Prologue

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      "Darlings, dears, and all, welcome to the show!" The announcer's words vibrated through Anna's ears, her hands coming up to hold her face, groaning.

      "Again?" she mumbled. Five hundred times, she had done this five hundred times already. She didn't need anymore training, dammit, she could perform just fine! Regardless, her hands held the microphone, her hair smoothed itself out as she kicked the hairbrush that had fallen out of her hands to the side. Humming a soft melody, a quiet, loving tone, she breezed through the song.

      At some point the song had finished and the music had stopped again, and she waited for the announcement to be called again. And waited. And waited.

But they never called.

      She saw it, Anna Marie George saw it. The life of a free woman, it was there. Behind those doors, behind those doors. A new world. A time where she didn't have to be a slave to the kitchen. Where war and violence was, at least, under wraps, under control.

      Anna, weighing her options—stay in this eternal loop of utter hell, or leave, and live—kicked off her heels and made a dash for it. The doors weren't even far, they're so, so close, but all she could get to was the second table on the right.

...

      Her life had been so miserable. So short, so long.

And this was a chance to start over, to live again.

Then why couldn't she move?

      Her legs felt like they were sinking into the ground, the stockings that covered her lower half tearing at her heels. It hurt to stand, to take steps forwards, to move. Her knees buckled, and a hand slammed down on the table to support her weight.

      Anna Marie George, in her red dress and white gloves, feathery scarf tangled around her, could not move.

Anna Marie George died in a bar in the 1940s. So how in the nine fucking stars was she still standing, alive and well?

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⏰ Last updated: 12 hours ago ⏰

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