POV: Rick
Nine keys drift slowly around the board, circling like they’re orbiting something sacred—or dangerous. Each one hums with potential. Not loudly. Just… wrong. Too quiet. Too aware.
My eyes flick between them. A feather. A shackle. A ribbon. A petal. I can’t even tell what some of them are meant to be, much less what they’ll do. They all look delicate—decorative, almost—but they feel dangerous.
Except one.
The mirror.
It spins smoothly, catching the firelight and flashing my face back at me every few seconds. Still me. Still the same face I’ve always had. Even now, even after everything.
I swallow. My throat’s dry. I shift without thinking—legs spreading just slightly, the way I’ve always sat. But the feeling that hits me is nothing familiar. The fabric presses inward. Not hard. Just enough. My thighs part, and I feel it—my lips shift. Separate. That soft, awful movement where skin folds open around skin. The briefs pull gently across the cleft, and the seam settles straight into it. I feel the split. I feel the shape. Pressure slides between the folds, and it shoots straight to my brain— There’s no padding. No room. Just skin-on-fabric-on-skin, and every part of it is real. I can’t adjust. I can’t ignore it. It’s just there—every second. I can’t take another piece of me slipping away.
The mirror key turns again. My reflection glides across it—scared, but still recognizable. Still mine.
That has to mean something.
I step forward. I don’t grab it. I let my fingers brush its edge, like I’m testing a wire for current.
It stops spinning. Cold metal touches my skin.
It clicks.
The other keys vanish.
From the center of the board, a card begins to rise—tall, narrow, glowing like it’s been waiting for me.
I don’t want to read it.
I read it anyway.
📜 GATE CARD – The Key of Reflection
You sought yourself in silver glass,
A final anchor, firm and fast.
But mirrors do not show what’s true—
They only dress what’s shown of you.
You pass the gate. The role is set.
A servant’s shape, a silk regret.
Not who you were. Not what you’ve done.
But what you’ll be—
bonne fille.
The light flares. I squint, bracing for the change, but nothing comes. No tingling. No pain.
Just… fabric.
It clings in places it shouldn’t. Soft, unfamiliar.
I look down.
“What ze—?!”
It hits me like a trap, like a bad joke told too well. A black bodice hugs my waist, tight and structured, cinched with a white lace apron. My sleeves puff at the shoulders like some kind of costume. The neckline doesn’t plunge, but it curves in a way that makes me feel exposed.
The skirt barely covers anything. Mid-thigh at best. I feel air I shouldn’t be feeling.
I reach behind me, half on instinct—and my fingers brush cotton.
Soft. Frilly.
White panties, trimmed in lace.
No bulge.
No sign of what used to be there.
Just the absence of it.
“Non… non, non… zis was not what I meant to choose…”
The words tumble out wrong. My voice sounds half-familiar, like someone trying to imitate me with a strange accent. The more I try to fix it, the worse it gets.
“Pardon… je suis désolée… I—je ne comprends pas—S’il vous plaît…”
I don’t even know which language I’m speaking anymore. My tongue’s working in ways I didn’t teach it. The sounds roll off it like they’ve been practiced. Like the part has already been cast.
I take a step back. The skirt bounces—light, flirty. Designed to do exactly that.
And they’re all looking.
Emma’s eyes widen. Her mouth opens, then closes. She flushes, tries not to stare, but her gaze drops—and stays. She swallows hard. Says nothing.
Kayla blinks like she’s been hit. She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even look confused. Just… stunned. Her eyes flick to the hem of the skirt. She sees what’s not there.
Heather makes a sound—small and tight, like a gasp she’s trying to swallow. Her eyes stay locked on my face. She doesn’t look down. Doesn’t need to.
And then—
Tyler.
“Dad…?”
It’s the softest word in the room. But it cuts the deepest.
I freeze.
“Je… je ne suis pas…” (I… I am not…)
“Zis… is not… mon choix…” (my choice…)
“I am not ze—”
I can’t finish. I don’t even know what I was going to say.
I grab the skirt, trying to pull it down. It doesn’t move. It was made to stay high, to flutter, to reveal. To serve.
And now I’m standing there, lace brushing my thighs, my mouth spilling out broken syllables from lips that don’t feel like mine.
I try to breathe. To stop it. To find my center.
But it slips out—quiet. Barely a breath.
“Je suis… bonne.”
(I am… a good girl.)
I don’t even know if I meant to say it.
But it fits.
The silence presses in.
No one speaks.
No one moves.
The lace flutters against my thighs.
And then—like a breath across the glass—
“Next player: Emma.”
The board glows.
No one looks away from me.
But all eyes shift slightly.
Because now I’m not the one moving forward.
I’m the one left behind.
Dressed.
Assigned.
And seen.