Dreena Mirafuentes survived the September 2029 PLE.
Barely.
She didn't cry from joy. There was no joy. She sobbed like a war veteran being told they won another tour of duty. Because now, as fate would have it, she was a licensed physician.
Unfortunately.
She didn't even know how she passed. Everything after her General Surgery rotation in Sotto was a trauma-infused, caffeine-fueled, borderline hallucinatory fever dream. The only thing she remembered was Wren Cordova's voice in the ER, snapping at her like some devil in her left ear.
"Mirafuentes, are you going to faint or are you going to clamp that bleeder?"
With blood on her face and trauma in her soul, responded: "Both."
And clamp it she did. She clamped that bleeder like it owed her money. Then promptly cried in the stairwell and developed three new stress pimples.
But that was nearly six months ago.
Six glorious months of not waking up to 5:00 a.m. alarms. Six months of not crying into hospital stairwells or pretending to be emotionally available while literally pulling off someone's nail in the ER. A drunk uncle. Who thanked her after. Twice.
Six months of living her best fake housewife life: skincare, cafés, wax appointments, and a deep, passionate relationship with sleep.
She still lived at home—rent-free, emotionally damaged but moisturized. With six face serums. And absolutely zero career plans.
That Saturday morning, Dreena emerged from her cave—sorry, room—like a mythical creature from the underworld of burnout. Ten hours of sleep had restored her spirit. She looked radiant. Peaceful. Useless to society. Sunlight poured through the blinds and kissed the tiles like it was inviting her to do nothing. And she accepted.
She descended the stairs dramatically, her satin pajamas swishing like victory banners. The smell of garlic rice, bacon, and eggs assaulted her nose in the most seductive way possible. Her stomach let out a noble growl. She was a survivor. She had earned this breakfast.
"Good morning, Mama. Good morning, Papa," she said sweetly, practically floating toward April who was, for reasons unknown to man, already washing dishes before breakfast.
April, her ride-or-die, gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Good morning, Anak."
Dreena then kissed her dad, Benjamin—semi-retired lawyer, still-serious chef, and human ATM. He was in his favorite apron, flipping eggs like he was in MasterChef.
Peace.
But then, of course, the peace shattered like one of her PLE brain cells.
"Hey, it's the licensed parasite," came her brother's voice from the kitchen table.
She froze and turned slowly, like she was in a horror movie.
There he was.
Dreven Mirafuentes. Demon. Fourth-year PolSci student. Her biological enemy.
He was also—
Sipping. Her. Watermelon. Juice.
"That's mine!" she screeched, lunging across the kitchen like a velociraptor in bunny slippers.
Too late. The tumbler was nearly empty.
Benjamin didn't even flinch. "It's still seven in the morning."
Dreven blinked at her. All mock innocence. "Oh? This was yours?"
"Yes!"
He took one last sip. "It was good. Thanks."
"Demon!"
"Bum."
Dreena's eyes twitched. "You drank my juice and you have the audacity to speak? I am in my recovery era. You don't get to insult me."
"I'm sorry, your Highness," Dreven said with a dramatic bow. "Next time I'll leave a note. 'Dear licensed parasite, I respectfully stole your juice. Kindly cry about it. Signed, the family's only functioning adult under 30.'"
"I will burn your textbooks."
"You won't," he said smugly. "Because that requires stepping outside. And you, my dear parasite, do not do sunlight."
She gasped. "Papa, disown him! Mama, I want a new sibling!"
April turned from the sink just enough to say, "It's been six months, Anak. Your brothers are worried."
She flinched at the word 'brothers'. Disgusting. Plural.
"I'm not," Dreven said quickly, "but Drech is. He called. Asked if the bum had an epiphany yet."
She smacked him so hard on the head his curls moved.
"Ow! Papa—she hit me!"
"Dreena," Benjamin warned as he plated eggs like the crisis manager he was.
She turned to April, ignoring her dad. "Mama, are we still going to the salon today?"
"Where do you even get the confidence?" Dreven said, voice full of mockery. "You haven't worked in six months. What's there to pamper?"
"I'm her favorite daughter."
"You're the only daughter," Benjamin deadpanned, sipping coffee. April giggled.
"You don't even drive Mama to her appointments," Dreven accused. "You don't even drive, period."
She rolled her eyes. "So what? I don't want to be part of this capitalist wheel of car insurance."
Benjamin looked up from the frying pan. "You also crashed into a lamppost."
"That was years ago, Papa! Let it rest in peace with the lamppost!"
"It was my car," Benjamin added.
"I was traumatized!"
"I was laughing," Dreven said, practically wheezing at the memory. "Papa cried. I still remember."
April, her forever enabler, tucked Dreena's messy hair behind her ear like she wasn't watching her daughter unravel in 4k. "I already booked the salon, Anak."
Dreena nearly burst into tears. "You're the best, Mama. You're the only thing keeping me alive."
"We're using your Papa's money," April said cheerfully.
Dreena blew a kiss toward Benjamin. "I love you, Papa."
Dreven scowled. "This is unfair! I asked for a new Nintendo!"
"You don't need it. Your last one still works," Benjamin said calmly.
"And she doesn't need to get her legs waxed!"
"She does because she has an interview," Benjamin replied.
There was silence. Blessed silence.
Dreven blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"
Dreena blinked harder. "I'm sorry, WHAT?"
"Drech submitted your resume to CVGH," Benjamin said, still calm. Like he wasn't detonating her entire post-PLE-bum-life plan.
"NO!" she yelled so loud the dogs—Summer and Yuki—started howling in the living room. "No, no, no. Papa, this is betrayal. This is a hate crime. I will sue."
Dreven was howling. Like full-on cackling at her downfall.
"I'm not going," Dreena said firmly, arms crossed, entire body vibrating. "I'm not going to the salon either. Why wax legs that are going to walk into a trauma hospital?"
"You are going," Benjamin said, final, absolute, Supreme Court-level judgment.
"Mamaaaa," she cried, hugging April. "Tell them I'm sensitive. I'm still healing."
April kissed her temple. "Anak, just try. It's not residency. Just one interview."
"I'm going to kill him," she muttered. "Drech. I'll kill him. In his sleep."
"He doesn't live here anymore," Dreven reminded her. "He lives in peace. With your best friend. Lexa."
"I know where he lives!" Dreena growled.
"You are still going," Benjamin repeated. "And your appointment at the salon is at 11."
Dreena whimpered. "I just wanted to drink my juice."
She slid down to the kitchen floor like a fainting goat.
"And look where you are now," Dreven said with a shrug. "Licensed, unemployed, and emotionally compromised."
She glared at him, every ounce of sisterly spite condensed into four words. "I hope your toy breaks."