Eleanor Harper woke up with the taste of chalk dust in her mouth.
It took her three full seconds to realize she was breathing.
Real air. Warm. Ordinary.
"Eleanor."
The voice cut through the classroom like a blade.
"Eleanor Harper. Stand up."
She flinched.
Her fingers dug into the edge of the desk before she even knew she was moving. The wood was smooth, slightly scratched—too familiar. Too solid.
Alive.
A piece of white chalk rolled to a stop near her shoe. Someone snickered softly behind her.
Eleanor stood.
"Yes, Mr. Collins," she said automatically.
Her voice sounded… normal. No frost in her lungs. No metal restraints biting into her wrists. No hum of industrial fans drowning out her thoughts.
Just a classroom.
Sunlight streamed in through tall windows, dust motes floating lazily in the air. The whiteboard at the front of the room was half-covered in algebraic formulas she recognized instantly.
Senior year.
Her heart slammed hard enough to hurt.
Mr. Collins adjusted his glasses, unimpressed. "If you're going to daydream, at least do it quietly. What's the answer?"
Eleanor stared at the equation.
She knew it. Of course she did. She had always known the answers.
She had learned early that being useful was the safest way to exist.
"X equals negative three," she said.
A pause.
Mr. Collins nodded. "Sit down."
She obeyed.
Her legs felt weak as she lowered herself back into the chair. Beneath the desk, her hands trembled.
She looked down at her wrists.
No blackened scar.
No blood-sealed mark.
Only faint, pale skin—and a nearly invisible crescent near her thumb. A bite mark she had given herself years ago, during a panic attack in this very classroom.
Her breath caught.
She lifted her gaze to the whiteboard again.
October 9th, 2018.
The date burned into her eyes.
I died in 2024.
The memory hit her all at once.
Cold.
Steel.
The sound of a man calmly explaining that her disappearance was "necessary."
And then—
Red eyes in the dark.
A voice that knew her name.
I'll give you a second life. In return, your second life is mine.
Eleanor's stomach twisted.
This wasn't a dream.
She knew dreams. Dreams were blurry at the edges. Dreams didn't come with the weight of absolute certainty pressing down on her chest.
This was real.
She had come back.
⸻
The bell rang.
Chairs scraped against the floor as students poured into the hallway. Eleanor stayed seated for a moment longer, letting the noise wash over her.
Laughter. Complaints. Someone arguing about weekend plans.
Normal.
Her body felt wrong inside it.
She gathered her things slowly, slipping her notebook into her backpack. Every movement was careful, controlled—muscle memory from a lifetime of being watched.
Don't draw attention. Don't take up space.
As she stood, a sudden chill brushed against the back of her neck.
Not cold air.
Awareness.
Eleanor froze.
She didn't turn around. She didn't have to.
She felt him.
The hallway outside the classroom was crowded, but the presence at her back was sharp and singular, like a blade pressed lightly against skin.
Watching.
Her fingers curled around the strap of her bag.
No, she told herself. Not yet. It's too early.
She stepped into the hallway.
The noise swallowed her immediately. Lockers slammed. Someone bumped into her shoulder and muttered an apology she barely heard.
She kept walking.
Halfway down the hall, she glanced toward the glass panels lining the wall.
Her reflection stared back.
Pale. Calm. Composed.
And behind her—
A man stood in the shadow near the stairwell.
Black coat. Hands in his pockets. Still as a statue.
His gaze locked onto hers through the reflection.
Eleanor's breath hitched.
The world seemed to tilt.
He lifted his chin slightly and mouthed a single word.
Come.
Her pulse spiked.
She turned sharply.
The stairwell was empty.
No man. No black coat. Just the hum of fluorescent lights and students rushing past.
Her heart hammered against her ribs.
Hallucination, she thought desperately. Trauma. That's all.
But she knew better.
He hadn't come to save her this time.
He had come to collect.
⸻
Home smelled exactly the same.
Disinfectant. Steamed vegetables. A faint medicinal tang that never quite left the walls.
Eleanor stepped inside and slipped off her shoes, aligning them neatly by the door.
From the living room, her stepmother's voice drifted in. "Is that Eleanor?"
"Yes," Eleanor answered.
She moved toward the kitchen without being asked. Her body already knew the routine.
Lily sat at the table, pale and delicate, her hands wrapped around a mug of warm milk. She looked up and smiled.
"Hey, sis."
Eleanor smiled back.
It felt strange—stretching muscles she remembered using but no longer trusted.
"How was school?" Lily asked.
"Fine."
Her father emerged from his study, tie loosened. He glanced at Eleanor, then at the clock.
"You're late."
"I stayed after class," Eleanor said. A lie. A harmless one.
He frowned but didn't press. "Go help your sister with her homework. Dinner will be ready soon."
Eleanor nodded.
She always nodded.
As she sat beside Lily, explaining math problems she already knew by heart, a familiar numbness crept in. The quiet expectation that she would give. That she would bend. That she would make herself smaller so the household could function smoothly.
This is how it starts, she thought.
This was the version of her life where she learned to disappear.
Only this time, she knew where it led.
Later that night, Eleanor lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Her phone buzzed softly on the nightstand.
A message notification.
Unknown number.
She stared at the screen for a long moment before picking it up.
Unknown:
You shouldn't have gone home.
Her blood ran cold.
Another message appeared almost immediately.
Unknown:
They'll kill you again if you let them.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Eleanor:
Who are you?
The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared.
Then—
Unknown:
You already know.
The room seemed to darken, shadows stretching unnaturally along the walls. Eleanor sat up, heart pounding.
"Show yourself," she whispered.
The air shifted.
The temperature dropped.
A figure stepped out of the darkness near her window as if the shadows themselves had parted to let him through.
Black coat. Pale skin. Eyes like dark wine catching the light.
He looked exactly the same.
Ageless. Unchanged.
Her chest tightened painfully.
"You came back too early," Eleanor said hoarsely.
He smiled faintly.
"You came back wrong."
He crossed the room without sound, stopping a step away from her bed. His presence filled the space, heavy and inescapable.
"You should be dead," she whispered.
"You were," he replied calmly.
Silence stretched between them.
Eleanor clenched her fists. "Why am I here?"
He tilted his head, studying her like a priceless artifact recovered from ruin.
"Because I allowed it."
Anger flared—sharp, sudden, terrifying. "You don't own me."
A low chuckle. "Not yet."
He reached out, fingers brushing the inside of her wrist. The spot warmed instantly, heat blooming beneath her skin.
"But you agreed," he murmured. "Your second life belongs to me."
Her breath stuttered.
"What happens if I refuse?"
His gaze darkened, something ancient stirring beneath the surface.
"Then history repeats itself."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for her.
"And this time, I won't arrive late."
Eleanor swallowed hard.
For the first time since waking up, fear gave way to something else.
Resolve.
She met his eyes.
"Then don't be late," she said quietly.
For a moment, he looked surprised.
Then he smiled—slow, dangerous, unmistakably pleased.
"That," he said, "is new."
He stepped back, fading into shadow once more.
"Sleep, Eleanor Harper. Tomorrow, you'll start learning how to survive your second life."
The darkness withdrew.
The room warmed.
Eleanor lay back against the pillows, heart racing.
She stared at the ceiling and let out a shaky breath.
She had come back.
And whatever she was now—
She was no longer just a good girl.
⸻
End of Chapter 1