I woke to the smell of damp wood—like a rain-soaked cabinet forced open after months of rot. My head throbbed tight, my temples pulsing as if someone were tapping a drum inside my skull.
I tried to lift my hand.
Pain shot up my wrist.
Rope.
Coarse fibers bit into my skin. I sucked in a breath and tasted cold air—sharp as a blade—sliding down my throat.
"She's awake."
The voice dropped from above, impatient, almost bored.
I blinked until the blur sharpened. I was lying on a narrow plank, a thin mat of straw beneath me. The room was dim, the walls made of old wood. Yellowed paper charms clung to the boards like warnings. At the doorway stood two men: one in a gray tunic rolling a string of wooden beads between his fingers, the other broad-shouldered, veins raised along his forearm, built like someone who could lift me and the plank in one motion.
They looked at me the way people looked at goods.
My chest tightened. My first reaction wasn't fear—it was disbelief.
I remembered harsh white light from a screen. Endless rows and columns. The heavy dizziness of forcing myself to stay upright. And then—nothing. A cut in reality. A new air. A new smell.
I opened my mouth. My throat burned with dryness.
"Who… are you?"
The man in gray smiled, but it wasn't kind. It was the smile of someone who'd been waiting for you to stop pretending.
"That's my question," he said, tapping his beads against his palm. "A debtor still has the nerve to ask who I am?"
Debtor.
The word hit like ice water, drowning whatever fragile hope remained.
The broad man stepped forward, crouched, and pinched my jaw between thick fingers, forcing my face up. His skin smelled of sweat and dust.
"Don't play stupid." His eyes were flat, unreadable. "Sign this and we can talk. Refuse—"
He let the sentence hang, letting my imagination do the work.
In his other hand was a sheet of paper, covered in neat characters—formal, rigid, the kind you'd see in old books. The strangest part was that I could read it. Not perfectly, but the meaning slid into my mind as if it belonged there.
Indenture contract.
Three words that made my lungs seize.
I jerked instinctively. The rope cut deeper. The man in gray clicked his tongue.
"Don't struggle. If you damage what's valuable, you're worth less."
Worth.
I swallowed bile. Nausea rose, hot and sudden—but panic wouldn't save me. Panic never saved anyone.
I forced myself to breathe and scanned the room. Crates were stacked in the corner, stamped with a red character that meant pawn. A tarnished bronze mirror hung on the wall, dark with age. Outside the door, I could hear the faint buzz of voices—like a market street, like a crowd.
A pawnshop.
The word formed in my head with quiet certainty.
This wasn't my world.
I didn't have time to ask why. The man in gray pressed the contract to my chest. Ink and paper and something bitter—old smoke, maybe—filled my nose.
"Sign. Thumbprint. You owe our master thirty taels. The deadline's long past. If you're smart, you won't make this ugly."
Thirty taels.
I didn't know the real value, but I knew from his tone it wasn't small. It was the kind of number that made people stop seeing you as human.
I licked cracked lips. "I can… repay it."
The broad man snorted like I'd told a joke.
"With what? Your shop's been sealed. Your father's ledger—" his mouth twisted, "—pretty handwriting, nothing but holes."
Ledger.
My heartbeat quickened. A useful word. A crack in the wall.
The man in gray narrowed his eyes. "Still acting forgetful? Weren't you the clever one? Always smiling, always talking your way out? What—new act today?"
So the original owner of this body could count. Could negotiate. Could survive.
Which meant she hadn't been weak.
She'd been cornered.
I stared at the contract and made my mind move—fast, ruthless, practical. If this was a pawnshop, what they wanted wasn't cruelty. It was profit. Indenture was a clean profit. But if I could offer a better one—
"I want to speak to your master," I said carefully. "I'll sign a new agreement. Installments. Or—" I swallowed, "—I'll pledge future profits from the shop."
The man in gray froze for half a second, then laughed louder.
"Future profits? You can't even step outside. And you're talking about the future?"
The broad man stood and rolled his shoulders. His knuckles cracked.
"Enough. Make her press the print. Drag her out."
His hand clamped around my arm. My skin felt paper-thin under his grip. Fear finally climbed my spine—not the fear of pain, but the fear of being erased. No identity. No allies. No rules I understood. Not even a name I could safely claim.
I was alone.
And in this world, alone meant easy.
"Wait!" I heard myself shout. "You want money, don't you? You want to recover your loss. Selling me gets you a one-time payment. But keeping me alive—keeping me working—earns you more."
I was still speaking when my voice faltered.
Because I heard someone else.
Not from the street. Not from the doorway.
From inside my skull—like a single drop of ice falling into a deep well.
"If you negotiate like that," the voice said, "you'll die."
My breath stopped.
It was a young voice, but cold as the back edge of a knife. No panic. No hesitation. Just certainty—like she'd watched this scene happen a hundred times.
In my mind, I answered without meaning to.
Who are you?
She gave a soft laugh that held no warmth at all.
"Stop wasting time. You have one chance."
"Do you want me to take over?"
For a moment I thought I was hallucinating. Then my vision blurred, as if a thin veil slid over my eyes. A strange calm rose from somewhere deep, icy and clean, pressing down every frantic thought like a palm.
In my head, my question came out like a plea.
If you take over… what do you want?
She paused—like she was choosing a price.
"A memory."
"Start with your most precious."
Cold spread through my chest.
At the doorway the broad man yanked me up. The rope burned my wrists. His voice was iron.
"Last chance. Thumbprint."
I closed my eyes.
If I refused, they'd force the print and sell me like a thing.
If I agreed—something inside me would be taken.
But from the second I woke up here, there had been no real choice. Only slower ways to lose.
In the dark of my mind, I whispered:
Fine.
The world went quiet.
My breathing evened. My spine straightened. Even the pain felt distant, muffled—as if it belonged to someone else. When I opened my eyes again, the indenture contract looked almost ridiculous.
I lifted my gaze to the man in gray.
And the corner of my mouth rose in a small, controlled curve—like I'd become someone I didn't recognize.
"Your master isn't here," I said. My voice sounded lower, steadier, colder. "You're only a runner."
The man in gray stiffened. "You—"
"I'll give you two sentences," I continued, unhurried. "First: you can't prove I accepted the interest on this so-called thirty taels."
"Second—" my eyes dropped to the paper in his hand, "—an indenture requires a registered seal. You don't have my household mark. Are you really bold enough to take this and claim it's valid?"
The room went thin with silence.
The broad man blinked, confused. The man in gray's fingers twitched. The beads clicked softly as they knocked together.
I smiled—as if I'd finally placed a knife on the table.
"Now," I said, "take me to your master."
"Or—"
"Pretend you were never here today."