There are three absolute, undeniable facts in this chaotic universe:
1. Dhaka's traffic will ruin your mood faster than a sudden downpour.
2. University canteen tea is ninety percent hot dishwater and ten percent goat milk.
3. I, Onamika, utterly and completely hated men.
It wasn't a mild dislike. It wasn't a "Oh, I prefer girls' night out" kind of passive preference. My hatred for the male species was a finely tuned, artistic endeavor. If a guy breathed too loudly within my five-meter radius, I took it as a direct personal insult to my ancestors.
Which brings us to a particularly humid Tuesday afternoon outside the college library.
A fellow student named Rakib—armed with a fresh hair-comb job, a questionable amount of cheap cologne, and the unearned confidence of someone who had watched far too many bad romantic movies—decided today was his big day. He intercepted me right near the old neem tree, dropped heavily to one knee, and thrust a single, slightly wilted red rose toward my face.
"Onamika," Rakib squeaked, his voice cracking like a poorly tuned harmonium. "My heart beats only for you! Will you make me the happiest man alive?"
I paused. I looked down at the rose. I looked at Rakib. I mentally calculated the sheer audacity required for a man to interrupt my solemn march toward a peaceful afternoon nap.
*Crack!*
The slap was so crisp it echoed clean off the brick walls of the arts building. Crows lifted off from the neem tree in sheer panic. A nearby tea-stall owner suspended his tea-pouring mid-air in total awe.
"No," I said, my voice cold enough to freeze summer sweat.
As Rakib clutched his burning cheek, watching his romantic dreams turn into fine dust, I turned on my heel with deep, righteous satisfaction. But my brain was so busy replaying the majestic impact of that slap that I completely failed to notice the runaway rickshaw overloaded with heavy, leather-bound encyclopedias.
There was a loud crash, a blur of flying pages, and then... pitch black darkness.
### The Great Wardrobe Malfunction
When I finally opened my eyes, I wasn't lying on the dusty asphalt outside the university library. I wasn't in a hospital room smelling of antiseptic either.
I was lounging on an absurdly plush, velvet chaise lounge inside a room that looked like it had been decorated by an eighteenth-century French aristocrat who had lost a high-stakes gambling bet. Crystal chandeliers hung above, gilded mirrors lined the walls, and the overpowering scent of artificial lavender invaded my nostrils.
"Ugh, my head..." I muttered, reaching up to rub my forehead.
Wait. Why on earth did my voice sound like a dainty silver bell?
I sat up abruptly, my eyes darting to a massive golden mirror across the room. Standing in the reflection—staring right back at me—was a breathtakingly gorgeous young woman with porcelain skin, wide glossy eyes, and a silk gown that probably cost more than my entire university tuition.
"Okay, severe concussion. Vivid hallucinations," I rationalized aloud. "Standard trauma response."
Suddenly, a flood of memories—definitely not my own—slammed into my brain like a hot cup of overturned *cha*.
I was no longer on Earth. I had somehow transmigrated into the world of a trashy web novel I had lazily skimmed weeks ago. But I wasn't the heroic male lead, nor was I the tragic villainess.
I was **Lord Anik**, the young heir of a disgraced noble house. And why was Lord Anik wearing a heavy silk dress? Because in a desperate, utterly ridiculous bid to hide him from political rivals, his eccentric family had raised him disguised as a girl named "Anika" until he reached adulthood!
I froze in pure horror.
*Wait a minute,* I thought, my mind spinning into overdrive. *I am a girl... who died... and got reincarnated into the body of a BOY... who is currently CROSSDRESSING as a girl?!*
I looked down at my elaborate dress. I patted my chest. Completely flat. I inspected my hands—delicate and manicured, yes, but undeniably a young man's hands under close examination.
"I hated men so much that the universe turned me into one?!" I shrieked into the empty room. "Is this some kind of sick, cosmic irony?!"
### A Knock at the Door
Before I could fully process the sheer absurdity of my existential crisis, a heavy knock rattled the wooden door.
"Lady Anika!" a deep, booming voice called out from the corridor. "Duke Richard has arrived for your scheduled afternoon tea! Please step out!"
My jaw dropped. Duke Richard was the novel's main male lead—a towering, overly dramatic war hero who was supposed to fall hopelessly in love with "Anika," completely oblivious to the fact that she was actually a heavily closeted nobleman.
I glared at my reflection in the mirror one last time. Smooth skin, flowing silk, perfect hair.
"I swear," I whispered to myself, adjusting the tight corset around my waist with a deep, furious sigh, "if this Duke guy tries to hand me a rose today... I'm slapping him too."