The metal finally surrendered.
A small snap—but it echoed like I had just broken the spine of the universe.
No, don't make it sound lewd.
That's your fault, not mine.
This was the efficiency.
Fast execution.
Clean and clear cut liberation.
Freedom.
Nothing more.
I just wanted this stupid restriction off so I could pretend I had control over anything.
The clasps jittered between my fingers, the metal edges clicking in a ridiculous little rhythm that made me question whether I had ever been coordinated in any of my existences. Memory coughed up nothing helpful—only the unsettling contrast between working on Silvia's body and this one.
With Silvia, these made sense: heat, breath, give.
With this? Everything felt like assembling a stranger using a manual written in sarcasm and curses.
Finally, the last clasp gave.
A sharp, yet decisive snap.
The strap slid off me and left behind a faint indentation—a ghost of pressure evaporating against newly borrowed skin. I inhaled.
Fucking finally.
And for the first time, the breath felt like it belonged to someone.
It was not just air.
Too heavy. Idly present.
A cavity expanded where none had existed. Ribs rising, lungs ballooning—terrifying signs of a center. A place you could bruise.
A place that could be taken.
Great. Wonderful. Fantastic.
Now what?
I walked to the door with the brisk confidence of a snail touring a museum.
My hand extended, fingers reaching for a knob that simply…
Never existed.
Oh.
So it's locked.
No knob. No handle.
Just a flat of pretentious minimalism kind of slop.
Modern civilization and its consequences had been a disaster for me, formerly a spirit.
"Wait—how?"
All of a sudden, a single beep answered me.
"Voice identity confirmed: Mirielle Fatui Aveline."
My throat tightened. That beep had the exact same smugness as a math teacher announcing a pop quiz.
Huh? Just like that?
"Welcome and have a good day, Miss Mirielle."
My eyes blinked. My jaw dropped.
My dignity left the room.
I needed to get used to this. Truly.
But even so—voice-activated doors? Really?
Just slap a knob on it!
A piece of metal. Primitive, but efficient
I let myself drift into my usual monologue—not to think, but to stall.
Middle-phase monologue: the universal procrastination ritual for a silver head.
Then a thought wandered in.
Who exactly is Mirielle Fatui Aveline?
You know what? Not my problem.
I stepped out with exactly zero plans, zero caution, and exactly zero functioning neurons. I had only one priority: clean this… body. Vessel. Skin-suit. Whatever.
Then—my foot touched the floor.
And suddenly everything was so wrong.
Too smooth.
Too soft.
Zero resistance.
My ankle glided forward by a humiliating centimeter. Balance tried to initiate a recovery protocol, but nothing responded in time. Muscles fired late, nerves panicked quietly, and the entire body entered a state best described as "failing to remember how gravity works."
The fall wasn't instant.
No—worse.
A painfully slow collapse.
Elegantly catastrophic.
I grabbed the doorframe mid-tilt, fingers scraping, sliding, then catching—barely.
My knee struck first with the grace of a sack of wet rice hitting concrete. My palm followed with a smack. Fabric dragged. Breath left me in a noise I pray no one else heard.
Half-upright. Half-fallen.
All shame.
Slipping on the floor... Daniel, really?
I should've been committing a somersault if I hadn't grabbed the doorframe mid-tilt, fingers scraping uselessly before catching at the edge. My knee struck first, then my palm, the impact loud and ugly. Fabric dragged against the floor. My breath came out sharp and stupid.
For a second, I stayed there. Half-upright. Half-fallen. A failed motion suspended in embarrassment.
This body's owner is so clumsy.
"Oh, you fell again as usual, Miss Mirielle."
The voice pierced my ear—sharp, delighted, and absolutely not the kind of lullaby anyone wanted.
I hadn't even risen before it continued, maddeningly pleasant:
"Okay! That's fall number three this week."
I froze.
"…Sorry, what?"
"I'm counting partial losses of balance. Full collapse is not required for humiliation to register."
"Shut up. Please."
I shut my eyes because if I looked at anything, I would combust.
"You attempted a corrective maneuver 0.4 seconds too late," the voice narrated clinically. "Consistent with Mirielle Fatui Aveline's motoric desync habits. She makes decisions faster than her body can comply."
I placed both hands on the sink—mostly because if I didn't, misfortune would.
"So," the voice chirped, "good news: this isn't your fault. Bad news: it's your body's."
The porcelain glared back at me like it had just won a staring contest.
What is this voice's personal vendetta?
"You're overcorrecting," it said. "Treating gravity like a threat. Typical behavior for a former non-corporeal being."
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it.
Closed it.
"Yes," the voice said, "I noticed."
I lifted my head and stared at my reflection: hair a mess, cheeks warm, posture stuck between rebellion and resignation.
"You're piloting the body like it's a theoretical diagram," the voice continued. "Unfortunately, it is a biological machine with delays, friction, and poor muscle memory."
A pause.
"And Mirielle trips when she's stressed. Which you are. Intensely. Impressively."
"No, I'm—"
"You are," it cut in gently. "You woke up embodied, displaced, renamed, stripped a mechanism off yourself, tried to map technology by brute force, and declared war on a floor tile."
…Okay, rude—but not incorrect.
"That isn't adaptation," it continued.
"That's denial with initiative."
I breathed in through the nose like I was trying to inhale discipline.
"You're not clumsy," it said softly. "You're out of sync. Your intention arrives early. Your body arrives late. And physics remains punctual."
Then, almost cheerful:
"But don't worry. You'll adapt. Mirielle always did. Eventually."
My grip tightened.
"…Eventually?"
"Oh yes. After some bruises. Two sprains. And one memorable event involving stairs, pride, and approximately fourteen witnesses."
Please stop. I don't need lore.
"Welcome to embodiment," it concluded. "Please try not to fall before reaching the shower. Tiles statistically despise you."
I stared at my reflection.
Quiet. Hollow. There.
"…I hate you," I half-muttered.
"Kill yourself."
The voice replied instantly:
"That, too, is consistent to your character."
"Miss Mirielle."
Somehow—that hurt more than the fall.
I really wanted to scold it.
But you know… I'm just a girl..
Right here. Right now.
The watery pressure behind my eyes came fast—real, physical, inevitable.
Neither existential nor symbolic.
Just a body's response to a waterfall.
I mean, no let me emphasize:
For the first time in this vessel, I really wanted to cry.
Really.