The lingering scent of fresh polish and expensive wood filled the opulent chamber, a stark contrast to the chaotic memory of screeching tires and a final, horrifying lurch. Calista Tersor, all of twelve years old, lay sprawled across a bed so plush it felt like a cloud, her hand extended, palm up.

"This is it," she whispered, a sigh escaping her lips. "I'm really Calista. And there's no hope for me." Tears, hot and unwelcome, began to trace paths down her cheeks. "Why me? Out of all the characters, why the villainess destined for execution?"

A tentative knock echoed from the door, a nervous, feminine voice asking, "M-my Lady, c-can I enter?" Calista's maid. Right. The one the original Calista terrorized.

"Come in," Calista called, her voice surprisingly steady. The maid, trembling slightly, pushed the door open. Calista forced a smile. "You can relax, you know. I won't do anything." The maid's eyes widened, shocked by the unexpected kindness.

Then, impulsively, Calista slid off the bed and bowed deeply. "And I'm so, so sorry for everything I've done!" she blurted out, her voice thick with genuine regret for the original Calista's sins. The maid panicked, stammering, "M-my Lady!?"

Calista straightened, a sheepish grin on her face. "Geez, we're just two people, aren't we? Different statuses, different problems. But we're both trying to get by." She scratched the back of her head, hoping this new, kinder approach would be her ticket to survival.