The smell of copper was what Maya remembered first. Metallic, sharp, clogging the back of her throat like she'd swallowed pennies.
She didn't scream. Not right away. Her brain couldn't catch up to what her eyes already knew: her family—her entire world—had collapsed in red on the living room floor.
One second she'd been upstairs in her bedroom, scrolling through Instagram, annoyed about a chemistry assignment she'd blown off until the last minute. The next—gunshots. Four of them. Too fast. Too final. Like firecrackers, except firecrackers didn't make her mother's voice cut off mid-sentence.
Maya froze at the top of the staircase, her breath stuttering in short gasps, legs refusing to move. The banister felt cold under her palm, slippery with sweat. Her mother's hand was stretched out toward the stairs, fingers smeared with blood, like she'd been reaching for Maya in those final moments.
No no no this isn't real this can't be—
And then she did scream. It tore out of her like something alive, raw and feral, ripping her throat open.
The two men in black ski masks whipped around. One raised his gun toward the stairs. Maya ducked, too late, but headlights suddenly flashed across the front windows, sirens splitting the night air like thunder. Neighbors must have called it in—Mrs. Rodriguez next door was always watching through her curtains. The killers bolted through the back door, boots pounding against hardwood, leaving behind a silence worse than the gunfire.
Maya stumbled down the stairs, her socks sliding in something warm and sticky that didn't feel real. Couldn't be real. The living room looked like a movie set—too bright red, too perfectly destroyed. Her father's face was slack, eyes staring at nothing. Her little brother Diego's glasses were cracked beside him, one lens completely shattered. His Superman t-shirt was soaked dark. None of them moved. None of them breathed.
Get up get up please just get up—
Hands grabbed her shoulders before she could collapse beside Diego. A voice cut through her hysteria, sharp and urgent: "Maya Castellanos?"
Maya thrashed against the grip. "Let me go—let me go to them—they need help—"
The woman in black tactical gear hauled Maya against her chest, strong arms pinning her. "I'm Agent Sarah Chen, FBI. We don't have time. They'll come back to finish the job."
Maya's body went numb. The world blurred at the edges as Chen shoved her toward the front door, past the paramedics who weren't even trying to save anyone. Past the neighbors clustering on their lawns in bathrobes and slippers, cell phones glowing as they recorded everything. Mrs. Rodriguez covered her mouth with both hands, tears streaming down her cheeks.
The agent pushed Maya into the back of a black SUV idling by the curb. The leather seats smelled like disinfectant and fear. Through the tinted windows, Maya watched her house—the place where she learned to ride a bike, where Diego lost his first tooth, where her parents danced in the kitchen last Sunday—shrink into just another crime scene.
The car peeled away from the only home she'd ever known.
Hours blurred together like a fever dream—O'Hare Airport with its fluorescent lights and crowds of people who didn't know her world had just ended. Then Denver, then somewhere she didn't recognize, all concrete and chain-link fences. Her clothes stank of blood and sweat and death, but no one let her change. She curled into herself on the government plane, pressing her face against the small window that showed nothing but clouds and black sky.
Agent Chen sat across the narrow aisle, scrolling through her phone with mechanical precision, jaw set like concrete. She hadn't looked Maya in the eye since dragging her away from Diego's body.
The plane's engines droned on and on. Maya's head pounded. Her throat felt shredded. She kept expecting to wake up, to find herself back in her bedroom complaining about chemistry homework. But the plane was real. The blood under her fingernails was real. The way her heart hammered against her ribs was real.
Finally, Chen spoke without looking up from her phone. "Maya." Her voice was gentler now, but still cop-sharp. "There's something you need to know about your father."
Maya's stomach clenched. "What?"
"He wasn't just an accountant." Chen finally looked at her, and Maya saw something like guilt flicker across her face. "He was one of ours. Undercover for three years, working to take down the Morales cartel. We think they found out."
The plane seemed to tilt. Maya's father—quiet, methodical, always helping her with math homework—had been living a double life. "You're lying."
"The hit was too clean, too professional. They knew exactly where to find your family." Chen's jaw tightened. "Your father's cover was blown, which means you're not safe either. They know your name, your face, everything about you. Your school records, your friends, your Instagram account. If you want to live, you can't be her anymore."
Maya stared at her, hollow as a shell washed up on shore. "What does that even mean?"
Chen's eyes softened for the first time, but her words were knives sliding between Maya's ribs.
"It means Maya Castellanos died tonight with her family. From now on, you're not her." Chen closed her phone and leaned forward. "You're him."
The plane hit turbulence, and Maya's stomach dropped. Outside the window, dawn crept across the horizon like blood spreading through water.