058 Enoch Estate - Part 2 - Mirai’s POV

  Cherry clapped her hands once like she was a kindergarten teacher announcing snack time, which was never a good sign. “Alright, ladies,” she chirped, with the kind of smile that said this will be invasive, but I’m pretending it’s fun, “you’re coming with me. Merrick, you keep the boys occupied.”

  “Wait… what?” I blinked.

  “I’m not gonna stand here while you all get fitted together like some weird co-ed field trip. The lady let you all share a bedroom on the mission, because we assumed there’s always an adult around. But now? Measurements? Fittings? Nope.” She snapped her fingers and pointed at a separate curtain. “Girls only.”

  “C’mon,” Elena said, grabbing me by the elbow like a Secret Service agent moving me away from a sniper’s line of sight. “You heard the woman.”

  The curtain rustled behind us as we entered our temporary prison-slash-changing room. I heard Mark grumble something in the distance, probably something along the lines of Why do we even need new suits, and Karl asking if there’d be snacks. Classic Karl.

  Inside, it was basically what you’d expect: full-body mirrors, overly bright lighting that made every pore scream, and a tape measure that looked like it had seen some things.

  Cherry turned with a wink. “I’ll be back with your numbers.”

  And then she disappeared, leaving me and Elena alone. I stared at the curtain for a second, then looked at the mirror and imagined one of those dumb, overused drama tropes. You know the one—where the heroine tries on outfit after outfit, peeking out from behind the curtain like do I look cute in this one, senpai?

  It was kinda cute, honestly. Like, if you were into that sort of thing. And maybe I imagined myself doing that. With Mark sitting just outside the curtain. Looking up every time I stepped out. Maybe smiling a little.

  Then I immediately wanted to slam my head into the mirror.

  “Uegh... get your mind out of the gutter, Mirai,” I muttered under my breath, glaring at my reflection.

  I turned around and caught Elena looking at me. Not just looking. Looking… like she was seeing an idiot in her natural habitat. With one of those raised-eyebrow, smirking expressions that made me want to crawl under the carpet and live there forever.

  “What?” I asked, suspiciously.

  Elena tilted her head. “You had that look on your face.”

  “What look?”

  “The I’m-imagining-a-cute-rom-com-moment-with-Mark look.”

  I gawked. “Wha… no! I was just thinking about clothes. Trying on clothes. Alone. In silence. Like a normal person!”

  She folded her arms and gave me a slow, deliberate nod. “Uh-huh. Well, forget it. We’re not shopping. We’re getting fitted. Measured. Three sizes. No frilly skirts or twirling. No audience of swooning boys.”

  “You don’t know that,” I mumbled.

  She pointed a finger at me, sharp as a dagger. “You’re imagining him again.”

  “I am not! I was just… I don’t know! Thinking!”

  “With your face doing that weird, wistful sparkle thing. It’s disturbing.”

  “Oh my god, can you not psychoanalyze my face every two seconds?”

  She smirked. “I will when your face stops being an open book written by a particularly hormonal fourteen-year-old.”

  There was something in her tone. Something I couldn’t read right away.

  I hesitated, then blurted it out before I could second-guess myself.

  “Do you… hate me?”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “I mean, do you actually hate me?” I took a breath. “Because ever since day one, you’ve been trying to pick a fight. Constantly. You insult me, make fun of me, act like I’m a roach that crawled into your penthouse. So I just want to know. Why? Why do you hate me so much?”

  She didn’t answer immediately. For once, no sharp retort came. No snark. Just silence. And that alone felt more threatening than anything she could’ve said.

  Finally, Elena sighed, almost too quietly to hear. Her eyes drifted, not looking at me but at something far away.

  “I hate you,” she said slowly, “because you’re a piss-poor peasant who somehow wormed her way into the most prestigious academy for ESPers in the world. And not just the academy. The Pioneer Class.”

  Her tone wasn’t bitter. It wasn’t cruel. It was clinical. Like she was stating a diagnosis.

  “People don’t just get into the Pioneer Class, Mirai. You need backing. A name. A bloodline.” She folded her arms, but there was no smugness in the gesture. “But I checked. I asked around. Even with my connections, I couldn’t find anyone backing you. No sponsor. No secret family name. Nothing.”

  “…So?” I asked, frowning. “Why does that matter so much?”

  She looked down at me—actually looked down, like I was somehow shorter than usual—and let out a sigh. “Because you’re naive.”

  “I… hey!”

  “In this era,” she went on, ignoring me, “ESPers come from power. Their bloodlines are cultivated. Bred, even. Their talents are inherited from generations of elite psychics, fighters, tacticians. That’s the new norm. Every top-tier student at the Academy has roots. They didn’t just show up out of nowhere.”

  I felt the heat rise in my cheeks, but I wasn’t sure if it was embarrassment or just pure frustration. “So what, I don’t have some ancient magical grandma, so I shouldn’t be here?”

  Elena’s mouth twitched. Not a smile. Not quite. But something more like a wince.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “You shouldn’t,” she said. “And yet… you are.”

  She turned slightly, facing the mirror, but not looking at herself. More like she was afraid to.

  “I hate losing,” she said, quieter now. “Even if the internal rankings shift every week and don’t mean anything for our final grades, I hate seeing my name in second. Or third. Especially under yours.”

  “…Seriously?”

  She looked back at me. “The ESPers of old—the ones who fought in the early days when the dungeons first opened—they were able to rise because they had something. Something unique. Something rare. And for you to be here, with no backing, no family name, no famous teacher guiding you… it means you have something. Maybe the same thing they did.”

  That… shut me up for a second.

  “And you hate that,” I said quietly.

  Elena gave a dry laugh. “No. I respect it. That’s why I hate it even more.”

  I didn’t know what to say. For once, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to argue or not.

  “So,” I said after a moment, “you see me as… a rival?”

  She snorted. “No.”

  I blinked.

  “I see you as my strongest rival,” she said, with an expression that looked somewhere between defiant and resigned. “Which is worse.”

  “Oh,” I said, dumbly.

  I hesitated. Then just… asked.

  “So, what’s that about Ron then?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “What about Ron?”

  “You know. When you were acting all… jelly.”

  She stared at me.

  “Jealous,” I clarified. “I meant jealous.”

  Her expression was unreadable for a second, then something between exasperation and horror crossed her face. “Oh my god.”

  “I’m just saying!” I pressed on, feeling like if I didn’t ask now, it’d fester in my brain until I exploded into a fine mist of awkward. “Do you… like Ron?”

  Elena gave me the most scandalized look I’d ever seen her make. “Like Ron?” she repeated, like I’d just asked if she licked subway poles for fun.

  “Well, I dunno! It kinda looked like it! The glaring, the passive-aggressive comments, the weird intensity…”

  Her eyes went wide. “Mirai.”

  “Yes?”

  “God no,” she said, putting a hand to her forehead like she was getting a psychic migraine. “We’re cousins!”

  “…Oh.”

  “Cousins,” she repeated.

  “Right. Yeah. That makes way more sense. Wow, okay. That is… yep. That’s incredibly illegal.”

  Elena groaned and turned away from me. “You’re such an idiot.”

  “I was just clearing the air!” I threw my hands up. “Better out than in!”

  “You thought I was about to enter some forbidden family romance drama?!”

  “Can you blame me? Have you met you?”

  Before she could retort—and I could feel a great retort charging up like a railgun—we heard the curtain sweep aside.

  Cherry stepped in, businesslike as ever, but with a slightly mischievous glint in her eye. “Sorry to interrupt whatever emotionally stunted bonding you two were doing,” she said with a grin, “but I brought someone special.”

  A woman followed behind her. Mid-forties, maybe fifties. Elegant in that effortless way. Like if a swan decided to start its own fashion house. Her clothes were minimalist but sharp, like she'd been dipped in confidence and a hint of danger.

  “This is Janine,” Cherry said, practically glowing. “Janine Granin.”

  I froze. My brain had to buffer for a full three seconds before I understood the words.

  Janine Granin.

  As in Janine Granin, fashion designer to the rich, powerful, and probably mildly superhuman. As in the Janine Granin whose name was whispered in hushed tones in the fashion corners of the net. Whose battle suit designs had been worn by elite-class ESPers and somehow managed to be both sleek and capable of surviving a plasma grenade.

  “Holy crap,” I breathed.

  Elena, of course, didn’t miss a beat. She stepped forward with the grace of a diplomat greeting royalty. “Wow. We are really being spoiled.”

  She extended her hand. “Janine Granin. Greetings. I have a few pieces from your recent collections. I’m a fan.”

  Janine shook her hand, smiling warmly. “I appreciate that. Always nice to meet young women with taste.”

  I was still standing there like a malfunctioning garden gnome.

  “I… uh… I mean, hi… I also wear clothes,” I said.

  Elena side-eyed me so hard I nearly lost structural integrity.

  Janine chuckled, thankfully taking pity on my soul. “Well, you’ll both be wearing something custom by the end of today. I’ve been brought in to make sure the new fabtic prototypes don’t just work… they shine.”

  Cherry nodded. “I told her to make it functional and fierce. You know. Like your personalities.”

  “Oh good,” I muttered. “So mine’s gonna be duct tape and anxiety.”

  Elena smirked. “Accurate.”

  “Girls,” Cherry said, clapping once. “Let’s get you fitted. Janine’ll work her magic after that.”

  As they turned toward the racks, I stared for a second longer.

  Cousins.

  Elena and Ron were cousins. Yeah, of course I knew that… One was a prince born from the royal family, and the other was a princess born from a ducal family. What was I thinking?

  I wasn’t sure if I felt relieved or just existentially exhausted.

  But one thing was clear: this mission? Was getting weird.

  And it hadn’t even started yet.

  Janine had us standing still with our arms out while she and her assistant circled like vultures with measuring tape and high-fashion intensity. I swear, they looked like they were about to tailor a ballgown and a rocket launcher at the same time.

  As they worked, I shifted a little and glanced at Cherry, who was leaning against the side wall, tapping something into her tablet. The woman never looked relaxed, just varying degrees of “coiled spring.”

  “So…” I started, keeping my arms out like a scarecrow-in-training, “why are we being spoiled so much?”

  Cherry looked up. “Spoiled?”

  “Yeah. I mean, custom suits? Janine freaking Granin? We’re here to work, right? This is a mission. Not a makeover montage.”

  Cherry’s expression softened—just a bit, like the first crack in a frozen lake. “That’s true,” she said. “But keep in mind, Lady Enoch may carry the memories of seven lifetimes… but she’s still just a teenage girl.”

  That… made me pause. “Wait, hold on. She remembers all her past lives?” And here I thought she just inherited her ‘genius’ from her past lives, which then accumulated in time.

  Cherry tilted her head, noncommittal. “Sort of. Not always clearly. They come in pieces. Emotions, impressions, dreams. But every lifetime was different. Different personalities, different experiences. The current Lady, Ash, might remember flashes of her past selves, but she doesn’t identify with them.”

  Elena, from her fitting pedestal, folded her arms. “They treat their past selves like they’re different people. At least, that’s the theory.”

  “Wait, what?” I asked. “Theory? You mean no one actually knows?”

  Cherry nodded. “The Enoch family doesn’t exactly publish newsletters. Most of what we know comes from internal reports and historical logs. The Lady herself doesn’t tend to explain.”

  I blinked, trying to process it. “So she’s… what, seven people all stitched into one teenage girl?”

  “Not quite,” Elena cut in. “Think of it like… echoes. The past lives are echoes. She’s still Ash. But she has the weight of seven others behind her.”

  My brain short-circuited a little at that. “Okay, but how is this—like—normal? This isn’t normal.”

  “Nothing about the Enoch family is normal,” Elena said, eyes sharp. “They’re one of the most unique Houses in the world. And not because of power, or bloodlines.”

  That got my attention. “Not bloodlines?”

  “No,” she said, voice more serious than usual. “The head of the family has never changed—not for centuries. And not because of inheritance. Because of reincarnation. Because the same person keeps coming back.”

  She looked at me. “That person… is Ash Enoch.”

  For a long second, I couldn’t say anything.

  That was when the full weight of this mission finally landed in my stomach like a boulder.

  We weren’t just guarding some high-ranking noble with psychic powers and a fancy name.

  We were guarding someone who had lived through wars. Kingdoms. Entire lifetimes. A girl who was also her own ancestor. Her own legacy.

  And we were a bunch of first-years.

  “Are we really enough?” I asked out loud without meaning to. “Like… are we really qualified to be her bodyguards?”

  Elena didn’t answer right away. Her eyes were locked on her reflection, thoughtful.

  “Who’d even want to hurt Lady Enoch?” I added, because the question wouldn’t leave me alone.

  Cherry looked up from her tablet, her gaze unreadable. “Plenty of people,” she said. “Too many.”

  Before I could dig deeper, she clapped her hands. “Alright, almost done! And while we’re here, one more thing.”

  We both looked up.

  She gave us a wry smile. “Try to treat Lady Ash nicely. Make friends with her, if you can.”

  I blinked. “Wait, make friends?”

  “She’s an old soul,” Cherry said, “but she’s still a teenager. And she can get pretty lonely.”

  I felt something twist in my chest, something weirdly empathetic.

  Ash Enoch. Seven lifetimes deep. A walking mystery with history in her veins.

  And still just a girl.

  I glanced at Elena. She was quiet again, her face unreadable.

  Maybe she was feeling it too.

  Janine snapped her tape measure, signaling she was finished.

  “Well,” she said, smiling at us. “You’re both going to look spectacular.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that.