The dawn broke with a thin silver glow slipping past the curtains in Lila's small room. She was already awake. Sleep was a luxury she had long since discarded; assassins didn't survive on dreams. Her body glistened with sweat as she forced herself through another set of push-ups, the wooden floor creaking beneath her palms. Her arms shook, her chest burned, and her oversized school shirt clung uncomfortably to her damp skin.
Pathetic. That was what this body was. Soft, slow, untrained. But she wasn't going to allow it to remain that way. She had given herself a deadline: three months. In three months, she would carve this weak vessel into something worthy of the soul living inside it.
Her arms collapsed beneath her, and she rolled onto her back, breathing hard. The message from yesterday flashed in her mind: You can't run from who you are, Black Diamond.
Someone out there knew. Someone had recognized her. That meant her past wasn't buried at all—it was lurking, waiting to drag her back. The thought should have made her panic, but panic was foreign to her. She clenched her jaw and pushed herself up again. Fear made people sloppy. She would not allow it.
After a quick jog around the neighborhood, ignoring the whispers of the neighbors who still saw her as the overweight Lewis girl trying too hard, Lila returned home, showered, and changed into casual clothes. Their gossip meant nothing. Words never killed anyone. Actions did.
Her first action of the day led her to a quiet medicinal shop at the edge of town. The wooden door squeaked as she pushed it open. Inside, the shelves were lined with jars of dried roots and powders, and the air smelled faintly of herbs and dust. An elderly man stood behind the counter, his glasses perched low on his nose.
"What are you looking for, young lady?" he asked.
"Acupuncture needles," she said without hesitation.
His eyebrows rose. "Acupuncture? What would a schoolgirl need those for?"
"Self-care." Her voice was calm, steady, almost indifferent. She slid a few bills across the counter.
The man squinted at her as if searching for a lie, then muttered under his breath and shuffled to the back. When he returned, he placed a small wooden case in her hand. "Be careful with these. They're not toys."
Lila's lips twitched faintly. If only he knew who he was talking to.
She tucked the case under her arm and stepped back into the street. She was already planning her next move when the commotion ahead caught her attention.
A crowd had gathered on the sidewalk, voices rising in panic. Lila edged closer and saw an old man lying flat on the ground, his face pale and lips tinged blue. His chest rose and fell weakly, almost imperceptibly. Beside him, a young man—his son, by the look of it—clutched his hand and shouted for help.
"Please! Somebody help my father!"
The onlookers only whispered.
"It looks like a stroke."
"Don't touch him, you'll make it worse."
Lila paused. It wasn't her problem. She had walked away from countless lives before without a second thought. But then the son's voice cracked in desperation:
"Ten thousand dollars! I'll pay whoever saves him ten thousand dollars!"
That stopped her cold. Ten thousand dollars was exactly what she needed to buy the tools and equipment to rebuild her network, to start clawing her way back into the shadows of power. Without another word, she stepped forward.
"I can help him."
Heads snapped toward her. A few laughed outright.
"You?" one man scoffed. "What's she going to do, heal him with homework?"
"She's just a kid," another muttered. "This is serious."
The son's eyes, however, latched onto hers with desperate hope. "Can you really help him? If you save him, the money is yours. But if you fail—" His voice hardened. "You'll answer for it."
"Fine," Lila replied. "But remember what you promised."
She knelt beside the old man, ignoring the disbelieving murmurs around her. Two fingers pressed to his wrist, her sharp eyes studying his pallid face, his shallow breaths, the irregular flutter of his pulse. Oxygen deprivation. A blockage near the heart. Minutes away from death.
The wooden case snapped open. Gasps rippled through the crowd as she withdrew the slim needles. Someone shouted, "Stop her! She'll kill him!"
"Quiet," she commanded, her tone so sharp that the entire crowd fell silent.
Her hands moved quickly, confidently. She pierced precise points across his chest and arms, adjusting pressure, tilting his head, opening his airway. Every action was executed with the calm precision of someone who had spent a lifetime saving—or ending—lives with her hands.
Minutes passed, thick with tension. Then the man coughed violently, sucking in a deep, desperate breath. His chest heaved. His eyes fluttered open.
The crowd erupted in gasps.
"He's alive!"
"She actually saved him!"
"Impossible…"
Lila withdrew the needles and cleaned them methodically before slipping them back into their case. Her expression didn't change, but inside, something small and fierce glowed. She still had it.
"Call an ambulance," she instructed coolly. "If you delay, he won't last long."
The son grabbed her hands, tears streaking his face. "Thank you! Thank you so much! I'll never forget this." He pulled a thick envelope from his bag and pressed it firmly into her palm.
Lila pocketed it without hesitation. "Don't thank me. Thank your father for surviving."
By the time she returned home, her pocket weighed ten thousand dollars. She walked with steady steps, though her mind was already racing ahead. This was only the beginning. With this money, she could buy the equipment she needed. A laptop. Secure tools. Resources to re-enter the world that once belonged to her.
As she reached the corner of her street, the corners of her lips curled faintly. Step one was complete. The world thought Black Diamond was dead. But today, she had revived a man everyone thought was lost.
And in doing so, she had revived herself.