olivia," Erika's voice reached a dangerous, vibrating frequency. "Are you... are you in the bath?"

Part 2

Erika didn’t wait for an answer. Her brain, usually a high-speed processor of sociological data and scent profiles, suffered a total system crash.

On her screen, a very pink, very damp Olivia shifted her weight, causing a tidal wave of soap suds to crest and break over her collarbone. The only thing standing between Erika and a lifelong psychological scar was a strategically placed, neon purple "Tentacle-chan" rubber ducky bobbing in the foreground.

"Olivia!" Erika shrieked, her hand jerking convulsively.

The bottle of expensive, imported moisturizing lotion—the one she’d saved three weeks of lunch money for—leapt from her fingers. It performed a slow‑motion arc, glinting under the vanity lights like a falling star, before hitting the plush beige carpet with a sickening, wet thud.

The cap popped. A glob of pristine, white cream splattered across the fibers like a biological hazard.

"Erika? Why are you screaming? You’re making ripples in my sanctuary!" Olivia’s voice echoed off the bathroom tiles, sounding annoyingly serene.

"You’re naked!" Erika roared, dropping to her knees and frantically scooping at the carpet with a plastic spatula she kept for mixing pigments. "I am looking at your actual, unedited skin! My retinas are being compromised, and my carpet is currently absorbing forty dollars’ worth of hydration!"

"Oh, please," Olivia scoffed, leaning her head back against the rim of the tub. The camera tilted dangerously, threatening to reveal even more 'sanctuary.' "Back when I was Oliver the Magnificent, I would walk around my inner sanctum buck-naked after a successful campaign. The servants didn't blink. A King’s physique is a public monument, Erika. It’s a symbol of national health."

"You are not a monument! You are a student with a sprained ankle and a total lack of digital boundaries!" Erika hissed. She was desperately scraping the lotion back into the bottle, her fingers trembling. "And don't put the camera that close to the water!."

"You’re so high-strung," Olivia sighed, a cloud of steam drifting across her face. "You know, there are days I really miss the simplicity of my past life. Being a man was so much more... efficient."

Erika paused her scraping, her left eyebrow twitching with a rhythmic, muscular fury. "Efficient? You mean you miss having the emotional range of a teaspoon and the social awareness of a brick?"

"I mean I miss the logistics!" Olivia gestured vaguely with a dripping loofah, sending a spray of soapy water toward the lens. "Peeing standing up? Revolutionary. And not dealing with the monthly 'blood moon' ritual that makes me want to fight a God just for looking at me? I tell you, Erika, the male build is designed for convenience. I feel like I’ve been downgraded to a more complex, but much leakier, operating system."

Erika sat back on her heels, spatula in hand, a smear of lotion on her cheek. The academic in her couldn't resist a counter-strike. "Typical. You’re practically a walking case study for Freud’s theory of Penis Envy, Olivia. You’re overcompensating for your current biological reality by fetishizing a phallic past that likely never existed."

Olivia went quiet, her head tilting as she actually pondered the statement. For a moment, the only sound was the rhythmic drip of the faucet.

“Hm. Freud, huh?” she hummed, tracing a line in the bubbles with a thoughtful finger. “Maybe. But I’ve decided I’m fine with this reincarnation. The perks are different. I can wear lace without it being a ‘ceremonial garment,’ and my hair is much softer now. Plus, people give me free sweets when I look pathetic. Oliver never got free desserts. He had to pay in gold coins for things people give me just for having 'sad eyes.'”

"I'm hanging up," Erika said, her voice flat and dangerous. "I'm hanging up before you decide to stand up to reach for your towel and I have to move to a different country."

"Wait!"

Olivia’s tone shifted instantly. The playfulness evaporated, replaced by a small, trembling note that Erika almost never heard—a sound that didn't belong to a King or a Hero.

"I... I’m actually worried, Erika. About Sera."

Erika’s hand froze above the “End Call” button. She looked at the screen. Through the fog and bubbles, Olivia’s eyes looked unusually large—and genuinely frightened.

“I am too,” Erika admitted, her voice dropping to a whisper that felt heavy in the sterile room. She glanced at the ruined, lint-covered glob of lotion on her spatula. “But before we talk about it… for the love of all that is holy, put on some clothes.”