I stared at my palm.

  Drip.

  Wet.

  Why? Viper didn’t cry. Tears were a biological handicap. A waste of hydration. So why was it thatf

  This… this isn't me.

  "My lady?" Elodie’s voice drifted in, soft and laced with worry. "My lady, you're... you're white as a sheet! Oh, gods, are you in pain? Is it your head?"

  It was pain.

  But it wasn't the blunt force trauma lingering in my skull. It was a crushing weight in the center of my chest. The girl's memories... her "cruel" family... that had been the trigger.

  But the emotion? The emotion belonged to me.

  A single, splintered memory forced its way to the surface. Not of ponies and tantrums, but of a small, clean apartment, the smell of cheap paint, and the first time I’d ever learned what "quiet" meant.

  The memory hit me like a physical blow.

  I was standing by the window, my hand resting on the pistol hidden under the sill. I’d been checking the perimeter for three hours. The mission was over. We were out. We were "safe." But my instincts screamed otherwise.

  "You can stop, you know."

  Lyra's voice. Amused. Light.

  She was unpacking a box of books. "We're clear. Wolf himself couldn't find us here."

  "Wolf would have found us in two hours," I had replied, my voice flat, stiff, and robotic. "He'd find a way through the sewer routes. The power grid. He'd..."

  I heard her small chuckle. That warm sound that always seemed to cut right through my defenses.

  She came up behind me. I was a foot taller, a weapon disguised as a man. And she... she stood on her tiptoes. Her hand, warm and calloused from her medical gear, landed on my head.

  She patted me. Like a nervous puppy.

  "It's okay to be 'off,' love," she whispered, her eyes seeing the man, not the instrument. "You're not a weapon here. You're just... you. Everything is going to be fine."

  I had just stood there. Stunned. No one had ever... patted me before.

  Crack.

  The memory shattered, and I was slammed back into reality. The library. The smell of old paper. And Elodie, babbling in panic.

  Everything will be fine.

  The words... Lyra... I avenged her. I’d burned my old world to the ground for her. But I never... I never mourned. There was no time.

  The memories I kept locked in a mental black box flooded in. Her, smiling over that damn coffee. Her, humming off-key while she cooked. The scent of her hair. The precise, efficient way she'd stitched up my wounds after a bad operation.

  It was too much.

  This twelve-year-old body had no filters. The emotional calluses, the psychological barriers I’d spent thirty-five years building... they weren't here.

  I wasn't standing anymore. I was hunched over, one hand braced on my chest, gasping. It wasn't a single, confusing tear. It was a silent, agonizing flood.

  This sorrow. This was pain worse than any bullet. It was a toxin. It was crushing me.

  I, Viper, who had felt nothing, was now feeling everything.

  "Oh, my lady... my lady... what's wrong?" Elodie was crying now, too. Hysterical. "Please... please don't... oh, this is all my fault... I... I..."

  She was useless. A liability.

  Then, she did the last thing I would have ever predicted. She lunged forward.

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  I flinched, but I was too weak to evade. She wrapped her thin arms around my small, shaking frame.

  She... hugged me.

  "It's alright, my lady," she whispered, her voice shaking but surprisingly firm. "Whatever it is... whatever you're remembering... it's alright. You're safe now. It's over. Everything will be fine."

  The echo. The exact same words.

  It was so strong that my hand this small, child's hand actually started to lift. To hug her back.

  BAM!

  The library doors slammed open, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

  I flinched violently. Elodie shrieked and shoved me away not hard, but enough to break contact.

  A woman stood in the doorway.

  Tall. Imposing. Dressed in a starched grey uniform that looked like a bastardization of military fatigues and a maid’s dress. Her hair was pulled back so tight it looked painful. Behind her stood two other maids built like brick walls.

  And... a small boy with dark hair, peeking out from behind her skirt.

  Elodie scrambled to her feet, bowing so low her head almost touched her knees. "Mistress Helga! I... I apologize! Her Ladyship... she was feeling faint! The fever..."

  The Head Maid, Helga, ignored her. Her eyes cold, flat, analytical, just like the Duke's swept over the scene. They landed on me, my face streaked with shameful tears.

  Then, they moved to Elodie.

  She didn't speak. She just walked forward. Elodie shrank back.

  "Mistress, I was just-"

  Helga shoved her. A single, brutal push that sent Elodie sprawling onto the hardwood floor.

  "Tsk." She looked down at the girl with unmasked disgust. "Pathetic," Helga hissed. "Leaving your post. Agitating the Young Lady when she is unwell."

  She turned to the two larger maids. "Take Lady Seraphina to her chambers. She is not to leave."

  She jerked her chin at Elodie, who was frozen on the floor. "You. Pack your things. You are dismissed."

  Elodie’s face went pale as death.

  "No," I whispered. My voice was a broken rasp. "She was... she was helpi-"

  The maids grabbed my arms. Their grip was like iron. They started dragging me.

  "Wait!" I tried to plant my feet, but this body was useless. I was like a doll being moved against my will. "Elodie!"

  The last thing I saw as they hauled me from the room was Elodie, still on the floor, looking at me. Her face was a mask of absolute horror.

  They threw me into my room.

  "What will happen to her?" I demanded, spinning around to face them.

  The maid just looked at me with dull, bovine eyes and shut the door.

  Click.

  The sound of a key turning in a lock.

  I grabbed the handle. Solid.

  "Let me out!"

  I slammed my shoulder against the heavy oak. It was useless. It was like a moth hitting a wall. This body had no mass, no strength.

  The frustration was so sudden, so hot, I wanted to scream.

  "WHY?"

  The sound that came out was a high, cracking shout.

  A muffled voice came from the other side of the door. "Orders from the Duchess, my lady. You are to rest. For your own good."

  Silence.

  I slid down the door, my legs giving out, and sat on the carpet.

  I lost composure.

  Viper. Never. Lost. Composure.

  I had never cried. Not when they found Lyra. Not when my own mother sent me to the black site. I’d just... acted.

  And now... Elodie. Fired and dismissed. Thrown out of the manor with no money? Starvation? Sold to a brothel?

  A sharp, acidic bubble formed in my stomach. Guilt. Another new, unwelcome variable.

  I got Lyra killed by being "illogical." And now, in this new life, in less than an hour, I had gotten this babbling, terrified, kind maid fired.

  I had failed to protect someone. Again.

  I felt... drained. Utterly, completely exhausted.

  I pushed myself up, my limbs feeling like lead, and slumped into the high-backed chair by the desk. I put my head in my hands.

  I am a 35-year-old assassin. A one-man insurgency. And I was just defeated by a locked door.

  I truly was a screw-up.

  Knock. Knock.

  I didn't look up. "Go away."

  The door opened anyway. I heard faint, small footsteps, but I didn't care. I was too tired to fight.

  The footsteps approached the desk. A small hand entered my field of vision. It set something down.

  A single piece of hard candy, wrapped in wax paper.

  The scent hit me. Faint. Lemon and... honey.

  It was... familiar. Not to me. But to Seraphina.

  I lifted my head.

  The boy from the library. He was standing there, looking nervous.

  Then, a flash of memories. Not mine, but hers. The same boy. In the gardens. I'd scraped my knee. He'd... he'd given me a candy. Called me a crybaby.

  Kaelen. The son of the Guard Commander, Varrus. A boy who practically lived in the manor.

  He pushed the small, rumpled bag of candies toward me.

  I stared at him. Reluctantly, I took one. I unwrapped the sticky paper and popped it into my mouth.

  It was objectively terrible. The flavor was weak; compared to the complex ingenuity of the modern world, it was garbage.

  But this body... this body loved it.

  A simple, childish comfort. The flavor, familiar to this tongue, was oddly... grounding.

  Kaelen gave a small, nervous smile. "Are you... alright, Sera? Mother Helga was... well, she's always mean."

  I just nodded, sucking on the candy. What was I supposed to say?

  "I was... I was really worried," he mumbled, shuffling his feet. "When you fell from Firefly. Everyone... everyone said you might not... you know."

  I looked at him. Really looked at him.

  He was just a kid. Maybe twelve, like this body. He was... innocent. No angles. No ulterior motives. Just a kid, worried about his friend.

  And that friend was now a complete stranger who had been replaced by a thirty-five-year-old killer.

  "...I'm fine," I managed. My voice was raspy from the crying.

  "Oh. Good!" He looked relieved. "Well... I'll let you rest. Mother Helga said not to bother you."

  He scurried out, closing the door softly.

  I was alone again.

  The sugar gave me a momentary lift, but the exhaustion... it wasn't physical. It was emotional. A fatigue so deep it felt like it had settled into my marrow.

  I had never felt this tired in my entire life.

  I pushed myself out of the chair, walked to the ridiculously large, soft bed, and collapsed onto the silk sheets.

  Another new, foreign feeling washed over me.

  Defeat.