One week. Seven days filled with forced smiles, heavy clothing, and the suffocating smell of old powder and politics inside the Royal Palace of Madrid. For Elena, who had once been a surgeon in the chaotic yet modern Manila, every moment inside the body of Don Julian Alfonso de Alcazar felt like a sentence of lifelong boredom and danger.
"I can't take this anymore," she whispered to herself while staring at the large mirror. She touched her face—the sharp nose, the strong jaw, and the skin that barely ever saw the sun. She had only been here for a week, but it already felt as if her brain would explode from the sheer number of protocols and etiquette.
Just last night, she had almost been exposed when she tried to examine an injured palace guard using her hands.
"¿Qué estás haciendo, Julian? Un noble no se ensucia las manos con la sangre de un plebeyo," a duke scolded him.
(What are you doing, Julian? A nobleman does not dirty his hands with the blood of a commoner.)
That was when Elena realized that in this world, being a doctor was considered a lowly profession for a cousin of the King. Her medical knowledge was seen as a strange hobby—or worse, madness.
She didn't hesitate any longer. Under the cover of night, she grabbed a large suitcase and began packing the essentials: several pieces of gold, documents proving his identity (which she could use in case of emergency), and her most treasured set of surgical tools that she had secretly commissioned from a silversmith.
"I'm leaving this place," she said firmly. "If I have to live in the nineteenth century, I'll do it in a land where I know the twists and turns. In the Philippines."
Armed with a forged letter bearing the seal of the Alcazar family, she went to the port of Cádiz. Using her authority as Don Julian, she secured a place on the fastest ship bound for the East.
As she was boarding the ship, a port official stopped her.
"Don Julian, ¿su majestad sabe de su partida?" The official asked while bowing.
(Don Julian, does His Majesty know of your departure?)
Elena looked straight at him, imitating the arrogant gaze of the Spaniards around her.
"Es un asunto privado de la corona. Déjame pasar o enfrentarás las consecuencias," she replied coldly.
(This is a private matter of the Crown. Let me pass, or face the consequences.)
The official nervously stepped aside. Elena entered her cabin and only then was she finally able to breathe freely.
As she felt the ship swaying and Spain's shoreline slowly fading away, Elena removed her tight vest. She looked out the window at the vast sea that would carry her to the Philippines. The Philippines she knew was under colonial rule, but where she would be closer to her true self than in that luxurious palace.
But she knew it wouldn't take long before the King noticed her disappearance. A cousin of the King does not simply vanish into thin air.
---
After many long months at sea, Elena finally saw the familiar shores of Manila Bay.
This was not the Manila of skyscrapers and smoky LRT trains, this was Manila in 1885—clean air, filled with casco boats and river vessels, and the massive walls of Intramuros waiting as if anticipating her arrival.
When the ship's gangplank touched the dock, Elena took a deep breath. She adjusted her levita (frock coat) and her top hat. With every step she took down the plank, her face remained serious, cold, and filled with aristocratic pride.
"¡Bienvenidos a las Islas Filipinas, Excelentísimo!" Greeted a high-ranking customs official who nearly kissed the ground with his deep bow.
(Welcome to the Philippine Islands, Your Excellency!)
Elena merely gave a small nod, her manner that of a bored royal cousin.
"Thank you," she replied briefly in Spanish, her voice baritone and full of authority.
But behind that mask?
Inside Elena's mind, her soul was throwing a party.
Wooooh! Finally! I'm free from Madrid! she shouted in her thoughts. She wanted to do splits in the middle of the pier, hug every coconut tree, and shout "I'm back, bitches!" in front of the civil guards.
Here in the Philippines, she was the "big fish." As the King's cousin, her word was law. She ranked above the Governor-General and was far more powerful than any archbishop or parish priest who ruled the provinces like little kings.
While riding a luxurious carriage toward her temporary residence inside the Walled City of Intramuros, Elena noticed several friars standing outside a church, fat and arrogant as they watched the passing Indios.
A bitter, mischievous smile appeared on the lips of "Don Julian."
Get ready, Padres, she whispered to herself while gripping her surgical kit hidden under the seat. You think you're the kings here? Well, there's a new "Don" in town. And I don't just know how to hold a scalpel to save lives, I also know how to dissect corrupt systems.
She remembered the things she had read in history about the abuses of the friars. Now that she possessed the power of the Crown and the mind of a 21st-century doctor, she wouldn't just sit and watch.
I'm going to make your lives miserable, she said while looking out the carriage window. In ways you won't expect. MWAHAHAHAHA!
She coughed softly when she realized she had almost laughed out loud inside the carriage. She had to be careful. Being "Don Julian" was a role she had to play until the very end.
---
The carriage arrived in front of a luxurious mansion in Intramuros, the temporary residence prepared for a blue-blooded noble like him.
He was greeted by a line of Indio servants and mestizo staff who practically begged forgiveness with their deep bows.
"Bienvenido, Don Julian," greeted the steward, an old Spaniard whose beard was as white as his conscience—dirty and filled with the soot of corruption.
Elena smiled, the mischievous grin of Dr. Elena Santos hidden behind the handsome face of Julian Alfonso de Alcazar.
As soon as she entered the spacious bedroom, she immediately ordered everyone to leave her alone. She locked the door and quickly walked toward the large mirror carved with roses and vines.
Breathing heavily, she faced her reflection. She removed her top hat and let a few strands of hair fall across her forehead.
"Okay, Elena. Focus," she whispered. Her voice was a deep baritone, but the tone was pure Quezon City. "You're in Manila. 1885. No antibiotics, no decent anesthesia, and a bunch of friars worse than malignant tumors."
She carefully examined her body in the mirror. Tall, broad-shouldered, and carrying an authority that didn't need words to command attention.
Suddenly there was a knock on the door.
"Don Julian? The Archbishop has sent an invitation for dinner at the Palacio del Gobernador. They wish to hear news from Madrid."
Elena rolled her eyes.
Dinner? More like an interrogation to see how easily they could manipulate me.
She walked to her suitcase and took out a small bottle of disinfectant made from strong alcohol mixed with herbs that she had prepared while still on the ship. She smelled it, the familiar scent of work.
"If you want news from Madrid, I'll give it to you," she said to the mirror while adjusting her tie with the precision of a surgeon. "But I'll make sure that my first 'operation' in this country is cutting off the hands you've dipped into the nation's treasury."
She looked again at her reflection.
She was no longer Dr. Elena Santos exhausted from a 36-hour shift. She was Don Julian Alfonso de Alcazar, the nobleman holding both scalpel and power.
"Game on," she whispered to her own reflection.
---
The dinner at the Palacio del Gobernador was not a feast. To Elena, it was a cramped cage filled with peacocks and vultures. Every corner of the grand hall reeked of expensive perfume trying to hide the smell of sweat and the suffocating smoke of tobacco.
"Don Julian" sat at the head of the table, his back straight as steel and his face serious. A mask of aristocracy perfected during months at sea.
"Don Julian, the news from Madrid says your journey was for your health," began a fat friar whose greasy fingers clutched a chicken leg. "But I believe the air of the Philippines will strengthen your spirit… with the help of the Church, of course."
Elena stared at the friar. If this were 2026, her diagnosis would be hypertension and type 2 diabetes.
"Mi espíritu se encuentra en perfecto estado, Padre. Es mi paciencia la que se siente algo indispuesta en este momento."
(My spirit is in perfect condition, Father. It is my patience that feels somewhat unwell at the moment.)
The table fell silent. The officials were not used to hearing such a sharp remark from a blue-blooded noble, especially since the Crown and the Church usually worked hand in hand.
Because of his cold attitude toward the officials, the women in the hall seemed even more intrigued. It couldn't be denied: Julian Alfonso de Alcazar was a masterpiece of genetics. His jaw looked carved from marble, and his eyes had a depth that seemed seductive even when he did nothing.
Back when she was still Dr. Elena, she had often wondered what it felt like to be a handsome man. The strength, the attention, the charisma.
Now that she was here, she just wanted to punch someone.
"Don Julian," a gentle voice whispered beside him.
A mestiza lady, Señorita Isabela, fanned herself rapidly—a sign in the language of the fan that she was interested.
"He oído que es usted un gran amante de la música, caballero. ¿Quizás le gustaría escucharme tocar el piano en nuestra residencia mañana?"
(I have heard that you are a great lover of music, gentleman. Perhaps you would like to hear me play the piano at our residence tomorrow?)
Elena looked at Isabela. The young woman was beautiful, her skin like porcelain... but the only thing Elena could think was: Her conjunctiva looks too pale. She might be anemic.
"Se lo agradezco, Señorita, pero me encuentro ocupado estudiando los mapas locales."
(I appreciate it, Señorita, but I find myself busy studying the local maps.)
The ladies did not give up. One after another they approached, pretending to stumble so they could grab his arm, or dropping handkerchiefs in front of him.
Good grief, Elena muttered in her mind. If you only knew that I'm better at contouring a face than you are, and that I know the anatomy of the uterus better than any doctor in this era, you'd probably run away from me.
When the fifth Señorita approached and tried to stroke his shoulder while offering him a glass of wine, Elena stood up.
The scraping sound of his chair across the floor silenced the laughter in the hall.
"Discúlpenme, pero el calor en esta habitación no favorece mi condición. Deseo retirarme a descansar ahora mismo."
(Excuse me, but the heat in this room does not favor my condition. I wish to retire to rest right now.)
"But Don Julian, we have not yet finished discussing the tax matter in Laguna—" the Governor-General protested.
"Los impuestos pueden esperar, Gobernador. Mi tiempo, no."
(Taxes can wait, Governor. My time cannot.)
He walked out of the hall, passing rows of silent friars and stunned ladies.
When he reached his carriage, he roughly pulled off his gloves and threw them onto the floor.
"So exhausting," he sighed in the darkness. "It's easier to operate on a burst appendix than to pretend with these people."
He looked down at his hands—large, strong, and powerful. From inside his vest, he pulled out his newly crafted scalpel. Under the moonlight, its blade gleamed.