How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly)
Chapter 65: How to Rescue Someone Who’d Never Admit Needed Saving (5)

Chapter 65: How to Rescue Someone Who’d Never Admit Needed Saving (5)

The House of Bells looked, from the outside, like the kind of place built to intimidate and comfort at the same time — an architectural feat only achieved by places that mix healing with death.

Tall, symmetrical, made entirely of polished stone and oxidized copper details, with pointed arch windows and unmoving bells hanging like sleeping sentinels. If I were a respectable citizen, I’d walk in through the front door, announce my arrival with a dramatic sigh, and maybe even a rose between my teeth.

Unfortunately, the respectable citizen in me had been handcuffed, insulted, and thrown into a damp cell a few hours ago.

So... window.

From where I stood, I could see three windows on the building’s west side. One on the ground floor, decorated with vines and surrounded by clay pots that looked more like ceramic traps. Another on the second floor, partially open. And a third, higher up, shut tight, with heavy curtains hiding any clue of what might be inside.

The easiest one, of course, was the ground floor.

But "easy" and "me" haven’t really gotten along since I reincarnated into this half-orc body.

I crept around the building slowly, sticking to the walls. The street was almost empty. A few people walked by in a hurry, heads down, more interested in not being seen than in seeing. The kind of collective anonymity that works better than any invisibility spell — as long as you know how to move.

I didn’t.

I stepped on the first pot.

Crack.

A sharp sound. Ceramic breaking. Some kind of medicinal herb flew into the air, spinning slowly like it was disappointed in me.

"Shit," I whispered, crouching to avoid the main window.

I kept moving along the side, trying to walk on the edge of the garden, which wasn’t exactly a path. More like a floral minefield, full of unbalanced pots, loose stones, and insects with very strong opinions about territory.

I tripped over the root of a plant that clearly did not approve of my plan. It was in the wrong place, at the wrong angle, and somehow on top of another root.

Thunk.

Another pot fell. This one didn’t break, but rolled until it hit a side door with a bang loud enough to wake the dead.

I froze. Held my breath.

Nothing.

No shouting. No lights turned on. No bells ringing.

Either everyone was busy, or that specific corner of the House of Bells was ignored even by the bells themselves.

I crawled to the ground floor window. It was shut, but the glass was old, weather-worn, and the sealing had gaps. One of the latches looked loose. I touched it gently. It groaned. Softly. Like a grumpy grandma being woken up.

I pushed a bit more.

The latch gave with a timid click, like it was saying, "Fine, get in before I change my mind."

I lifted the window slowly. The smell of dried herbs and medicinal dust hit me first. Then, the dim interior. Some kind of storage room. Shelves with vials. Cloth-covered racks. A large cabinet in the corner. No sounds. No footsteps.

Perfect.

I leaned on the windowsill and got ready to jump in with the silent grace of a feline.

Instead, I slipped.

Slammed my knee against the stone.

Let out a curse that, miraculously, got lost among the distant sounds of the city.

I fell sideways, but managed to twist mid-air before crashing to the floor. Landed with a moderate thud, which shoved a glass vial to the edge of the nearest shelf.

The vial fell.

Didn’t break. But it judged me. I stood up slowly. Adjusted my shirt. And looked around. I was in. Infiltrated. Uninvited and entirely improvised.

But in.

"There. Now I just need to find you, Thalia, and get out without collapsing the entire building," I muttered, brushing the dust off my hands.

The problem?

This place was a lot bigger on the inside than it looked from the outside.

The first thing I noticed, after getting up and checking if all my bones were still in place, was the silence.

Not total silence — that doesn’t exist anywhere humans work. But that specific kind of silence found in serious institutions, where life and death walk the same hallway and learn not to bump into each other. The sound of muffled footsteps, hushed voices, drawers that slide carefully, and the occasional clink of medical metal on wooden trays.

The House of Bells felt more like a surgical convent than a hospital. Everything about it screamed: "Keep your voice down or die politely."

I stepped out of the storage room with feathered footsteps and a hammering heart. The hallway before me was narrow, lined with aged white tiles. The enchanted lights hung at regular intervals, casting a warm yellow glow that flickered as if unsure it belonged there.

I turned right and heard voices. Two of them. One female, with the polished accent of someone who studied in libraries more than they lived. The other was deep, dragging, thick with sleep. Doctors. Talking about patients. No mention of Thalia, but it confirmed she could still be somewhere around.

I approached a slightly open door. Peeked inside: two figures in white coats, backs turned, reviewing notes on a floating clipboard. I silenced my breath. Crouched. Slipped past the doorway into another corridor — darker, where the floor creaked instead of echoing. A less-used wing.

Here, the decor shifted. Less tile, more wood. Smaller rooms, more intimate. I saw a frosted glass window with labels: Isolation Room A, B, C... No names. But something told me that if they were hiding someone with too many questions, it’d be here.

Room A: empty. The bed too neatly made. Nothing had lived there in at least two days.

Room B: an old woman slept with a damp cloth over her eyes and stabilization runes etched on her wrist. Too gentle to be our Thalia.

Room C... locked.

But Room D was ajar.

I glanced both ways down the corridor — empty. With one finger, I nudged the door open. A soft creak made me freeze for two full seconds. No reaction. So I stepped in.

And there she was.

Lying down. Breathing slow. A makeshift bandage on her forehead. Left arm wrapped in gauze. Her dress swapped out for lighter clothes — typical patient wear. But it was her. Even unconscious, even out cold, she still had that air about her. Like she might wake up any second just to say something cutting, purely to spite the world.

My chest caved in for a moment. A mix of relief and rage. Relief she was alive. Rage she’d almost stopped being. And maybe even more rage at myself, for dragging her into this in the first place.

I approached slowly. Sat on the wooden stool beside the bed, which creaked softly under me. I scanned every detail: the strands of hair stuck to her forehead with sweat; the scrapes on her cheek; the tension in her clenched hand, as if even knocked out she was still ready to throw a punch.

"Hey," I whispered. "Told you we’d make it out alive. I just forgot to mention... barely."

She didn’t respond, of course.

I fought the urge to touch her. Any movement could trigger monitoring spells. I chose to watch instead. Listen. Check if her breath was steady, if her chest rose evenly. It did. She was okay. For now, at least.

That’s when I heard it.

The sound of a doorknob turning.

Not the one to her room — the one at the entrance to the wing.

I shot up like an arrow. There wasn’t much to hide behind. But the corner between a shelf of vials and the wall gave me a sliver of shadow. I dove in without thinking, crouching, folding myself as small as I could.

The room’s door remained ajar.

I could see the hallway light dim slightly — blocked by someone’s silhouette.

And then someone stepped into the wing.