As soon as Ophelia disappeared through the curtain, Isabella let out a slow, dramatic gasp—the kind a royal heroine might make upon discovering a chipped teacup. She grabbed a pillow and shoved it over her face.
"Why now?" she groaned into the fluff. "I wake up from a mysterious magical coma, nearly die, start warming up to a soft-eyed man with unfairly perfect soup skills—and the universe says, let there be blood?"
She flopped back onto the bed, the pillow barely muffling her internal crisis. Beside her, Glimora made a tiny squeaky sound and burrowed even deeper into her lap like a living hot water bottle.
"No, no. You traitor. Don’t you join forces with my uterus too," Isabella muttered, gently trying to nudge the fuzzy animal away. Glimora refused, purring smugly.
Then she rembered. Cyrus.
Oh lord, she wasn’t alone!
She whipped her head toward him, just to find the man calmly rinsing the soup bowl like they were married in a cabin sowhere in the countryside. Could he be any more calm?
Did he not sense the feminine ergency flooding the air?
Her eye twitched.
Cyrus, as if catching her gaze, turned with that soft smile again. "Do you need anything else? Water? A fresh wrap?"
"Don’t say wrap!" she snapped.
Cyrus blinked, confused.
"I an—no. I’m fine." She smoothed down her tangled hair and forced herself to sit straighter, even as Glimora nestled deeper between her thighs like a smug heating rock.
"I can call for more moss too," Cyrus added helpfully, already half-rising. "The soft one with lavender scent. People say it’s—"
"No moss!" Isabella shrieked like a noblewoman being offered peasant stew. "We are not doing this. We are not talking about moss, cloth rags, wraps, or vines. This conversation never happened."
Cyrus paused, then gave the smallest bow of his head. "Understood, Princess."
And just like that, he returned to calmly folding the hide blanket by the fire.
Isabella flopped back again, groaning into her hands. "I miss tampons."
Then her eyes lit up like she’d just rembered where she left her designer heels in a past life. Wait a damn minute...
Miss tampons? When she could buy sanitary pads—the luxury kind, the soft, ultra-thin ones from the store?
Her fingers twitched. Why was she panicking like she wasn’t blessed with a system shop in the middle of prehistoric madness?
All she needed was five seconds of peace and a few points, and she could have comfort delivered straight from the heavens.
"Cyrus," she called out sweetly, turning to him with the kind of frozen smile won only used when they were seconds from combusting.
He paused mid-fold, his attention instantly on her.
"Do you—" he started, polite as ever.
"You should join Ophelia," she cut in fast, her voice sweet like poisoned honey. "It’s never safe to leave a woman alone."
He tilted his head slightly, that sa unreadable face... but his eyes said it all.
Mini-Cyrus, in her head, crossed his arms and tilted his head with a raised brow: Aren’t you also a woman? So why am I being sent away?
"I an a woman of her kind," Isabella clarified with a flick of her wrist, her tone laced with exasperation.
Not because Ophelia was troubleso—but because she was the type who’d offer directions to a thief and apologize for the inconvenience. The kind who’d walk straight into danger with a smile and zero suspicion.
Still, Cyrus didn’t budge.
What was wrong with this man? He wasn’t even her guard dog. Why did he keep hovering like he’d sworn an oath at a moonlit ceremony?
"Cyrus, just leave," she said, voice sharper now. "I need so alone ti."
His smile faltered for the first ti. Just for a split second. That tiny drop in expression made her chest tighten with unexpected guilt. But then—bam—his sweet little smile returned, like soone hit the reset button on his face.
"Mmh." He nodded once, soft and obedient, before slipping through the curtain like a breeze scented with cinnamon and moral support.
As soon as he was gone, Isabella exhaled with a long groan. What was that snake man always thinking? Was he trying to be the perfect man just to spite her expectations?
She glanced down. Glimora had one glowing eye trained on her like a therapist who charged by the hour.
"Do you also get nstruation?" Isabella asked in a low mumble.
Glimora’s left brow lifted. The judgnt was instant. It was the face of soone thinking: Did this girl just ask if I bleed monthly?
"What?! I hear so animals get it. Don’t judge !" she hissed, cheeks warming.
Without waiting for further embarrassnt, Isabella closed her eyes and summoned her last resort. "Bubuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!" she scread inside her head like an unhinged pageant queen calling for backup.
With a shimr, the system screen flickered to life.
"You might think I’m simply a system," Bubu’s smug little voice rang out, "but guess what?"
"Ah, Bubu, don’t you think it’s too early?" Isabella asked, already regretting every syllable.
"Yeah, it’s too early to be screaming and disturbing my daily ditation."
Isabella rolled her eyes. "ditation? You’re a floating hologram."
"I’m a cultivated system," Bubu sniffed, a tiny lotus blooming behind her avatar. "I practice inner peace, chi alignnt, and I’m two scrolls away from enlightennt."
Isabella: "..."
How the hell did she end up with this strange thing called a system in the first place. It could be so annoying!
"You’re two scrolls away from being replaced," Isabella muttered, rummaging through the little fur pouches at her side like a frantic fashionista trying to survive a no-wifi jungle.
Bubu gasped. "The audacity! I have premium features! You think so basic version 1.3 can give you mood tracking, magical item conjuring and snarky life advice?"
"I don’t need life advice right now!" Isabella whisper-scread, holding the sides of her head like she was seconds from bursting. "I need... period care!"
There was silence.
Then Bubu blinked. "Ah."
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