The last school bell rang, sharp and final, and the flood of students spilled out through the gates like restless birds set free. Lila walked at the back, clutching her bag so tightly the straps bit into her palm. Each step felt awkward, too heavy, as though the body she now wore was not her own.
Her breath was shaking, and her thigh was half-startled. Two blocks. That was all she had managed before feeling drained. A bitter laugh threatened to escape her throat. She had once been the shadow that glided rooftops without sound, the hand that never trembled when a blade kissed a throat. Now she couldn't even manage a schoolbag and a short walk without breaking into a sweat.
The oversized uniform clung uncomfortably to her back, damp with heat. She tugged at the fabric, her lips pressed tight. Soft arms. Thick legs. A body that felt sluggish, useless. She hated it. Hated it with every bone in her.
She was so lost in her frustration that she almost missed the boy leaning against the gate. His shirt was untucked, sleeves rolled up, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His eyes—sharp, dark, and a little too knowing—followed her every move.
"Lila!" His voice cracked through the noise of the crowd like a whip.
She stopped. Slowly, she turned, her instincts instantly sharpening.
The boy straightened, pushing himself off the gatepost, his brow furrowed. "Are you ignoring me now? What's your problem? Did we fight or something?"
For one terrifying second, she had no idea who he was. His familiarity, the way he spoke her name—it jarred her. Her assassin's mind assessed him quickly: strong shoulders, calloused hands, no weapon in sight. But there was authority in his voice, the kind that came from habit.
He came closer, frown deepening. "Don't just stand there like an idiot. You walked right past me. Pretending I don't exist now?"
Her lips parted but nothing came. Her pulse jumped as panic flared. Then she forced out a laugh, thin and awkward. "Of course not! I was just… thinking."
His eyes narrowed. He studied her, gaze lingering as if peeling back skin to see what lay beneath. Suspicion flickered across his face, but at last he sighed and shook his head.
"You're weird today," he muttered. "Come on, let's go home."
He turned and started walking without waiting for her answer.
Home.
The word rooted her feet to the ground for a moment. Then, with a swallow, she followed. So—this boy was her brother. That much was clear.
The walk was quiet. The sun hung low, stretching shadows across the cracked pavement. Lila watched him from the corner of her eye. His shoulders sagged slightly as though weighed down by long hours of labor. His knuckles were bruised, red, and raw. A faint smell of oil clung to him, like someone who spent hours fixing machines.
She filed away the details, the way she always did. Not dangerous. Not an enemy. But strong in his own way.
Her gaze lingered a little too long.
"Why are you staring at me like that?" he asked suddenly, his head whipping to the side.
Her heart skipped. "I wasn't—"
"Yes, you were. You've been sneaking glances like I grew another head."
She looked away quickly, face tightening. "I told you. I was thinking."
"Mm." He snorted. "Don't think too hard. You'll hurt yourself."
The urge to snap at him rose like fire. In her past life, a single cold look from her would have ended this kind of insolence. Now she had to bite down on her tongue and walk on in silence.
The house finally came into view. A small half-startle with chipped paint and a front gate that groaned when her brother pushed it open. Weeds grew between the cracked pavement. The potted plants near the entrance were dry, neglected.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of rice and detergent. The furniture was old, patched, but clean. It wasn't comfortable. It was survival.
"Mom! We're back!" her brother called.
A woman stepped out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. Lines of tiredness creased her face, but her smile was soft. "Welcome home," she said, voice gentle, though it faltered when her eyes landed on Lila. She paused, brows furrowed. "Lila…? You look different today."
Lila stiffened. Her throat threatened to close, but before she could respond, another voice cut through from the living room.
"She looks different because she's finally learning to stop moping."
A tall young man sat sprawled on the couch, arms folded across his chest. His expression was all sharp edges, his tone clipped. He looked like someone who carried too much responsibility and hated every second of it.
"Or maybe she's just tired of embarrassing us," he added coldly.
"Daniel," their mother warned, her voice stern.
He scoffed but said no more, though his eyes—hard and unkind—remained fixed on her. Lila straightened without meaning to, her back rigid, her posture sharp as a blade. Instinct. Training.
Daniel smirked. "See? She's sitting like some queen now."
The younger brother glared at him. "Leave her alone."
Their mother sighed, shaking her head. "She's probably just tired. Don't start."
Lila kept silent, though her chest burned. So… in this family, the old Lila had been the weak one. Pitiful.
Dinner was a thin affair—plain rice, watery soup, a scattering of vegetables. Yet the air around the table was heavier than the food itself.
Daniel broke the silence first. "The collectors came again today. Said if we don't pay by the end of the week, things will get ugly."
The mother's hand trembled around her chopsticks. "But we don't have it. Not yet."
"I know." Daniel's jaw tightened. "That's why I'll take another shift. But even then…"
The younger brother slammed his chopsticks down. "It's his fault. Dad's fault. And we're still paying for it."
The table fell into silence.
Lila's eyes flicked between them, calm, though inside her rage simmered. Debt. Gambling. So the man who left them this mess was nothing but a fool. And now jackals circled, waiting to feed.
Her fists tightened beneath the table. Not anymore. Not while she was here.
"Lila," her mother's voice pulled her back. "You haven't spoken all evening. Are you alright?"
She blinked, realizing all eyes were on her. She forced a small, awkward smile. "I'm fine. Just… thinking."
Her mother searched her face for a moment, then nodded. "Alright. Just don't keep things bottled up."
Daniel muttered, "Since when does she think so much?"
She ignored him.
Her room was small, the bed narrow, the mirror cracked. She shut the door behind her and sat at the edge of the bed, her chest tight. For a long moment, she simply stared at the reflection in the mirror. Round cheeks. Dull eyes. Soft, sluggish limbs stuffed into a uniform.
"This isn't me," she whispered. Her fingers brushed the cold glass, wishing it would shatter and give her old self back. The assassin. The shadow. The woman no one dared cross.
But the reflection stayed the same. Weak. Laughable.
Her jaw clenched. That man. The way he smiled as he handed her the stone. She remembered the betrayal like a knife in her ribs.
"That cunning man tricked me," she muttered, her voice low, sharp.
The reflection glared back at her, foreign yet now hers.
"But no one tricks me and walks away," she vowed, her words slicing through the quiet. "No one."
She turned from the mirror and sat heavily on the bed. The old Lila had been broken, crushed under her weakness. But she was here now. And this time, the world would regret ever underestimating her.