Polly didn't move for a long time.
Eric suddenly reached out and grabbed a handful of her hair.
It wasn't exactly violent—compared to how he'd dragged the trainer and Richard earlier, his touch now was almost gentle, like he was handling a fragile porcelain doll.
But that didn't mean much. Who was to say he wouldn't suddenly rip the doll's head off, like a beast toying with prey?
No one could guess what went on in his mind.
Polly's body tensed as he tilted her head, forcing her to look at Richard.
Why?
Was this a warning? Was he telling her that if she ever crossed him, this would be her fate too?
But… she still didn't know what Richard had done wrong.
Then, like lightning cutting through a fog, she understood.
In the original story, even though Eric loved the heroine, he had never planned to show himself. He loathed his face so deeply that he kept no mirrors, no reflective surfaces—not even polished blades. Everything with him was dulled and blurred, so he wouldn't have to see himself.
The only reason he eventually stepped out of the shadows… was because the heroine had succeeded and become engaged to a young, handsome viscount.
In Polly's case, she'd gone out of her way to earn his trust, only to turn around and cozy up to another handsome magician. To Eric, it must have felt like a slap in the face.
Even if nothing romantic had happened between her and Richard, to someone like Eric, it would have felt like a betrayal.
The realization didn't bring her relief. A cold sweat broke across her back, her heart pounding so hard it echoed in her ears.
If she was right, how could she fix this?
Would Eric still work with her? Still take her away?
Her pulse thudded so violently she could barely swallow.
After a long, torturous silence, Polly made a choice—she would trust her instincts.
She slowly stood.
She didn't dare move too fast, afraid that, like a wild animal, he'd strike if startled.
Eric watched her. His gaze—hidden behind the mask—was unreadable.
But he didn't stop her.
Now or never.
Polly took a breath and threw her arms around him.
He smelled harsh, like a caged animal: hay, sweat, and the thick, unmistakable stench of blood.
There had been blood on him last time, too—but not this much.
She didn't want to think about whose it was.
Closing her eyes, she kept her voice calm. "The original plan was to wait until Richard Simon stole the bag, then follow him and take it back. But since you got it first… it's fine. It just means we have to leave tonight."
No response.
"The manager will realize it's missing soon," she pressed on, her voice steadier. "The first suspects will be the guards. But they saw Richard enter the tent. After interrogating them, the manager will search his place first."
She looked down at Richard's unconscious body on the floor.
"But now he's in my tent. The manager will either think he escaped with the bag or that he's still hiding somewhere nearby."
"If he took the bag and ran, he would've needed a horse—it's too heavy to carry. So they'll count the horses. When they realize none are missing, they'll launch a full search."
Polly had calmed completely now. Panic wouldn't help her.
"So before they start searching, we leave. Now."
She didn't dare ask Eric to carry the bag and braced herself to do it alone.
But the body she now inhabited was too weak. She had barely lifted it before she staggered, nearly toppling over.
Eric caught her and took the bag from her shoulders.
Polly exhaled sharply.
Even if he was the one who caused this mess, the fact that he was willing to carry the bag—and leave with her—was enough.
She showed him how to adjust the straps, then slipped outside, crouching low. Eric followed closely.
It felt like the weight of the world was pressing on her back. At any moment, the manager might notice the missing bag and sound the alarm.
She didn't have time—or the strength—to move Richard.
Once the search began, they'd figure out it was her and Eric who had taken it.
And Eric… was unpredictable.
Even if he trusted her now, even if he agreed to escape—he could turn on her at any moment.
It felt like walking blind through a swamp in the dark—every step heavy and uncertain.
To keep from falling apart, Polly forced herself to focus on something practical. Tangible.
The bag contained two three-pound cans of butter-based hot pot stew. Three-year shelf life. Just heat and eat.
She'd been surviving on dry bread and potatoes for days. At parties, she might get a scrap of meat—but even that was liver: fishy, rubbery, and barely edible.
Once she reached safety, she'd reward herself with a proper hot pot. Salty. Spicy. Rich.
The thought gave her strength. Her mouth even watered.
But October nights were brutally cold, and a heavy fog had rolled in.
A blessing and a curse.
The mist would scatter lantern light and make it harder for the circus to track them. But if she lost sight of Eric, she'd be lost too.
The air was damp, clinging to her clothes until they felt soaked.
The camp, she remembered, sat near a swamp.
And there were alligators in the swamp.
And she'd nearly forgotten—some guards had guns.
If she wasn't clinging to the last threads of sanity, she might have thrown herself into a tree out of sheer despair.
At this point, she didn't care if Eric snapped her neck. She clung to his arm like her life depended on it, walking nearly chest-to-back behind him.
Eric glanced at her. His gaze, as ever, was unreadable.
Eventually, they reached a fork in the path. One led to the stables. The other—to freedom.
Polly tiptoed and whispered near his ear, "Are we taking a horse? I don't know how to ride. Will that be a problem…"
The escape had come too fast. She hadn't prepared anything.
If she'd known they'd be taking horses, she might've snuck into the kitchen to steal sugar cubes or carrots. Video games had taught her that's how you calmed a horse.
But suddenly, Eric yanked her hair again, jerking her head away.
Polly jumped, pain needling her scalp. For a moment, she thought they'd been discovered.
But the night remained still.
Only then did she realize—he'd pulled her hair because she'd leaned too close. Her breath had brushed his cheek.
She couldn't help but think he was like a dog that could bite without warning—and more sensitive than a cat.
Clenching her jaw, she covered her mouth and muttered, "So are we riding or not?"
Eric didn't reply, but turned and headed toward the stables.
Polly followed.
She wasn't lucky.
They'd barely taken a few steps when a sharp whistle split the silence, followed by hurried footsteps and frantic shouting.
"Wake up! All of you! Richard's run off—the manager wants everyone now!"
The whistle struck Polly like a slap. She flinched.
The camp stirred instantly, though no one made a fuss. Everyone understood—something serious had happened.
Polly didn't look back. She just walked faster.
Then—thunk—a heavy hand pressed down on her head.
Her heart nearly stopped.
But after a second, she realized—it was Eric's hand. Someone nearby was patrolling the stable exit with a lantern.
"So damn cold tonight," one guard muttered. "Why'd Richard run? Wasn't he going to Paris with the manager?"
"Said he didn't want the payment—just what was in the bag," another answered. "Maybe he opened it and saw it wasn't worth much."
"Who told him it was from Louis Vuitton?"
"Who knows? But the only person he talked to tonight was that kid, Polly. Maybe we should grab him and ask…"
Polly felt her blood run cold.
She'd been wrong.
Eric hadn't attacked Richard because he was jealous.
He had done it because Richard had ignored the plan entirely.
She'd thought too simply—believing the promise of a Louis Vuitton prize would be enough to tempt Richard into stealing the bag.
But Richard had been far more calculating. His first instinct had been to use the information as leverage—to strike a deal with the manager.
The manager must have refused to let him touch the bag at first—maybe to prevent him from seeing what was inside. If it were valuable, it could spark conflict.
But later, he must have agreed to let Richard try opening it.
As a magician, Richard would've discovered the hidden clasps eventually.
If Eric hadn't intervened, Polly wouldn't just have lost the bag—her identity would've been exposed.
Her ID was still inside.
She still didn't know what this new body looked like, but judging from transmigration clichés, it probably resembled her original self.
Once the manager found her documents, would he interrogate her about where she came from? What were the items?
Or worse—would he treat her like that four-legged girl, Emily?
And preserve her in a jar?
Eric had saved her life.
And she'd thought he'd done it out of jealousy.
Polly turned to look at him, guilt tightening in her chest. She wanted to apologize—but the words wouldn't come.
Eric had already noticed the remorse in her eyes.