"Polly?" The boy called her again, this time more impatiently. "You're spacing out again."
"Sorry," Polly returned to her senses and, without a change in expression, slipped the gold pocket watch back into its place. "I'm just… tired."
The boy shrugged. "You've never really been awake. What is it now? Eric still following you?"
That was a key piece of information.
Polly responded cautiously. "…What do you think?"
"What do I think?" The boy pulled a piece of chewing tobacco from his pocket and stuffed it into his mouth. "I think—he couldn't possibly be following you. It's all in your head."
He turned and spat to the side. "Sweetheart, if Eric had the ability to sneak into your tent in the dead of night and scare you from behind, you really think Mike could've messed him up that bad?"
"Well, I'm off," he said, waving lazily. "After everything that happened today, we're all in for a beating tomorrow. It's all Eric's fault—may his wounds rot and fester with maggots!"
After the boy left, Polly dropped the tent flap and turned her attention to the gold pocket watch tucked inside the chest binder.
But just then, something else caught her eye.
The inner canvas of the tent was covered in writing.
Large black letters, packed together like a swarm of flies, scrawled in a cramped and jarring mess. A single glance made her skin crawl.
When the words clicked into meaning, a chill raced down her spine.
He'll follow you.
He's watching you.
He'll kill you, he'll kill you, he'll kill you—he'll kill youhe'llkillyouhe'llkillyouhe'llkillyou…
Some of the words were smudged with oil and grime.
Polly held her breath and stared harder.
He's watching you from behind.
Her blood ran cold. She whipped around instinctively—
But there was no one there.
What the hell?
Who wrote this?
And who was he?
Polly recalled what the boy had said, and her heart gave a painful thump.
Could it be… Eric?
But how was that possible?
Even while speaking to the boy earlier, she'd already begun analyzing the situation.
She seemed to be inside a traveling circus.
The manager acted as judge, jury, and executioner, enforcing rules as he saw fit.
Mike, being the manager's relative and worth 5,000 francs, was allowed to torment Eric—so long as he didn't cripple him.
Eric, on the other hand, was the circus's golden goose. He could perform magic, throw his voice, sing.
So here was the question:
If Eric was truly as terrifying as the tent suggested, why would Mike and the manager dare treat him like that?
Polly's thoughts were a mess. She turned and rummaged through the tent.
It was small—half caravan, half oilcloth, damp and stained with mold.
The floor was lined with a filthy blanket whose original color was long gone. The sleeping bag smelled of stale sweat despite looking relatively clean.
She searched thoroughly, hoping to find something useful.
Who was this body's original owner? Why had she been dressing as a boy? And why had she stolen Mike's watch?
What exactly was her relationship with Eric?
Taking a deep breath, Polly focused on the sleeping bag.
The fabric had a stitched name on the edge: Polly Clément.
Good. Now she knew her name.
A good start.
Polly closed her eyes, reached inside the sleeping bag, and pulled out a notebook.
It was crudely stitched with coarse thread. The paper was rough and yellowed, with visible fibers raised on the surface.
She opened to the first page.
***
September 3, 1888; I lost my diary. Maybe Mike and the others threw it away. Who knows? They can't read. They hate people who can.They also hate Eric, but they don't dare touch him.I don't want to be beaten anymore. Why don't they beat Eric?
September 8, 1888; Madame hit me. A lot. Said I'm too slow. She told me to learn from Eric.He didn't even touch the man and still stole his wallet. How is that possible?Must be witchcraft. Why else would he always wear a mask?No one else here wears a mask.
September 9, 1888; I got beaten again. Why is it always me?
September 10, 1888; Beaten. Beaten. Beaten. I can't take it anymore. Why always me? Why why why? Madame keeps praising Eric. Mike hates him but rarely bullies him. I hate him. I hate Eric.
September 20, 1888; Mike lost his pocket watch. Only Eric could've taken it without anyone noticing. We want him to give it back. He said nothing. Or maybe it's just me, but… he looked at me during dinner. Why is he looking at me? He's the best thief here.
October 5, 1888; Why does he keep staring at me?
October 8, 1888; Why? Why did it come back to my bed even though I buried it? Why why why why! I'm going mad. He's still watching me. He's always watching. His eyes glow. He's a monster.
October 9, 1888; He wants to kill me. He's going to kill me. Those are killer's eyes. What do I do? How do I fight back? Mike? The manager? Madame? No. No. None of them will help.
October 11, 1888; How long was he standing behind me? A minute? Two? Half an hour? Or… has he always been there? He's insane. A lunatic. A maniac!
October 12, 1888; I threw it into the swamp. There were crocodiles. Why is it back in my hands? What does he want from me? What does he want? WHAT DOES HE WANT?
That was the last page. The handwriting grew messier and heavier toward the end, with ink bleeding through the paper.
Polly read it all with a growing chill in her bones.
The writing was simple, almost childlike, revealing a low level of education. But the rawness—the emotional weight—hit harder than polished prose.
It made her skin crawl. She could practically feel someone breathing down her neck.
Should she believe this diary?
She read through it again.
Both the original Polly and Eric were low in the circus's hierarchy.
The only difference was Eric had more talent—he was faster, sharper, better. And so the original Polly became the lowest of the low. Madame and Mike disliked her.
Eventually, resentment grew into hatred. She wanted Eric to suffer in her place.
So, she stole Mike's gold watch and planted the blame on Eric.
The original Polly was careful. She buried the watch.
But then—somehow—it returned.
And with that, her mental state spiraled. She became convinced Eric was watching her. That he would kill her.
She panicked and threw the watch into a swamp.
Yet the next day, it was back in her hands.
That's where the diary ended. Either the original Polly had lost her mind—or Bo Li had taken over her body.
Anyone who read this would believe Eric was a patient, methodical predator—like a cat playing with a mouse.
What Polly couldn't understand was this:
If Eric truly had the power to terrify someone into madness, how had Mike managed to tie him to a horse and drag him across the ground?
But if he didn't have that power—then how could she explain the diary? And the writing on the tent?
Why would the original Polly describe Eric so monstrously, if not out of fear?
Most importantly, how did the pocket watch come back?
Unless… what she buried wasn't the watch.
Polly still had no answers.
But at least she now knew the year—1888, the tail end of the 19th century. Right in the heart of the Second Industrial Revolution.
No wonder the original Polly could keep a diary—there were paper mills now.
Polly put the notebook down, dazed.
So, what now?
The original Polly had framed Eric. Mike had brutally tortured him. And the pocket watch was still in her possession.
She was cornered.
If she allied with Mike, the watch would become a ticking time bomb.
If she turned to Eric…
Polly lowered her gaze.
The original diary screamed don't trust Eric.
He could kill her at any moment.
But from her own perspective, Eric was more valuable—smarter, more capable—than anyone else in this twisted circus.
The real question was: how to gain his trust?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud commotion outside.
Polly jumped, hurriedly stashing the diary, and tiptoed to the tent flap.
A group of men stumbled past, stinking of booze, sweat, and cheap tobacco.
"This thing really fell from the sky?"
"You think there's magic on it?"
"If there was magic, you think it'd just let you pick it up?"
"I mean real magic—city magic! You ever been to Fifth Avenue? They've got a guy who traps lightning in a glass ball. Lights up the whole street at night!"
"Idiot. That's just gaslight!"
"Fool. I'm talking about electricity."
Electricity… that made sense. It had just begun spreading in 1888.
So she really had time-traveled.
Thank God. Polly exhaled in relief. If she'd landed in the Middle Ages—arsenic facials and leech therapy—she might've chosen death.
Then her eyes landed on the object in the men's hands. Her eyes widened.
Wait. Wasn't that… her backpack?
How?!
She'd transmigrated into a girl's body—yet her backpack had traveled with her?
Could that mean… there was still a way back?
In the firelight, the group passed her bag around.
One man tried slashing it with a knife, but the anti-cut fabric resisted. After a few scratches, he spat and walked off.
Others lingered, fascinated, trying to open it.
Luckily, it had a concealed lock. Even in the modern world, it was hard to figure out. In the 19th century? Practically unbreakable.
Half an hour later, they gave up, cursing, and dozed off beside their rifles and booze.
Polly's breath quickened.
This was her chance.
Her backpack had everything: first aid kit, snacks, canned food, tissues, phone, power bank…
Everything else could wait.
But the first aid kit—she needed it.
Inside were bandages, water purifiers, energy bars, ibuprofen, electrolytes, antibiotics, clotting powder, iodine swabs, and a survival blanket.
With those…
She could save Eric.