Who's Wearing My Best Friend's Face?

Having hung there for days, the corpse was reeking of decay.

Her leg bones were thoroughly shattered, the splintered fragments held together only by dried, clotted flesh.

Who would dare do something so brutal right under the emperor's nose?

After returning to a modern society grounded in law and order, I'd almost forgotten the mindless violence of this world.

A wave of helplessness washed over me, and I softly called for the system.

I woke it up and asked for a status update on my best friend, Eleanor Clark, to confirm that she was doing well.

Before it could even ask why I was skipping the pleasantries, it let out a sharp screech. [I-Isabel… this corpse looks kind of familiar.]

My heart instantly leaped into my throat.

Fortunately, the system immediately changed course. [I'm probably just overthinking it. It's a good thing you saw her in person today.]

I refused to entertain the worst-case scenario.

After taking a deep breath, I turned back, determined to give the woman a proper burial.

I ordered the system to cut the rope, but my heart pounded like a drum.

Back in the modern world, I handled corpses all the time while solving criminal cases. Ancient or modern, a body was still just a body. There was nothing to be afraid of.

I crouched down and reached out to lift the corpse into the carriage.

But the moment I cupped her neck, my eyes fell on her left arm, and I froze solid.

A 45-degree angle—a telltale mark of a fractured bone that had healed.

It had been knitted back together so cleanly that it was almost seamless. Except the person who set it had botched the job, leaving a subtle misalignment.

No one would have noticed the flaw without looking for it.

But I would. Because I was the one who pieced that arm back together when I barely had any experience.

Years ago, when Declan Shaw was still a teenager, Eleanor and I infiltrated a bandit stronghold to rescue the regent.

We had just dragged his unconscious body out when the bandits ambushed us.

A blade came swinging toward my back.

Eleanor had swallowed her terror, raised her sword, and saved my life.

The bandit's blade sliced into her arm instead, tearing through flesh to expose shattered white bone.

Imperial guards arrived just in time, but on our three-day journey back, we couldn't find a single physician.

Watching Eleanor slip away, I held her, crying hysterically.

Only when her fever spiked out of control did I grit my teeth and shove the broken bones back into place myself.

When she woke up, she comforted me with a smile, saying, "Keep crying like that, and my arm will heal itself."

I didn't dare consider the worst possibility. I stood there, frozen, unable to snap out of it.

My mind raced back to this morning, when I had disguised myself as a palace maid and waited outside Serenity Palace.

Declan was now the emperor, and Eleanor had achieved her dream of becoming the empress.

They even had a child together—a picture of pure, family bliss.

The other maids had murmured that Declan demoted every minister who dared suggest taking concubines. He doted solely on Eleanor.

If this corpse was Eleanor, then who on earth did I see that day?