"Ugh. Why do I have a headache? Even in the afterlife, I have headaches. This universe really hates me."
My voice came out rough, the kind of rough that scrapes your throat and leaves grit behind. Air felt too big going in and too small coming out.
The bed beneath me was criminally soft. Not just comfortable—dangerously comfortable, like it had conspired with the pillow to keep me here forever. The mattress cupped my hips and shoulders, the blankets were warm without being heavy, and the sheets smelled faintly of lavender and sun-dried linen. For a second I let myself sink, to see if the pain would forget me.
It didn't.
This bed is so comfortable… Did I reincarnate again? The thought slithered in, cold and mean. Don't let this be another lab. I won't survive a third time. I mean it. I won't.
I opened my eyes. White ceiling. Clean, matte white. No rust, no peeling paint, no fluorescent glare. I focused on the faint hairline in the plaster. My heartbeat unclenched a fraction. No metal plates bolted across the corners, no mounted restraints, no observation slit cut into the wall.
I tried to move, and my body informed me that it hated me. Pain rolled through my ribs and shoulders like I'd been used as a practice dummy for a team of very enthusiastic horses. Muscles trembled with effort; I hadn't even started yet.
Slowly, breath by tight breath, I pushed myself up and eased back against the headboard. The room slid into focus. Cream walls with simple molding. Polished wooden floor, the kind that holds warmth and smells faintly of lemon oil. A small side table with a folded cloth and a porcelain bowl. A window with heavy curtains, the edge drawn back just enough to admit a blade of night—silver-blue, quiet. Not a cell. Not a lab. A guest room.
I looked down at myself. Same height, same general frame, but fuller. There was meat on me now—muscle weight that made my arms feel heavier in a way that wasn't unpleasant, just unfamiliar. My fingers skimmed my forearm—and froze.
Black and crimson markings coiled along my right forearm like flame trapped under glass. They didn't glow, exactly; they… shifted, as if the flame were breathing. My left forearm wore lightning in the same colors, jagged lines that seemed poised to snap and strike. Neither hurt. Both felt watchful, like a pair of sleeping animals that might open their eyes if I stared too long.
Not ink. Not the kind you choose.
A hinge creaked. The door opened.
"Sigh… poor child. I wonder when she'll wake up." The voice was low, warm, and worn at the edges. It carried the kind of tired that comes from long days and longer nights.
She stepped in—a woman with black hair coiled into a neat bun and a crisp black-and-white maid uniform fitted to a capable body. She moved like a person who could turn the whole house upright by herself if she had to. A wooden bucket hung from her hand and clinked softly as it swung.
Someone I haven't seen. Here to clean me? Or check if I'm still breathing? Or both.
"Good morning," I rasped, testing my voice, testing her.
"It's night," she said without looking at me, crossing to the table.
"…Huh?" I angled toward the window. The slice of sky beyond the curtain was a deep, velvet blue. "It is?"
"Yes. Just look outside—wait." Her head snapped toward me so fast the bun threatened to come loose. Our eyes met. Hers widened. "You're awake!?"
"Yes… hello?"
"I need to tell Stacy. I'll be right back." She spun, hauled the door open, and leaned into the hall. "You! Go get Lady Draig. Tell her the young miss woke up!"
"Yes, ma'am!" came a muffled reply from somewhere outside.
She—Rebecca, my brain supplied, because she felt like a Rebecca—returned, set the bucket down, and pulled the chair closer. She sat with her knees angled slightly outward, forearms on thighs, and hands loosely clasped. The posture of a woman who could spring up or stay put, who had chosen to stay put.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
"Like shit." Honest answers cost less. "Everything hurts. My head is trying to crawl out of my skull. I think I hate breathing right now."
The corner of her mouth tugged like she was suppressing a smile she didn't think I wanted. "We'll have the doctor check on you later. For now—do you remember anything about the experiments?"
That word walked a cold finger down my spine. "Experiments?" My throat tightened. "So… I didn't die?"
She shook her head once, slowly. Her eyes didn't leave mine. "No. You survived. Five years of that hell. That alone would be a miracle." Her voice lowered, gentled. "And you survived primordial blood injection."
The room narrowed. I blinked, and the window seemed farther away.
White light.Metal tray.A gloved hand turning a syringe so the bubbles rise like beads.
"Count down from ten for me."
Ten—nine—burn
"No one has ever done that before," she finished.
The bedsheets were too soft under my hands. I let out a breath that tasted like old smoke. "Guess I'm special." I looked around again, more sharply, as if the name of the place might be hiding under the table. "Where am I?"
"You'll find out when your—"
The rest of her sentence didn't survive what happened to the door.
It didn't open. It detonated. A crack like thunder, a spray of splinters, a cascade of broken hinges, and a handle doing its best impression of shrapnel. The sound hit my nerves like a whip, and something in the back of my skull flipped a switch.
Boots in the corridor.
The door bangs open.
Mask. The sweet, stinging bite of antiseptic.
Steel touches skin.
I moved on instinct, hands reaching for the flying pieces—but my body lagged, uselessly late. The fragments clattered harmlessly against the floorboards and skittered away in embarrassed arcs.
Useless. I ground my teeth. My body is a puppet with cut strings.
"STACY!" Rebecca's voice cracked like ice. She was already on her feet, positioned to intercept, her palm braced on a silver-haired head that had just burst through the wreckage.
"I'm sorry, Rebecca." The silver-haired intruder looked properly chastened, which didn't match the reckless glow in her eyes. Cat ears twitched atop her head. A silver tail flicked once, guilty—maybe. "I couldn't help myself. I wanted to meet Kitsuna as soon as possible."
"And if something had hit her?" Rebecca's glare could have stopped a horse. "She's still recovering, Stacy."
Up close, the dynamic between them wrote itself. Stacy radiated momentum even when she stood still, the kind where a person's thoughts outrun their body and the body races to catch up. Rebecca had grace with good posture.
"You two look like sisters," I said, because sometimes laughter is cheaper than fear. "Big sister, little sister. You can decide who's who."
"If I were her big sister, I'd be far less lenient," Rebecca said, and flicked Stacy's forehead with precision.
"Ow…" Stacy's ears flattened, tail swishing a little sulk into the air. "I said I was sorry."
"Anyway," I said, because my heart wanted out of my chest and I didn't want it to. "Where am I? And who exactly are you two?"
"Why are you asking her?" Stacy brightened immediately, as if chastisement were a gust of wind to tack against. She stepped closer, silver eyes shining. "I'm your mother."
"You don't look particularly reliable," I said without heat, glancing back to Rebecca. "I'll keep asking your big sister."
Rebecca laughed, quick and genuine. "I like her already."
"I can't believe my own daughter is looking down on me…" Stacy's tail drooped dramatically, like a theater curtain. Ears tipped out to the sides, performing sadness.
"Wait." The word crawled out of me, smaller than I meant it to be. "Mother?"
Now that I had time to look: demi-human. Silver fur. Balanced on the balls of her feet even when she wasn't moving. Pretty, yes, but bright with a kind of chaos that made your palms itch if you've ever had to dodge knives.
"Yes," Stacy said, perfectly matter-of-fact. "We adopted you."
"Why?" I asked, letting my suspicion show because pretending otherwise felt like asking for trouble. The word "adopted" slid against something raw in me.
"Because we were ordered to."
My mouth tasted like I'd bitten a coin. "So I'm supposed to become a weapon."
"Yes and no." Her tone shifted a half-step lower, ears angling forward as if to make sure the words didn't miss me. "My husband was ordered to train you. I refused. I brought you here instead, to our territory. You'll stay here until you're fifteen, and then we'll return to the capital." She tilted her head, and a lock of silver slid over her shoulder. "How does that sound?"
Not like a lie. Not like the truth, either. Something in between that real life favors. "Better than I expected you to say," I admitted. "My mind is… fine." Mostly. "My body's a mess."
"We'll have the doctor look at you," she said.
"Fine. Anything else I should know?"
"I think we should introduce ourselves properly," Stacy said, smiling enough to show a hint of fang. "I'm Stacy Draig, a demi-human like you. Former vice-captain of the Draig family's black ops. My likes are sweets and training; my dislikes are people who put themselves first. My dream? I already have it—my family. Rebecca?"
"Rebecca," Rebecca said, as if the name didn't need a surname because it was busy doing its job already. "Human. Likes and dislikes are private. Dream: be filthy rich." She crossed one leg over the other, shoes aligned neatly under the chair as if they'd been drilled together.
Stacy flicked her fingers toward me. "Your turn, kiddo."
"Disappointing news," I said, palms up. "I don't know who I am. Name's Kitsuna."
"Liar," Stacy said, not unkindly. "We know you're a reincarnate. Same as my daughter. That daddy's girl…" She winked. "Start over."
I sighed. The kind that deflates your shoulders. "Fine. My name was Shiro Adachi. Likes? Food, sports, weapons. Dislikes? Socializing. Introverts for the win. Dreams?" I considered the ceiling for a beat. "Don't have one."
"Shiro Adachi…" Stacy's ears tilted, listening inward. She tapped her chin with a claw-tipped nail, then snapped her fingers. "Oh! You were that class playboy. Or gangster. Or the teacher's pet—depends on who you ask. You were popular. My daughter Amari—Izumi Hitomi to you—hates you. Says you were stuck up. She grudgingly admits you were good at school and sports."
"Popular?" I echoed, because the word felt like a borrowed coat. "Could've fooled me. I wasn't exactly a people person."
Rebecca's brow arched. "Didn't Amari say Shiro was a guy?"
The air did a small, mean thing to my chest. My mood took the elevator shaft down a few floors. I didn't have to look in the mirror to know it showed on my face.
"Hey… Is it even possible to get more depressed?" Rebecca asked, genuinely puzzled, like she'd discovered a new science.
"My life's been hell," I said. "Depression is just the interest rate."
"I get that," she said with a little shrug that left the chair exactly where it was.
"What would you do," I asked, "if you woke up after seventeen years as a guy and found you were a girl?" I thumbed toward her. "Reverse it for you."
"Same as you," Stacy said, deadpan. "Depressed."
"See?" I said. "She gets it." I rolled my shoulders, winced, and made it look like I meant to do that. "Anyway. Moving on. Doctor. When?"
"He's already here," Rebecca said, standing and heading toward the door that—my brain did a double take—no longer lay in pieces across the floor. It stood where it belonged, whole, hinges shining like they were pleased with themselves.
I blinked. "…When did—wait, the door's fixed!?"
"The mansion has an auto-repair spell," Stacy said, as if she were telling me where the forks were kept. Her tail curled and uncurled, pleased by my surprise.
That tugged a little smile out of me despite myself. "That's… awesome."
Rebecca opened the fully reconstituted door with its fully reconstituted handle. "Doctor, you can come in now."
A short man with gray hair and a white lab coat walked in, and the room shrank to a point behind my ribs. The coat was too white. The smell of antiseptic rode ahead of him. His shoes made that soft tap that echoes in tiled corridors.
A light angles down. The world is all glare and shadow.
A gloved thumb presses a vein. "Good girl."
The needle enters, and the world—burn
"Aah, hello, little demon," he said, smiling in a way that showed a lot of teeth, and none of them friendly to my nervous system. "How do you feel?"
"Check me and fuck off," I said, and my body moved before my brain signed the permission slip. My hand lashed for his throat. He slipped back, surprisingly quickly. The motion threw me off balance; I clutched a pillow and whipped it at him. It spun end over end like a slow, fat shuriken.
"Eeeeh!?" He squeaked like a kettle. "The little demon is attacking me!"
He dodged the first pillow. I grabbed the second, surged to my feet, and my legs clocked out. I folded forward and kissed the floorboards with my face.
"You shouldn't move like that," Stacy sighed, already scooping me up with competent hands, setting me back on the bed as if I weighed nothing. Her ears tilted forward, listening for something only she knew to check, then eased back when she didn't hear it.
"Sorry, little demon," the doctor said—voice different now, careful around the edges. He kept his distance, which made him smarter than he looked. "I needed to assess your mental state. You seem stable overall. There will be triggers. Physically, you're in the worst condition. You need rest."
Gloves squeak on skin.
A cart rattles, metal on metal.
"Hold her." Hands on wrists. A strap tightens around an ankle. The buckle bites.
Do not cry. Do not blink. Count the breaths. Don't give them numbers to write down.
"How long before I start training?" I asked because if I didn't place my mind on a firm surface, it would slide away.
"A week, maybe more," he said. "Mostly muscle damage. Your connective tissues need recovery. Walking is acceptable. Strenuous training is not."
"That won't do," I said. A little more force than I intended, but at least it shoved the memories into a closet and held the door.
"So eager for power?" Stacy's voice went light, teasing, but her tail had stilled, which said she was watching harder than she let on.
"Do you blame me?" I asked and didn't add for wanting a lever big enough to move my own life.
She smiled in a way that had room for both teeth and warmth. Her ears angled toward me. "No. I don't. I'll help you get it—enough that your choices are yours."
"You know I might betray your kingdom, right?"
The room held its breath. Rebecca's hands didn't tighten, but I watched them anyway. The doctor pretended to check his pocket watch and checked me instead. Stacy's tail drew a lazy question mark in the air and then dropped the punctuation altogether.
"Meh," she said. "Wouldn't surprise me. Wouldn't change much."
Mask descending.
"You can scream if you want."
I don't.
I looked at her long enough to feel the urge to blink and refused to. The marks on my forearms gave a patient pulse I could almost time a breath to.
"I narrowed my eyes. "Why should I believe you?"