Act One

He stood in the doorway in that pose, like he was about to take a step but didn’t move, resting one hand on the doorframe and looking away. Christoph von Hessner, thirty-year-old heir to a noble lineage raised under a strict father, took a deep breath to collect his thoughts. All the rage that had gripped him just minutes ago seemed to have vanished for no clear reason, leaving behind only trembling and fear. But how? How could he possibly forgive her—Ida—who had so coldly hidden her attraction to that... disgusting officer? That Gottfried, who sometimes let his hand linger on hers longer than decency allowed, and Ida would tilt her head toward his lips like she was listening to a whisper, when in truth—she was accepting someone else’s vow. Ida—his fiancée by arrangement, his future wife by the will of two families—chose passion over duty. Christoph had realized it back at the fountain, but only now, when the rumors were confirmed by a letter slipped into his office, did he feel the ground vanish beneath his feet.

The room was cloaked in an almost church-like silence. Ida stood by the window, her fingers locked over her stomach like a schoolgirl awaiting punishment. He could see only her back—so fragile, so delicate, her narrow shoulders trembling as if hiding her guilt in her gaze, kept away from him. Her breasts, barely raised by the soft fabric of her dress, rose and fell gently with each breath. Her blonde hair, neatly braided, lay over her shoulder. So fragile, so gentle, so defenseless. How? How could she have done this?

— Em... — Christoph began, clearing his throat with a small cough. — Ida, you... you knew this was... this was against every rule. Against our families’ wishes. You understood where this would lead, didn’t you?

His voice trembled as he spoke, trying to maintain the tone of a hurt yet restrained nobleman. His fingers, still touching the doorframe, had gone white from tension. Everything inside him was clenched; his heart pounded like a rabbit before a leap, his palms were sweating, and his throat felt dry as he glanced at his fist—tightened in thought—and struck the wall, though it could hardly be called a punch.

Ida flinched. Her shoulders, already quivering like from the dampness of early morning air, tensed even more for a moment. Then, almost inaudibly, came a faint sob—a soft, delicate sound, almost like the chirp of a small bird. She slowly turned to face him, eyes on the floor, and whispered so quietly it was nearly a breath:

— I’m sorry... — Ida murmured, her voice as soft as that fabric, and then sobbed again, a little louder this time. — I... I didn’t mean to...

Her shoulders and whole body tensed, as if bracing for a slap, a verbal blow, another round of humiliation. The air in the room turned still—like that moment before thunder, when not a leaf stirs, and everything seems to freeze in anxious silence. But Christoph didn’t take a single step. He stood there, clutching the doorframe, unable to speak, unable to move. His breath became shallow, and he felt the trembling in his chest rising to his throat, crushing his thoughts, tearing apart what resolve he had left.

— I... c-can’t believe you lied... — he began, but at that moment, they both felt it again.

A strange sensation stirred in the pit of their stomachs—like an invisible string pulling from their solar plexus, about to snap. A weird vibration, faint as static in their fingertips, like something inside him had triggered a countdown.

— Oh fuck off... you fucking nerd! HOW MANY TIMES ALREADY?! — suddenly, with that same soft little voice but now charged with sharp irritation, Ida yelled, lifting her head and glaring at Christoph with eyes full not of guilt or shame—but fury, raw and electric. — You motherfucker, you screwed it up AGAIN! Shit, I’m so fucking sick of standing here in this goddamn costume with these fucking tits trying to cry every fucking time!

Christoph recoiled, like she’d struck him, and Ida, at that moment, snorted through her nose, inhaling the gathered moisture and wiping away tears from her eyes with her delicate, slender hand, her face scrunching in irritation, cursing the way her boobs always trembled in these moments.

— S-s-sorry, Jack, I... I fucked it all up again, didn’t I?

The voice of "Christoph" faltered on the last word, and he tore his hand away from the doorframe as if it had burned him.

– Oh really? No shit, Captain Obvious! – her voice rang out sharp again, now with a clear American accent and the snappy tone of a pissed-off high school bully. – Fucking fantastic. What is it now, the thirtieth? Fortieth time? We’re back in this fucking nightmare, and all because of you, you goddamn nerd!

"Christoph"—or rather, Nathan Brooks, the straight-A chess champ and resident geek from Fairfield, D.C.—blinked like he was confused, then once again looked down at his… no, not his… at the broad masculine hand in a doublet, then shifted his gaze to "Ida," who had now walked over to the wall and suddenly, to his surprise, punched it with her little fist. She let out a sharp yelp like a startled girl and clapped her hand over her mouth.

– Shit, fuck— – "Ida" sucked in air through her teeth, whipping around and clutching her hurt hand. – What the hell, that fucking hurt! Shit, I forgot that her... my... whatever, her wrists are thinner than my chopsticks back home in fucking Fairfield!

Her voice, still vibrating with that soft, slightly raspy feminine tone, was clearly pissing her off even more.

– Then why did you... I mean... – "Christoph" started, but she shot him a look. The kind of look that triggered a full-blown flashback to every moment of school humiliation, insults, and worse. Even though now he technically had the upper hand over "Ida," everything inside him just clenched.

– What do you mean, “why did you then”?! – she snapped, wincing again.

– Hit the wall...

– Because I wanted to show you, you fucking geek, how it’s supposed to be done! – "Ida" barked, yanking back her reddened palm and frantically rubbing her fingers like she could erase the whole awkward, painful punch. – You didn’t just hit the wall, you fucking caressed it! It’s supposed to be boom, got it?! Like, spine-chilling, eyes-wide fear, clenched teeth. Then you walk up to me, grab my shoulders and...

She stopped. Jerked back from the wall like she’d been shocked, hissed through her teeth, and clenched her hand into a fist, pressing it against her stomach.

– Fuck-fuck-fuck, here it comes...

They both knew that in a minute, everything in front of them would vanish again, and they’d end up right back at the beginning of this "play" they had to perform just to get a little further. To unlock the second 15-minute piece of the four-part script. To act out this goddamn hour-long, wretched historical melodrama. To get back into their real bodies, in their real time...

And now that feeling—barely noticeable at first when Nathan screwed up—was flooding through their bodies from gut to fingertips. And then, in a flash—

Christoph was back at Ida’s door, fist clenched around that same letter, rage boiling inside him. But this time… this time he didn’t hold it back. His chest burned like there was fire between his ribs. He didn’t try to steady his breath, didn’t remind himself he was really just a nerd, and that the girl beyond the door wasn’t his biggest high school tormentor, but a scared girl who’d betrayed him. Then again... why the hell should he forget? Maybe this was the perfect shot to take revenge for all of it. And he stepped inside.

Ida—or rather, Jack in her body—stood by the window, fingers locked across her stomach. Same pose, same blouse, same light hitting the braid. That same illusion of fragility, innocence, almost holiness. And honestly, she wasn’t even pretending that hard, because every single time she ended up here again, just like Christoph, she got hit by the same wave of emotions—shame, guilt, and even fear of Christoph.

Both of them had this strange feeling now, a certainty that this time, it would go right. They’d get through the first act. These first 15 minutes. They’d earn the second piece. Then the third. Maybe the fourth. And then, finally, they’d get the hell out of here...

Though neither of them yet knew that if everything went according to the script… what awaited them in the end wasn’t just some tearful confession, but a hot, searing kiss.