she roared, hurling the heavy cup straight at her boss's head.
He shrieked and ducked behind his desk. The mug sailed over him, smashing violently against the mahogany-paneled wall. The ceramic shattered into a dozen jagged pieces, sending scalding brown liquid sliding down the wall and splattering across the pristine floor.
Minutes later, the glass doors of the office building were shoved open, and she was practically thrown onto the unforgiving concrete of the sidewalk. Her tote bag was unceremoniously dumped right after her.
"I hate this world," she whispered bitterly, the fire of adrenaline finally burning out, leaving behind nothing but cold exhaustion.
Slowly, she sank to her knees, gathering the scattered fragments of her life. Her cell phone. Her laptop. Her water bottle. The tangled charger. And finally... the paperback copy of 'that novel'. She stared at the cover, brushing a speck of dirt off the title. A cynical, hollow laugh escaped her lips.
"What a foolish girl," she muttered, though whether she meant the tragic heroine in the book or herself, she wasn't entirely sure.
Stuffing the book into her bag, she began the long walk home. The evening air was crisp, and the city streets were coming alive. As she walked, she passed a glowing storefront. A couple was walking out, holding shopping bags and laughing, a small child swinging joyfully by their hands.
She stopped, her chest tightening with an unbearable ache.
Unbidden, the memories surged forward—the screeching tires, the shattered glass, the horrific road accident that had taken her parents when she was just a little girl. She had been left to navigate a cruel, indifferent world entirely alone. Her vision blurred with unshed tears. 'If only I had a family,' she thought, a heavy, suffocating sadness pressing down on her lungs. 'If only someone was waiting for me at home. Just someone... anyone... who loved me.'
Blinded by her tears and lost in the ghosts of her past, she stepped off the curb to cross the street.
She never saw the speeding car.
There was no screech of brakes this time. Just a brutal, deafening impact that sent her flying through the air. The car didn't even slow down; it simply swerved and vanished into the city traffic.
She hit the cold, hard asphalt, the air violently expelled from her lungs. Once again, her belongings scattered across the street. Her bag ripped open.
A few feet away from her face, the novel lay open on the pavement, its pages fluttering in the wind before settling perfectly on a specific chapter—the grand, joyous royal wedding of the Queen.
She lay in a growing pool of her own blood, the crimson liquid stark against the dark road. The world around her was rapidly losing its color. A terrible, agonizing pain radiated from every broken bone, making her gasp in shallow, rattling breaths. But slowly, terrifyingly, the agony began to recede. It wasn't healing—her body was just going numb, shutting down piece by piece. The edges of her vision tunneled into a suffocating darkness.
As the heavy curtain of death began to fall over her eyes, her mind flickered with one final, fading thought.
'But... who did this...?'
And with that, her eyes slid shut, plunging her into the very same absolute darkness she had been reading about just an hour before.
Her heavy eyelids fluttered, parting just enough to let in a blinding, golden light.
At first, her vision was entirely blurred, the world reduced to soft, unfocused shapes and swirling colors. Slowly, agonizingly, the hazy environment began to sharpen. She tried to swallow the dry lump in her throat, intending to ask for a doctor, or perhaps to curse the driver who had hit her. She opened her mouth, putting all her adult conviction into the words.
"Waa! Waa!"
The sound that erupted from her lips was not a coherent sentence. It was a high-pitched, toothless, pathetic wail.
What... what is this? she panicked in her mind.
She took a deep, shuddering breath and tried again, determined to speak properly. But once more, only a nonsensical, gummy babble escaped her. Absolute terror gripped her chest. She strained her neck, forcing her heavy head down to examine herself.
No... no, no, no. This is impossible. There is absolutely no way.
Instead of her scarred, adult hands, two chubby, uncoordinated stubs flailed wildly in the air. Tiny, dimpled fingers curled and uncurled against her will.
She was a baby. An actual infant. But how? The memory of the squealing tires, the brutal impact, and the cold asphalt of the city street was still burning fresh in her mind.
She had died. So how in the world was she lying in a crib surrounded by silken pillows?
Before she could spiral further into panic, a shadow fell over her.
A woman leaned over the crib, and the sheer, ethereal beauty of her took Miss Fransisco's breath away. The woman's hair was a cascade of spun golden threads that shimmered in the sunlight, and her eyes were a profound, startling blue—like the very first, purest drop of rain falling from a monsoon sky. When she spoke, her voice was a sweet, soothing melody that dripped with honeyed warmth.
"My precious little baby," the golden-haired woman cooed, gently stroking her cheek.
Miss Fransisco stared at her. Wait a minute... I know that face. I've seen her somewhere.
Her infant brain scrambled, sifting through the foggy memories of her past life until, suddenly, it clicked. The illustrations. The character descriptions from the web novel she had just been reading. This breathtaking woman was the Queen Mother and also the queen of the elephant kingdom.
The mother of the tragic, naive girl who was destined to be brutally murdered by her four husbands.
I am not a baby! Miss Fransisco screamed internally, her corporate pride flaring up indignantly. I am a twenty-something, independent adult who just punched a grown man in the face!
And exactly at that moment of fierce, adult rebellion... her tiny stomach gave a loud, treacherous gurgle.
She pooped.