Kintsugi, Part 5

The center of the gazebo was a tight little world. Andy stood on the sand-worn planks, shoulders squared, one hand gripped in each of Laura’s. She—both of her—stood before him, both bodies trembling with the tension of being seen, being chosen, being changed. The air was thick with attention: the harem fanned out in a crescent, Claire’s tail flicking and Emi’s six hands knotted in her lap, Riley’s hair twitching as if it, too, felt the charge. Even the sea seemed to hush, the distant crash of the tide a low, **** drum.

Andy could feel Laura’s fear through the bond. The weirdness of her new existence—two bodies, one mind, every sensation doubled—was still raw and untested. The hands of both her bodies were icy and slick, knuckles tight as wires. He squeezed both, slow and steady, like he would with someone about to step onto thin ice.

Both of Laura’s faces turned toward him. For a split second, four blue eyes met his, and she gave him the smallest, most grateful squeeze back. Neither body spoke, but he heard her in the bond: Thank you.

Arabella stepped forward, the Host’s presence cutting through the nerves like a scalpel. “Laura,” she said, pitching her voice to the amphitheater of the moment, “are you ready for your next transformation?”

Both Lauras nodded in stereo—two sharp, nervous dips of the chin, perfectly matched. Andy almost smiled, but held it in; Laura was fighting for composure, and the last thing she needed was to feel patronized.

“Good,” Arabella said. “The Audience was clear. From the second set, you’ve been awarded Twice the Fun.” She glanced at Andy, then back to the pair. “With a commanding lead, at 64,44% of the votes, I might add. Phlegethon’s Fire and Girl of His Dreams, both at 17.78% of the votes, will return next round.”

• Twice the Fun: No one wants to feel like romance is work. With this transformation, Laura's difficulties in moving the two bodies separately are significantly reduced when doing so during sexual encounters. (Sibling)

Laura managed a wary, “What does it do? Is it—do I have to…?”

Arabella’s lips quirked. “No, you won’t need to demonstrate it now, unless you’re feeling bold.” A few nervous giggles floated from the semicircle. “But I’ll explain. Ordinarily, having two bodies would be, as you’ve already discovered, mentally taxing—at least when trying to do different things with each body. This transformation will make it nearly effortless to have your bodies act independently, especially in situations of—” she paused, as if picking a word from a shelf, “—intimate complexity.”

The phrase landed with a visible jolt. Laura’s left body blushed furiously; her right went rigid, jaw clamped shut. Arabella smiled, softening just a little. “In practice, this means you’ll find it far easier to move your two bodies differently when both are involved in a sexual encounter. If the encounter involves Andy, it will be nearly effortless.”

Someone (Emily, probably) snickered. Laura dropped her faces into her free hands, as if willing herself to sink through the boards. For a beat, both bodies froze—a perfect mirror of embarrassment, doubled by the echo.

Andy’s heart twisted for her. Here she was, two versions of herself, neither of them knowing how to exist in their own skin, and every single insecurity was out for all to see. Despite her doubled adult form, she’d never had sex before. She was old enough to have gone through every awkward phase, yet still looked at the world with the confusion of a girl who’d skipped half her own life.

He squeezed her hands again, just enough to say I’m here.

Laura’s selves peeked through their fingers. “Do I have to—what if I mess it up?”

Arabella shrugged. “You’ll learn. The transformation will train you, make it easier each time. As with any skill, practice will help. But you need not fear catastrophic malfunction; the magic is designed for safety and comfort.”

Laura tried a joke—an old habit, Andy could tell. “So it’s like learning to ride a bike. With two bikes. Going in different directions. And you’re not allowed to crash.”

“Something like that,” Arabella replied. “But with less road rash.”

This got a real laugh, low and unforced, from both Lauras. Some of the tension drained away.

Arabella stepped close, then lifted her hands—one for each Laura’s brow. “May I?” she asked, waiting for both nods.

She pressed her index fingers gently to their foreheads. Andy saw Laura’s eyes flutter closed, and a ripple of something—heat, maybe, or the memory of a summer storm—ran down her spines, from the left body to the right. Both sets of lips parted at the same time, and both chests rose in a single, deep inhale.

A hush fell. The other women watched, not with jealousy, but with the wary respect of people who’d seen enough magic to know every change came with its own price.

Arabella’s hands dropped. “Done,” she said.

Both of Laura’s bodies opened their eyes. For a moment, the world balanced on a wire. Both Laura’s selves—one on Andy’s left, one on his right—stood before him in the hush, four blue eyes searching his face for any hint of judgment or expectation. She must have seen something reassuring, because the fear in her twin grips loosened a fraction, as if she’d remembered how to breathe.

He squeezed their hands again, gentle but firm. “You okay?”

Both Lauras nodded, but the answer vibrated with the tension of a violin string. It was like watching a child take her first step into the ocean: she wanted to swim, but wasn’t sure the tide would let her back out.

Arabella observed the tableau, her Host face a mask of calm, but Andy knew her too well to miss the spark of real affection in her eyes. She waited, patient, as Laura recalibrated her sense of self. The harem watched, too—some amused, some wary, all drawn to the spectacle of a girl learning how to exist as more than one person.

Andy smiled, even though his heart ached for her. “It’s okay. I promise.”

The tension fractured, and Laura grinned, her free hands flying to cover the smiles as if surprised by her own reaction.

Arabella took two steps forward, heels barely denting the sand-dusted wood. “You’re handling this admirably, Laura.” Her gaze flicked to Andy, as if to check whether he agreed. “But I must remind you: there are two more transformations to enact.”

Both Laura’s selves straightened, then glanced at Andy. Andy had never seen anyone so determined to look brave and so obviously terrified at the same time.

“Ready,” they said together, then flinched at the echo.

The harem’s reactions played out like a string of popcorn: Emi’s hands fluttering, Norah’s eyes narrowing as she tried to parse out the psychological ramifications, Riley looking away with a smirk that didn’t quite mask her concern. Even Marissa, usually an island of calm, leaned forward just a fraction, the moment’s import not lost on her.

Arabella smiled, but not unkindly. “For your third transformation, Laura, the Audience selected As Above, So Below with 64,44% of the votes again. Styx-Bound, with 22.22% of the votes, was the runner-up and will return next round. Blinded to All But Him earned only 13.34% of the votes and will be available for purchase at the Annex. Your new ability: whatever happens to one body, the other will experience as well. In every sense.”

• As Above, So Below: With two selves to manage, Laura can use some simplification. If one body is restrained, the same restriction applies neurologically to both. Penetration of either body counts as penetration of the whole. Impregnation of one body immediately renders the other pregnant as well. (Sibling)

A ripple of sound. Marissa said, “That’s—” but stopped, clearly recalculating.

Chloe finished the thought: “So if you get a paper cut, both will hurt? Or if you—” She clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide, realizing what she’d almost said.

Emily did not clap a hand over her mouth. “Orgasms, too?”

The question landed like a firework. Both Lauras went crimson, a blush so complete it threatened to spill off their skin and stain the air. Andy saw it coming, but was still surprised by the sheer **** of their embarrassment. The left Laura pinched the bridge of her nose; the right looked ready to bolt.

Arabella’s smile was professional, but her voice was gentle. “Yes, Emily. Everything. Pleasure, pain, were already covered by Shared Overflow. But restraint, penetration, even pregnancy, will now be duplicated, should the occasion arise.”

Laura shot Andy a stereo look of pure panic. She whispered, “What if I don’t want both at the same time?”

Arabella shrugged. “You will learn to manage the input. The magic is, shall we say, adaptive.”

Andy felt the pressure in Laura’s hands spike again, but this time it was less about fear and more about holding on to something solid. He tried to telegraph reassurance, but wasn’t sure if it landed. He tried to meet both sets of eyes at once, but they kept flicking between Arabella and him, like a pair of kittens learning to chase the same toy.

Arabella stepped closer, then paused. “Permission?” she asked.

Laura nodded, and Arabella touched each brow with a single, practiced motion. Andy watched the change take root, a shiver running through both bodies as if a wire had been plugged into a shared socket. The air around them vibrated, just for a second, then stilled.

“It is done,” Arabella said.

The moment hung in the salt-bright air. Laura’s hands—both pairs—were shaking, but she stood her ground, not letting go of Andy. He squeezed tighter, wishing he could make the world shrink down to a pair of bodies holding hands, make all the strangeness outside go quiet.

Then, inevitably, the questions began.

“So, just to be clear,” Laura said, both voices in an uncanny stereo, “if one of me is, like… tied up, the other one can’t move either?”

Arabella nodded, pleased as a teacher with a star pupil. “You’ll feel it as if both bodies were restrained, even if only one actually is. The sensation will be perfectly mirrored: pressure, warmth, any tactile input.”

“And if I, um, get pregnant?” Laura’s cheeks went scarlet, both bodies turning a perfect matched shade of pink. “You’re saying I’ll have two pregnancies? Twins, but not actually twins?”

Arabella smiled. “Twins. They’d have the same mother and the same father. In fact, they would have a high chance of being identical twins, even if born from two separate bodies.”

Chloe looked scandalized. “Wouldn’t that mean double the symptoms? Double the—” She caught herself, then dropped her voice, “—morning sickness?”

Arabella stepped forward, breaking the circle’s tension. She cupped a hand around the side of one Laura’s face, then reached to the other. With a small, practiced motion, she tucked a loose strand of hair behind each of Laura’s ears—a gesture so simple, so parental, that it made Andy’s chest ache. “You’re doing brilliantly,” Arabella said softly, “but we should test the effect, so you know how to manage it.”

She turned to Andy, eyes twinkling with the promise of a safe experiment. “Would you take one Laura’s wrists and hold them, as if to handcuff her?” She said it quietly, almost a suggestion, but the power behind the words was absolute.

Andy looked at Laura, giving her the out. “Only if you want,” he said.

She nodded in stereo, cheeks high and bright, but there was a glint of real curiosity in her eyes.

So Andy gently took the left Laura’s wrists in his hands, holding them together, not tight, but firm enough to demonstrate. Instantly, the right Laura’s arms snapped together in front of her, as if drawn by invisible magnets. Her eyes went wide; her mouth made a small, surprised “oh!” He watched her try to move the right body’s wrists apart, but they resisted her, locked together by a **** that was pure sensation, not muscle or bone.

Andy released the left Laura’s wrists, and both sets of arms parted at once. He blinked, amazed, then looked at Laura—both of her—who was now looking at her own hands with the sort of fascination usually reserved for a magic trick.

“That’s… so weird,” Laura said. “It’s like I can feel you holding me on both sides, but I can’t make it stop unless you let go.” She flexed her fingers, then twisted her wrists in opposite directions, still moving in perfect sync.

“That’s so cool!” from Emily, hair bouncing, as she mentally catalogued the endless prank opportunities.

“Damn, the implications,” said Riley, mostly to herself, but loud enough for half the circle to hear.

Liesa arched an eyebrow, her gaze flicking to Andy. “And if you’re… engaged with Andy, will both bodies feel the same?”

Arabella answered before Andy could stammer: “Yes. Penetration or arousal in one will be perfectly echoed in the other. The experience is entirely unified, though your awareness of it may split if you focus on different sensations.”

Marissa asked, voice calm but gentle, “Is there a way to suppress one side if you’re overwhelmed?”

Arabella considered. “Not by default. But with time and training, most adjust to the sensory input, or learn to compartmentalize. If it’s too much, there are always upgrades in the Commissary.” She smiled at Laura, her Host mask briefly replaced with something almost maternal. “And, of course, your sisters here will help.”

“Are you okay?” Andy asked, a little embarrassed at the public spectacle, but also deeply proud.

Both of her nodded, then hugged him at once—a tangle of arms, hair, and heat that sent a thrill through every part of him. He hugged her back, mindful of the doubled body, but as he did, both her heads rested on his chest, both pulses fluttering against his ribs.

He whispered, “You’re amazing,” so only she could hear.

Laura’s bodies both blushed, but this time it was a shy, happy pink. “Thanks. I think I’m gonna need a flowchart, but… thanks.”

The harem let the moment last, then, like a team at the end of practice, reset themselves. Claire scribbled in her notebook, ears up and tail flicking; Chloe bit her thumb, maybe trying to memorize every detail for later; Marissa watched with the analytical curiosity of someone collecting data for a future therapy session.

Arabella smoothed her dress, then addressed Laura again. “There is one more transformation. Are you ready?”

Laura inhaled, squared her shoulders, and looked at Andy. He nodded. “You’ve got this.”

With a matching exhale, Laura’s two bodies turned to face Arabella.

Arabella let the silence stretch, drinking in the tableau: Andy standing at the center, flanked by two Lauras, their bodies so perfectly in sync it looked choreographed. In that instant, neither seemed like the echo or shadow of the other; both were wholly, urgently themselves.

“The final transformation,” Arabella announced, “is Lethe’s Forgetfulness, with 44,44% of the vote. Only His Touch came in second with 28.89% of the vote and will be returning next round; Divided Modesty took 24.44% of the vote, and will be available for purchase in the Annex.” She let the words ripple across the harem, relishing the anticipation.

• Lethe's Forgetfulness: Much like the river Lethe causes memories to wash away, Laura's presence causes harem members nearby to forget minor cares and worries. (The River)

Arabella let the words hang for a moment, letting the name of the transformation ripple out like a stone dropped into a still pond. The harem shifted in their seats: a flutter of six hands from Emi, a nervous shuffle from Chloe, the distinct snap of Claire’s tail coiling around her ankle. But it was the quiet, measured silence of the two Lauras that filled the air.

Laura’s left body finally spoke, voice tentative. “What does it mean? Is it like… memory loss?”

Arabella’s lips twitched in a way that was almost sympathetic. “Lethe’s Forgetfulness,” she repeated, “is not about losing yourself. It’s about making the burden lighter for those around you. Your presence will act as a kind of balm: worries, regrets, petty grudges—anything that weighs down the mind—will simply fall away while you are near.”

The right Laura frowned, arms wrapped around her own waist. “So it’s like a sedative? Nobody can care about anything when I’m around?”

A low laugh from the far end of the crescent—Riley, of course. “That’s actually pretty metal.”

Arabella waved one hand in a graceful arc. “It is not a numbing, Laura. Only the minor cares and anxieties will fade. The big things—the loves, the hates, the important memories—those remain.” She paused, letting her gaze settle on both Lauras at once. “You may notice people around you are less likely to dwell on grudges, or to panic, or to overthink what cannot be changed. It’s a gift, and a challenge, as all transformations are.”

Andy saw the way Laura’s two bodies leaned toward him, as if seeking comfort. She asked, “Does it last? Or is it just while I’m in the room?”

Arabella gave a small, approving nod. “Good question. The effect is initially limited to your immediate presence. However, if a person spends enough time with you—especially extended, uninterrupted time—their small cares and old wounds may be shed permanently.” She smiled. “It is, after all, the river Lethe.”

Emi’s hands shot up, three of them at once. “So if I forget, like, an old crush, is that forever gone?”

Arabella considered. “You wouldn’t forget memories, Emi, only cares and worries. For example, if you had a nagging worry about embarrassing yourself with that old crush, the kind of worry that only returns when you think of them, it would fade.” Her gaze flicked to Andy. “But in your case, Master, you will have a unique immunity. You may choose what to remember, and what to let go, around Laura.”

Andy blinked. “Why just me?”

Arabella’s smile was sharper, now. “You’re the anchor. It’s your story that keeps the world spinning.”

Riley muttered, “Stories, and wine.” Liesa, next to her, snorted, but Andy saw her take the words seriously.

Laura’s bodies exchanged a glance, the left one biting her lip. “So… if I wanted to help someone forget something bad, I could just hang out with them long enough?”

“That’s the theory,” said Arabella. “Of course, this works best with minor things. Big traumas are stickier. They might soften slightly around you, but they will not disappear.”

Claire scribbled furiously in her notebook, tearing off a page and shoving it toward the center. Riley grabbed it, read aloud: “‘If Laura’s around, will my to-do list vanish, or will I just forget I ever made one?’” She looked up at Arabella, brow raised.

Arabella actually laughed—soft, but genuine. “That depends on how much you cared about the list. If it was just busywork, you might find yourself marvelously unburdened. If it was important, you’ll remember.”

Chloe wrung her hands together, eyes worried. “What if I want to remember the little things? The stuff I worry about is how I keep from messing up.”

Norah, arch, said, “Or how you keep yourself safe.”

Arabella’s gaze softened. “If it is important to you, you won’t forget your worry.”

Dawn, the group’s unflinching optimist, said, “That would be amazing. Maybe we could all just hang out in the same room and let the stress evaporate.”

A ripple of laughter circled the group, but Andy saw the real hope underneath the joke. He felt a subtle shift: the ambient tension in the gazebo had gone from tightwire to hammock in the space of a minute. Even Marissa, whose poker face could withstand nuclear fallout, seemed to relax by half a degree.

Arabella took one step closer, her presence both reassuring and absolute. “Are you ready for the transformation?” she asked, addressing both of Laura’s bodies at once. She nodded, in perfect sync.

Instead of the usual ceremonial gesture, Arabella reached out and, with a surprising lightness, tapped each Laura on the nose—a playful, gentle bop, one after the other. The Host’s face held a private mischief; it was the least ceremonial, most human thing Andy had ever seen her do.

Both of Laura’s faces went wide-eyed, blinking in unison at the twin touch. For a moment, there was no magical surge, no visible energy. Then Laura’s bodies shivered—just once.

Emi raised a hand. “Did it work?”

Riley, never patient, said, “Hang on.” She fixed her eyes on the ocean horizon, scowling. “I was pissed off about something earlier. Can’t remember what. Anyone else?”

Sam snorted, petting Samson Drei who had climbed into her lap and had absorbed her attention for the last twenty minutes. “You’re pissed off about everything, Riley. Can you be more specific?” Riley stuck out her tongue at Sam.

Norah squinted, then shrugged. “I think I just forgave my sister for stealing my calculator in high school.” She frowned. “Weird.”

Claire tore another note and tossed it to Chloe, who read it, then snickered. “‘Claire says she doesn’t remember why she hated PE class so much, but she’s still never running laps again.’”

Emily, unfiltered as ever, blurted, “Is it bad that I already feel a hundred times better?” She grinned at both Lauras.

Marissa cleared her throat, drawing the group’s attention. Her words came slow and careful: “If this is the effect now, imagine how it’ll be after a week together.” She looked at Laura, then Andy. “You two might be the only people left who remember what worrying about the little things felt like.”

Andy glanced at Laura, realizing the implication: together, they would carry every memory, every care, while the others grew lighter, even if only free from petty cares and worries. It felt like a secret, a burden, and a blessing all at once.

Arabella, satisfied, smoothed her dress and turned toward Andy. “Now,” she announced, “there remains only the Master’s new transformation. If you are ready?”

Andy stood at the center of the world—flanked by Laura’s twin bodies, gazes locked onto Arabella, whose eyes burned with the cool light of a person about to change someone’s life forever.

“Andy,” Arabella said, her voice cutting through the gentle post-transformation babble, “the Audience has voted for your new Gift. It is called Correct, and it earned 47,73% of the votes. Coopt and Condone, with 27,27% and 25% of the votes, respectively, will be available for selection at the Commissary.”

• Correct: The Master doesn’t abide mistakes. If the Master is aware of a mistake (involving a single instance) made by himself or any of the other Contestants, he can retroactively correct that mistake. He can do so once per round per Contestant, and three times per round for himself.

She let the word hang, then, for the benefit of the onlookers and maybe even herself, she continued: “With this power, you may retroactively correct a mistake made by yourself, or by any of the Contestants, at any point within the current round.”

Andy blinked. “What, like, undo it? Go back in time?”

Arabella’s smile was sharp, and—for a second—genuine. “Not go back, exactly. You simply rewrite the past as if the mistake never occurred. Only you will remember the original version of events; to everyone else, reality will have always been the new way.”

The gazebo went quiet. Even the gulls seemed to freeze midair.

Andy ran his tongue over his teeth, thinking. “So, if I do something dumb—like, say the wrong thing, or screw up a challenge—I can just… fix it?”

Arabella nodded. “Yes, but with limits. Each Contestant’s mistake may be corrected once per round. For yourself, you have three corrections per round. The correction must involve a single discrete event. You cannot erase a person from existence, nor can you change the outcome of events that did not depend on mistakes made by you or the Contestants. You couldn’t change the transformations picked by the Audience, for example. But you can, for instance, prevent an embarrassing accident, erase a harsh word, or give yourself a do-over on a single meaningful decision.”

Liesa, voice sly, said, “What if you fix something that someone else liked the first way?”

Arabella’s eyes glittered. “They will never remember the original, unless Andy chooses to tell them. But be careful, Andy. Actions have consequences. The further back in time you reach, the greater the risk of unintended outcomes. The universe is, as they say, not a fan of paradox.”

Chloe chewed her lip, worried. “What if you use it on a transformation? Like, undo a change?”

Arabella was firm: “You may not use Correct to remove or alter a transformation that was voted or announced. It is for actions, not for rules. However, you may use it to undo a reaction, or a consequence, stemming from a transformation—such as an outburst, a mishap, or a regrettable statement.”

Emi raised three hands, then blushed. “Can you use it to fix other people’s feelings? Like, if someone gets really upset and you want to help?”

Arabella’s answer was careful. “You can correct an event or action that caused the feeling, but you cannot directly rewrite someone’s heart. The effect is indirect—memories shape feelings, so if the memory changes, the feeling may too. But you may not violate a person’s core self.”

Andy frowned, the logic-bomb ticking away in his mind. “So, it’s like a Save Game. But I have to know what I want to fix, and it only works for one thing per person per round?”

Arabella nodded. “Exactly. But remember: only you will know the original version. Use this Gift wisely. And sparingly.”

The group digested this. Dawn, always the fixer, was the first to break the tension: “That’s incredible. You could keep us from making fools of ourselves!”

Norah, tone dry, said, “Or he could make us all look like idiots at once, and only he would know.”

Riley snorted, a bark of laughter. “So we’re all NPCs, and he’s the only real player. That’s not creepy at all.”

“Not quite,” Arabella countered, “but closer than you think.”

Claire scribbled, tore, and passed a note to Emi, who read it aloud: “‘Will this count for physical accidents? Like, if someone falls and rips her skirt?’”

Arabella: “Yes, exactly those sorts of things.”

Norah glared at Claire. “I feel personally attacked.” Claire blinked at her, tail swishing behind her, pleased.

Andy glanced at Laura, looking for a reaction. Both her bodies wore the same faint, haunted smile; both were thinking hard. “What if I don’t want to use it?” Andy asked, voice smaller than he meant.

Arabella’s answer was, for once, kind. “You may never need to, Andy. But should the occasion arise, you’ll know.” She gave him a look that was almost like a warning, but also a promise: “This world is built on mistakes. Sometimes, the kindest gift is a second chance.”

Emily snickered. “But if he fixes something for us, how will we ever know?”

Arabella said, “You won’t. That is the point.”

Riley, who had spent the whole conversation slouched and arms folded, spoke up. “I get why they gave it to you. You overthink everything.”

Andy snorted, because it was true. “Thanks.”

Marissa’s voice was gentle: “Are you afraid to use it?”

Andy hesitated. He was. The idea of holding that much power—of changing reality, even in small ways—made his skin itch. But then he remembered all the times he’d wished he could take something back, all the small failures that haunted him after dark. He looked at Laura—both of her—and saw, for the first time, the comfort in being able to ease her worries, even if only by a sliver.

He nodded, once. “Yeah. But I think I can handle it.”

Laura squeezed his hand—both hands, from both bodies. “I know you can,” she said.

Arabella stepped forward, and instead of a touch, she simply bowed her head, as if to anoint him. “Your Gift is active now,” she said. “I trust you to wield it well.”

Andy felt nothing—but then, maybe that was the point.

A light breeze caught the edge of the gazebo, and for a moment, everything felt suspended: the new rules, the new powers, the new self Laura was learning to be. The harem clustered closer, less like contestants than like teammates waiting for the next impossible challenge. Even Riley, who never liked to touch, let her knee bump against Norah’s under the bench.

The air around the gazebo buzzed with the new reality, heavy as a migraine and twice as persistent. Andy felt the stares of the entire harem—some curious, some a little anxious, some (in Riley’s case) openly skeptical—each waiting to see how he’d handle the idea of being able to retcon reality, even in small doses. It was a different kind of power, and Arabella had chosen her words carefully, as if she already suspected what he might do with it.

He rolled the Gift around in his head, searching for the seams. “You said it’s retroactive,” he asked, voice low. “Does that mean I can fix things that happened before I learned about this?”

Arabella nodded. “Within the same round. Anything from the moment a new round begins until it ends. But only discrete instances, not a rolling sequence.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You may want to start small before you attempt anything structural. The audience loves a drama, but the universe, as you’ve noticed, hates a paradox.”

Andy felt the words settle in his chest, a slow acid burn. He could fix things. He could unmake mistakes—his, or anyone’s—so long as he didn’t try to unravel the big knots. It was a heady temptation, and even as he stood there, he could feel the tickle of potential disasters he’d already lived: the argument with Liesa that ended in her crying; the accidental slight that sent Norah spiraling; the angry way he had handled Myra on her first day. The desire to fix, to “optimize,” to take away pain before it could take root, pulsed in him with every heartbeat.

He glanced at Laura, both of her, seeking something to anchor him to the moment. Her fingers laced tighter into his hand; both of her shifted a step closer, nearly bumping shoulders. She watched him, open-faced and unshielded, and it was a look he hadn’t seen since childhood: absolute trust, but also a plea to not let that trust eat him alive.

Dawn, who had watched the entire exchange with a growing sense of awe, raised her hand as if she were in school. “If Andy undoes something we talked about—like, a big secret or a fight—will we still have the feelings, or do those go away too?”

Arabella’s gaze softened, just a fraction. “If the memory is erased, the feelings attached to it may linger for a time, but they’ll fade. In time, your mind will construct a plausible reason for any residual emotions.” She paused, looking at Andy. “Which means, if you fix a mistake but never tell anyone, you may still notice a phantom ache in yourself—or in others.”

Andy winced at that. He’d never liked the idea of lying, even for a good cause. The thought of carrying a secret version of history—of remembering the hurts he’d caused but nobody else ever would—felt both comforting and deeply unfair.

A ripple of nervous laughter. Even Marissa, who had sat stone-faced through most of the morning, managed a crooked smile. “That’s the therapist’s dream, you know,” she said. “To be able to remove the root of a trauma, let the rest of the person grow up without the scar.”

Andy looked at her, not sure if it was a joke or a challenge.

Marissa shrugged. “If you use it, make sure you do it for the right reasons.”

He nodded, though he doubted he’d ever know what those were.

The harem fell silent, the conversation looping back to him and Laura as the de facto emotional center. He turned to her, both of her, and let himself stare at the weirdness and the rightness of it—how she fit into the world even when the world refused to fit her back.

Arabella stood at the center of the world, the sun making her hair burn like a warning. "As promised," she said, "one more Gift. An upgrade, really."

She glanced at Andy, but her gaze swept the harem too, as if letting every woman take a piece of the moment. “This upgrade was awarded by the Audience with 48.89% of the votes,” she said, "and so, Andy, you are now the owner of Taking Over."

A ripple of giggles and groans ran through the women—Claire covered her mouth, Emi’s hands fluttered like startled birds, Riley just rolled her eyes and muttered, “There it is.” Laura, on both sides of Andy, straightened. The name itself felt half-dirty, half-threatening, but Andy sensed at once that the real power was in the details.

Arabella lifted her hand, fingers splayed for emphasis. “This is a substantial revision of your prior Coauthor ability. With Taking Over, you may now edit the biography, personality, or even the memories of any Contestant—whether in your harem, eliminated, victorious, or even from a different Master’s season.”

The air stilled. Andy saw the group’s reaction break into three camps: excitement, suspicion, and a kind of bracing, slightly terrified curiosity. He himself felt all three, plus an undercurrent of dread.

Arabella continued: "The mechanics are as follows: once per round, per Contestant, you may add, delete, or alter up to eleven words in their personal narrative. This is cumulative, not rolling—meaning you cannot save unused edits for future rounds. There are, of course, restrictions: you cannot directly change a Contestant’s transformations, nor can you override an Audience-mandated effect. You may, however, work within the narrative as long as it does not create a contradiction with existing transformations."

She paused, letting the math and implications sink in. "The effect is immediate and seamless. The altered Contestant will never know the change occurred. Only you will perceive the before and after—unless, of course, you wish to share it." Her smile was a dare.

Andy was already running through scenarios. He could—hypothetically—erase Marissa’s lingering self-doubt, or make Norah more successful in her job, perhaps even erase the consequences of their encounter, or add a shared secret to Liesa’s past so that she’d always feel like part of the group. The temptation was dizzying, but the responsibility even heavier than with Correct. It was one thing to fix mistakes; it was another to write lives.

Riley raised a hand, less as a question than a threat. "So, you can just rewrite us? Like a human Patch Tuesday?"

Arabella’s eyes glimmered. "He always could, with Coauthor. This simply… enhances the Gift. Within the bounds of eleven words, yes. But remember, transformations are the bedrock. Your core selves, as altered by the Audience, are untouchable. Andy is not allowed to un-make a transformation. Everything else, however, is fair game—if he is clever enough."

Emily clapped, delighted. "Could you make me able to learn languages instantly?" She seemed to be only half-joking.

"Within reason, and within eleven words," Arabella replied. "But if there’s a transformation that makes you forget every new language after a day, you’d still be stuck."

Andy took a moment, letting the idea bloom in his brain. "Could I," he asked, careful with his words, "use this to give someone a new ability? Like… telepathy, or the ability to communicate without words?"

Arabella’s reply was soft. "If you phrase it within the parameters, yes, you could give them telepathy—or some other form of communication. But if a transformation, especially an elimination, restricts the means of contact, then your edit will only work around the edges. The rules of the world always come first."

He understood instantly: no matter what he did, Katherine’s ability to reach out would always be limited by the glass wall of her elimination. He could give her a voice in theory, but the painting would only ever let her whisper. The rest would be up to him, to notice and interpret, to honor what she couldn’t say. Still, his mind was already considering an alternative.

The harem watched him, all of them suddenly invested. Even Norah, who’d been rolling her eyes a moment before, leaned forward, the corner of her mouth ticking up as if she’d seen a ghost.

Andy’s mind spun with possibilities: he could help Claire focus under pressure; let Riley resist her hair’s self-bondage; give Chloe the ability to ask for what she needed, without shame. But the words themselves would be the hardest part—each edit a tiny surgery, and the cost of error, permanent.

He glanced at Laura, both of her silent but neither looking away. The Gift was not about having power over the women—it was about giving them the chance to be more themselves, not less.

Arabella, seeing the internal debate, decided to twist the knife just a little. "Other upgrades, Andy, are available in the Commissary—unless they’re Capstones. Capstones can only be voted in by the Audience. You may find, as the game continues, that using your Gifts will be… not just helpful, but necessary. The world expects it of you."

Andy laughed, the sound cracked and half-crazy. "No pressure, right?"

Arabella smiled, something real behind the mask. "None at all. But I suggest you practice."

A hush fell. The harem regarded Andy in a new light, equal parts suspicion and longing. The knowledge that he could rewrite their fears and flaws—even if only a few words at a time—was both a comfort and a terror.

Emily was the first to break it: "If I ask, will you edit me? Or is it only for emergencies?"

Andy looked at her, then at each of the others, before saying, "If you want me to, I will do my best. Otherwise, I’ll try to keep my hands off." He grinned, but the words shook with the effort of making a promise he couldn’t guarantee.

Chloe raised a tentative hand. "Would you be able to… help with the milk thing? Maybe make it less embarrassing?"

He wanted to say yes, but he caught the look in her eye—she was hoping, not expecting. "I can try," he said, "but you’re already pretty amazing as you are."

Chloe’s face turned pink, and Andy swore he saw her spine straighten, just a little.

Marissa said, "Just don’t erase anything you can’t put back, okay?" He nodded, though he wondered if that was ever really possible.

Even Riley, at last, shrugged. "If you mess up, I’ll just tie you up and make you fix it."

He laughed. "Deal."

The mood in the gazebo lightened, the threat of absolute power giving way to the relief of shared uncertainty. Andy felt the edges of his mind tingle—the itch to start experimenting, to see how far he could push the rules, maybe even fix a few of the world’s broken parts.