"I... I'm fine. J-just a little short of breath," she managed, the sound of his voice catching her off guard. She pressed her hand to her chest, trying to steady her breathing.
This doesn't make sense, Desmond thought, studying her closely. First she seemed completely into it, and now she's all flustered, like she's someone else entirely.
His brows knitted as he considered the possibility. Could it be...?
An idea formed in his mind, and he leaned in, hiding the growing amusement on his face. "Who are you?"
Lizzie, still trying to get herself under control, was taken aback by the question.
Her eyes remained closed as she formulated a response, scrambling for an explanation that made sense. But the words wouldn't come. The question echoed in her mind, unsettling her further.
Desmond's voice hardened. "You're not Jasmine. So, who are you?"
Lizzie's eyes flew open, the calm she'd been trying to build up shattering in an instant. The accusation in his tone caught her off guard, and she hesitated, her gaze flickering, grasping for something to say.
"Wh...what do you mean? Of course, I'm Jasm—no, I'm..." The confidence she'd built slipped through her fingers as she grappled with the jumbled knowledge of her identity in Crown of Glory and the words of the boy.
Watching her falter, Desmond felt his suspicions solidify.
It's her, he concluded, satisfied that he'd uncovered her identity. She's found it out. It really is Lizzie.
His expression softened, and a small, knowing smile curved at the corner of his lips as he let the mask slip.
"Hello, Lizzie," he said, watching her reaction carefully.
Her gaze snapped to his as she processed the words, her expression shifting from confusion to shock—and then to a flash of anger as recognition set in.
She balled her fists, color rising to her cheeks. "You... you jerk! You scared me half to death!" She smacked his arm, her frustration bubbling over.
Desmond raised his hands, grinning. "Hold on—you're mad because I scared you? Not because we, you know… kissed?"
Lizzie's cheeks flushed a deeper red, and she quickly looked away. "Don't talk about that. Nothing happened."
"Oh, really?" Desmond leaned in, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Then why are your cheeks red? Tell me, was that your first time?"
Lizzie's embarrassment flared. "I said don't talk about it!" She swung her hand toward him, aiming to land a good slap, but Desmond laughed and quickly pulled back, just out of reach.
"Missed me," he teased, his laughter filling the air as he stepped away from the bench.
"You're going to have to do better than that if—" He stopped mid-sentence, noticing that Lizzie's attention had suddenly locked onto the bench with an intense focus.
"Are you okay?" he asked, concerned by her abrupt silence.
Lizzie's eyes widened, and she looked up at him, a mixture of wonder and disbelief on her face. "I… I think I just got superpowers."
Even as the words left her mouth, they sounded unbelievable, as if she were caught in some impossible dream.
Desmond blinked, his gaze settling on a carved palm print on the bench where they sat. Tracing the smooth edges, he muttered, "We're really in Crown of Glory."
The intricate lines of the carving looked like they had been etched by a master sculptor. Reality was setting in, one small detail at a time.
"So, what's your gift?" he asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.
As soon as he asked, the answer seemed to spring to mind, just like the knowledge of her new name.
"Space Severing," Lizzie replied, almost instinctively. "It's just like Derek's and Sandra's gifts."
Desmond's eyes widened.
"You're lucky. That's one of the rarest gifts in the novel." He knew exactly who she was talking about, and a spark of envy flashed across his face.
"Even I can't believe it," Lizzie admitted, looking slightly dazed. Then, a mischievous smile spread across her face.
"So… what about you? What's your gift?" Her eyes gleamed with excitement, her mind racing with possibilities. I wonder whose gift will be stronger, she thought, eager to find out.
Desmond's expression changed, his initial excitement replaced by something closer to disappointment.
Shuffling through the memories that seemed embedded within him, he found an answer to her question—and his face fell.
With a bitter chuckle, he muttered, "Fate really knows how to screw with me. Both in the real world and in here."
Noticing the bitterness in Desmond's voice, Lizzie sensed something was off. "How about you tell me about your gift later?" she suggested gently. "Right now, maybe we should focus on remembering how our novel identities got here—and anything else we might need to know."
"Telling you later won't make a difference," Desmond sighed, his voice heavy with resignation as he sank onto the bench. "I didn't get a gift. I'm not one of the 'gifted' in this world. So much for being able to help stop the disaster heading our way."
He looked over at Lizzie, a faint hope flickering in his eyes. "I just really hope Laurence and Lucas aren't as unlucky as I am."
Meanwhile, Laurence's senses were slowly returning as he found himself lying in a dorm room bunk. The slightly rough mattress and the faint smell of freshly laundered sheets made everything feel unnervingly real.
Where am I? he thought, his mind fuzzy as he took in his surroundings.
Laurence, can you hear me? Laurence? a voice echoed in his mind, faint but insistent. It felt like it was coming from somewhere nearby, yet it had no clear direction.
He looked around, hoping to spot the source of the voice, but the room was empty.
Looking down from the top bunk, Laurence's gaze fell on a boy he didn't recognize—yet he felt an inexplicable familiarity, as if he'd known this face his entire life. It was an uncanny feeling, one that sent a chill down his spine.
Then, as he stared, he heard a voice, unmistakably clear, yet without any movement of the boy's lips.
Laurence, it's me. It's Lucas.
Laurence's eyes widened. How is this possible? The voice had come from nowhere, but it was undeniably Lucas.
Then, as if the voice in his mind had been waiting for a reaction, another memory surfaced in his thoughts.
You hid your boxers after wetting the bed and then poured a glass of water over them to make it look like the glass spilled, Lucas's voice echoed in his head, playful yet oddly soothing.