It had been two days since Esha had been discharged from the hospital, and now—cue dramatic music—she had officially begun her rags-to-riches life.
Just kidding.
The truth was, she'd been sent off more like a celebrity exiting rehab. The Salazars had visited one last time before her discharge, with none other than Leo and his father in tow—Ethan Salazar, the heir to the Salazar legacy. A man so handsome he could probably cause minor heart palpitations just by blinking, but whose aura was so intense that Esha had genuinely felt like she was being scolded by her primary school teacher for forgetting her lunchbox.
"You were very brave," Ethan had said in his deep, poised voice that made her feel like she was receiving a lifetime achievement award... and also maybe grounded.
Esha had nodded politely, trying not to stare directly at his cheekbones.
And Leo? That mischievous little gremlin had bounced in with more energy than a puppy on espresso. For someone who'd nearly drowned two days ago, he didn't seem even a little traumatized. In fact, he'd hugged her like she was the one who needed comforting.
Rich kids were built different. Emotionally waterproof, maybe.
The Salazars hadn't come empty-handed. No. That would've been too normal. Each member of the family came bearing gifts like they were Santa Claus in designer suits. There were luxury gadgets, a three-bedroom apartment, a storefront property, and enough high-end clothing to start a boutique.
She tried to reject the gifts, at first. Politely, of course. But that didn't go well.
Because apparently, when rich people gave you something in return for saving their heir, it wasn't just generosity—it was sacred contract-level serious. Refusing them would've been like throwing the Pope's blessing back in his face.
So, Esha had smiled, thanked them profusely, and left the hospital weighed down by more gifts than her 21 years of life had ever prepared her for. Among everything, the most cherished gift was the card given by Leo's elusive little uncle—a clean, crisp bank card with a hundred thousand dollars.
A man who sent money and didn't even show up to talk?
Officially her favorite Salazar.
⸻
The apartment she moved into was... not what she expected.
Correction: it was the kind of place she'd dreamed about while eating instant noodles during blackout nights in the orphanage.
With smooth marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows that opened into a panoramic view of the city skyline, and a walk-in closet that could house her entire orphanage dorm, Esha wandered around the apartment like a tourist lost in Versailles. The walls were painted in soft beige with gold accents, there were automated voice-activated lights (which she accidentally triggered four times trying to yell at a mosquito), and even the toilets had built-in seat warmers.
"I could live in the bathroom," she muttered, sitting on the toilet seat just for fun. "Royal butt experience."
She checked herself out in the bathroom mirror and struck a pose.
Chestnut brown hair tumbled to her shoulders in soft waves, framing a face with a surprisingly symmetrical bone structure she had never bothered appreciating before. Her hazel eyes sparkled—not from emotion, but from the LED mirror's excellent lighting—and her thin pink lips curled into a smug little grin.
"Should I become a beauty influencer?" she asked her reflection, blowing it a kiss. "Madam Rent-Collector turned YouTube star?"
A beat of silence followed before the voice in her head replied:
"Host, being an influencer would be tremendously helpful in completing your missions!"
"AAAAHHHH!" Esha jumped and spun around like someone had thrown cold water on her. "You scared the crap out of me! Literally. I'm on a toilet!"
"Apologies, Host. I believed you had mentally acknowledged my presence."
Esha glared into the mirror. "Mentally acknowledging someone doesn't mean I want them to commentate while I'm in the bathroom."
"I'll remember that for future reference."
She sighed and asked the system to explain its functions. She had gotten hints over the last two days that it wasn't going to leave her alone.
According to the system—who she'd unofficially named Buzzkill Fairy—she had unlocked the Replication Ability Level One, which allowed her to replicate a clothing item once per day.
There were three levels of replication, each more advanced than the last, and new abilities would be unlocked after successfully completing the required missions.
Her first mission?
"Gain 100 'Like Points' from at least ten replicated outfits. You may interpret that as ten outfits being appreciated by at least ten people each."
Esha blinked. "So I need to play Project Runway in real life and convince people my copycat clothes are worth liking?"
"Correct!"
She rubbed her temples. "Why me? I'm not exactly known for fashion. My sense of style was whatever could survive the washing machine at the orphanage. Minimalist, budget-friendly, and usually borrowed."
"Host, I was randomly assigned. There was no selection criteria. Consider it... fate."
"Wow," she said sarcastically. "So I'm the system equivalent of picking a restaurant by spinning a bottle."
"Essentially, yes."
Esha made a face and flopped backward onto her giant, plush bed with a dramatic groan. "My system is a freelance intern."
⸻
Just as she was starting to wallow in mild self-pity, her phone rang.
The screen lit up with the name "MAMA 😱" and Esha sat up straight like she was in military training. She gulped and answered the call.
"Esha Lynn, what in God's name is going on?! Did you rob a bank?!"
"Umm, no. Mama, how would I even—"
"Then explain why there's a suspiciously large amount of money sitting in my account like it fell from heaven. Are you part of a money laundering scheme? Did you join a cult?!"
"It's... a long story."
"Well, I've got time. Start talking."
Esha took a deep breath and launched into her tale—about the boy, the river, the swimming (or lack thereof), the hospital, the Salazars, and the truckload of rewards she never asked for.
Silence.
Then Mama—aka the orphanage director and her one-woman parental authority—exploded. "WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?! Do you even know how to swim? Are you a cat with nine lives? Are you a K-drama protagonist?!"
Esha moved the phone away from her ear just in time to avoid going temporarily deaf. Mama hadn't been this angry since Brother Michael broke the washing machine with his homemade chemistry project.
"I'm sorry!" Esha squeaked. "But I wanted to give some of the money to the orphanage. I thought it could help!"
There was another pause.
"...That's your money," Mama finally said, quieter this time. "You earned it—almost died for it. We can't take it."
"Mama, the orphanage gave me my life. I want to do something back."
After ten minutes of back-and-forth arguments, Mama finally relented.
"Fine. But if you start buying alpacas or funding alien conspiracies, I'm calling the Salazars myself."
"No alien funding. Got it," Esha laughed, finally ending the call.
She set the phone down and stared up at the high, sculpted ceiling.
Her life really was funny. Two weeks ago, she was just another struggling twenty-one-year-old trying to survive on ramen and resilience.
Now she had a talking fairy in her head, an influencer mission, and a closet bigger than her old apartment.
Not bad for someone who couldn't even swim.