Long-press a paragraph to send danmaku
I know I'm dead because the last thing I remember is cold water and someone's hand on my neck.
But then I'm breathing.
My eyes snap open. White ceiling. Floral wallpaper I haven't seen in three years. The pink curtains Mom bought before I left for Ironridge the first time. My chest hurts like I've been drowning, but my lungs work fine now. I sit up fast, and the room spins.
This is my old bedroom. The one I packed up the day I turned sixteen and got my academy letter.
I died at nineteen.
My hands go to my face before I can think. I'm expecting ridges. Scar tissue. The kind of damage that doesn't heal right even with medicine, because they used iron and fire and wanted it to stick. But my skin is smooth. Soft. No raised lines across my cheeks. No puckered mess where my mouth used to be.
I lunge for the mirror over my dresser.
The girl looking back is me. But not the me who drowned in the Northwood lake. This me has clear skin. Bright eyes. The kind of face that made boys stupid and girls cruel. I press my fingertips to the glass. She copies me. Same dark hair, same pale throat, same mouth that someone once called "criminal."
I'm back.
And I still have the face that killed me.
My stomach twists. I grab the edge of the dresser and try to think. Last time, I was so careful. I smiled when I was supposed to. I stayed quiet in the halls. I didn't flirt, didn't fight, didn't do anything that would make me a target. It didn't matter. At Ironridge, being pretty isn't a compliment. It's a liability. The other girls decided I was competition, and the boys decided I was a prize, and nobody asked me what I wanted to be.
They played a game called Pretty Prey in my second year. I was the prey.
I close my eyes, but that just makes it worse. I can still feel Lila's nails digging into my arm while her friends held me down. Still hear Marcus laughing while he made bets on who'd "win" me. Still see Cain standing there at the end, telling me it didn't have to be this way.
And then water. So much water I couldn't tell which way was up.
When I open my eyes again, my reflection is blurry. I wipe my face fast. Crying isn't going to help. I didn't survive drowning just to fall apart in my childhood bedroom.
I need a plan.
First option: destroy the face. If I'm not beautiful, I'm not a target. There's a lighter in my desk drawer. Or I could use a knife, do it clean, make it look like an accident. Maybe say I fell. Ironridge doesn't care about scars. Half the students there look like they've been through a war, because they have.
I open the drawer. The lighter's still there, bright red, the one I used to sneak cigarettes behind the house when I was fourteen. I pick it up. Flick it once. The flame jumps.
My hand doesn't shake. That should scare me, but it doesn't. I've already died once. What's a little fire?
I hold the lighter up next to my face. Close enough to feel the heat. One move and I could fix this whole problem. No beauty, no prey, no game.
But then I stop.
Because destroying my face didn't save me last time. I didn't have this face when I died. I had scars and burns and a mouth that didn't move right anymore. Lila and her crew made sure of that halfway through second year. They thought ruining me would solve their problem.
It didn't.
The boys still wanted me. Maybe more, because now I was a tragedy. A fallen angel. Marcus got obsessed. He said I was "still pretty underneath," like that was supposed to make me feel better. And Cain—
I snap the lighter shut.
Cain was the one who found me after they dumped me in the lake. He pulled me out. Looked me in the eyes. Said, "You should've stayed in your lane."
Then he let me go under again.
I put the lighter back in the drawer and close it slow. My face isn't the problem. Ironridge is. The system is. Last time I thought if I was just good enough, quiet enough, ruined enough, they'd leave me alone. But the academy doesn't work that way. It's a grinder. Weak students get sorted into cannon fodder for combat trials or sold off as "resources" to the families who sponsor the school. Pretending to be harmless just makes you easier to use.
So this time I won't pretend.
This time I'll keep the face. And I'll learn how to make it a weapon.
I check my phone. It's six in the morning, August fourteenth. Three days before academy intake. Same as last time. That means I have seventy-two hours to figure out who I'm going to be when I walk through those gates.
Last time, I was prey.
This time, I'll make them think I still am. Right up until I'm not.
I'm pulling on jeans when I hear the car.
It's not a normal car. The engine's too quiet, too smooth. I know that sound. Academy transport. They're not supposed to come until the sixteenth, but Ironridge doesn't follow its own rules. If they want you early, they take you early.
I go to the window. A long black vehicle idles at the curb, government plates, tinted glass. The kind of car that makes neighbors pull their curtains shut. My mom isn't home. She works double shifts at the hospital on Thursdays. I'm alone.
The back door opens.
A guy steps out. Tall, dark coat, the kind of face that belongs on recruitment posters. Sharp jaw, cold eyes, perfect posture. I know him. I knew him. Cain Locke. Top of the combat track, Core Zone resident, the boy every first-year girl thought would save them right up until he didn't.
He looks up at my window.
I step back fast, but it's too late. He saw me. He lifts one hand, not a wave, just an acknowledgment. Then he starts walking toward my front door.
My pulse kicks into high gear. Why is he here? Last time, I didn't meet Cain until second year. He didn't even know I existed until Lila's crew made me famous for all the wrong reasons. But he's here now, three days early, at my house.
The doorbell rings.
I don't move. Maybe if I stay quiet, he'll leave. But then I hear the lock click. He didn't wait for me to answer. The front door swings open.
"Ivy Gray?" His voice carries up the stairs. Smooth. Calm. The kind of voice that makes you think he's reasonable right before he does something terrible. "I know you're here. We need to talk."
I grab a hoodie off my chair and pull it on. My heart's slamming against my ribs, but I force my legs to move. I walk down the stairs slow, like I'm not scared, like this is normal.
Cain's standing in my living room. He's taller than I remember. Or maybe I'm just smaller now, back in my sixteen-year-old body. He's looking at the family photos on the wall, hands in his coat pockets, like he's got all the time in the world.
He turns when he hears me.
For a second, neither of us says anything. He's studying me. I can feel it, the way his eyes track from my face to my hands to the way I'm standing. He's looking for something. I don't know what.
"You're early," I say. My voice sounds steady. Good.
"So are you." He tilts his head. "Most students don't wake up this alert three days before intake. You look like you've been ready for hours."
I shrug. "Couldn't sleep."
"Bad dreams?"
The way he says it makes my skin crawl. Like he knows. But that's impossible. Nobody else remembers. This is my second life, not his.
"Why are you here?" I ask.
Cain takes a step closer. Not threatening, just closing the distance. He stops when he's close enough that I have to tilt my head back to keep eye contact. He smells like cold air and something metallic. Blood, maybe. Or gun oil.
"I'm here because the academy flagged your file," he says. "Genetic markers put you in a high-risk category. Beauty like yours doesn't happen by accident. It means somebody in your family line was enhanced, and that means you might have latent traits worth developing."
I stare at him. He's lying. Ironridge doesn't do early recruitment for "genetic markers." They do it when they want to secure an asset before someone else does. But I can't call him on it without admitting I know too much.
"What kind of traits?" I ask.
"That's what we're going to find out." He reaches into his coat and pulls out a tablet. He taps the screen once, then turns it toward me. It's a contract. Standard academy intake form, except it's not. This one has a clause I've never seen before. Section twelve, subsection C: "Participant agrees to enhanced monitoring and trait development under Core Zone supervision."
Core Zone supervision.
That means Cain. That means Lila. That means everyone who made my life hell last time now gets a front-row seat from day one.
"I'm not signing that," I say.
Cain's expression doesn't change. "You don't have a choice. Your scholarship is conditional. Sign, or you don't go to Ironridge at all."
My throat tightens. Last time, I was so desperate to get in. Ironridge was the only way out of this town, the only chance at a future that didn't involve dying in a factory or a hospital hallway. I signed everything they put in front of me.
But I know what that contract really means now. It means they own me.
I look at Cain. He's watching me like I'm a problem he's trying to solve. And then he says it. The exact same words he said right before I drowned.
"You should've stayed in your lane, Ivy."
The room goes cold.
He knows.
He remembers.