The hum of fluorescent lights was the only sound in the cramped café kitchen as Ruth Whitmore tied her apron and grabbed the stack of delivery bags waiting for her. The rich aroma of spiced noodles and fried chicken filled the air, but it did nothing to ease the knot in her stomach.
"Last one for the night, yeah?" called her boss, a middle-aged man who hadn't smiled once since she started three months ago.
"Yes, sir." Ruth's voice was low, barely audible over the sizzle of the fryer.
She stepped out into the icy London night, clutching the insulated bag tightly against her chest. The drizzle had turned into full-on rain, soaking through her threadbare hoodie within minutes. Her cheap sneakers squelched as she hurried to her bike parked at the curb. Her phone vibrated. A message from Mirabel.
> You're working AGAIN? Ruth, it's nearly midnight. Please let me help you this once.
Ruth's lips curved in a faint, weary smile.
Mirabel Carter. Bright. Beautiful. Unapologetically kind. She had been Ruth's only anchor since that rainy morning three years ago when they first met at King's College.
---
It had been her first day, and she'd walked into the lecture hall soaked to the skin, clutching her single worn-out backpack. The other students whispered in their designer coats and glossy heels, their laughter sharp and alien to Ruth's ears.
Then Mirabel appeared like sunlight cutting through storm clouds.
"Hey! You're sitting next to me," she had declared, tugging Ruth toward the empty seat beside her. "Ignore them. They're just bored rich kids playing status games."
Ruth had stared at her in surprise, unused to kindness without strings attached.
And yet, somehow, Mirabel had stayed.
---
But now, Ruth stared at her phone and typed back quickly with cold fingers.
> I'm fine. Don't worry. I'll pay my fees. I just need a few more shifts.
She didn't want pity. Not from Mirabel. Not from anyone.
Ruth pedaled hard against the slick pavement, ignoring the burning ache in her legs. Her life had been a marathon of survival ever since her parents died when she was seven.
She could still remember the way the social worker's perfume made her eyes water as she was led into her first foster home. The endless parade of strangers' houses, the whispered insults about "another charity case," and the way she clutched a single stuffed bear like it could shield her from the world.
At eighteen, she'd aged out of the system with nothing but a government stipend and an acceptance letter to King's College.
She thought things would get better.
They hadn't.
Rent. Tuition. Food. They all clawed at her every month like hungry wolves.
Now she was twenty-one and barely holding it together.
---
Her phone buzzed again. Another message.
> At least come over after work. You shouldn't be alone tonight.
Ruth didn't reply. She couldn't handle the idea of sitting in Mirabel's beautiful flat, warm and cozy, while she reeked of sweat and despair.
"I'm fine," she whispered to no one.
She wasn't.
---
The street was quiet except for the occasional splash of a passing car. Ruth's breath misted in the cold as she checked the address glowing on her cracked screen. Just one more delivery. Then she could go home to her tiny bedsit and collapse on her lumpy mattress.
She didn't see the black car speeding toward her until it was too late.
Headlights flared, blinding her.
The screech of brakes. The deafening blast of a horn.
No… not now…
She felt her body slam into the hood before everything went airborne. The insulated bag flew from her hands, spilling containers across the street. Pain shot through her ribs, sharp and unbearable, as she crashed onto the wet concrete.
The rain fell harder, soaking her hair, her clothes, her skin.
Voices shouted in the distance. Someone was calling for help.
Her eyes fluttered closed.
---
Somewhere deep inside the blackness, she felt… warmth?
But it wasn't hers.
A voice echoed faintly—smooth, furious, and unfamiliar.
"This isn't over. I'll rise again, even if I have to claw my way back from nothing."
Ruth's heart thudded weakly. Was she hallucinating?
But then she felt it—a strange heat spreading through her veins, as if a second heartbeat had synced with her own. Memories not her own flashed like lightning: marble floors, a child's laughter, a man's cold smile.
Two lives. Two timelines. Colliding.
The last thing Ruth remembered was a soft whisper that seemed to curl around her very soul.
"We'll make them pay."
And then everything went dark.
---
The hospital room smelled of antiseptic when Ruth opened her eyes.
Bright lights stung her vision, and her chest ached with every breath. Machines beeped steadily nearby.
"Ruth!"
Mirabel's voice cracked as she burst into the room, her designer coat half-soaked from the rain. She rushed to the bed, clutching Ruth's cold hand.
"You're awake… thank God… I thought I—" Her voice broke into sobs.
Ruth blinked at her, disoriented.
"You were hit by a car! You've been unconscious for hours. Why didn't you let me help? Why are you always doing this to yourself?"
"I'm sorry," Ruth whispered, her voice hoarse.
But inside, she wasn't sorry.
She wasn't the same Ruth anymore.
Two hearts now beat as one in her chest—Ruth Whitmore's and Rameena Callahan-Stirling's.
And she knew, with a terrifying clarity, what she had to do.
---
That night, as Mirabel dozed in the chair beside her bed, Ruth stared out at the city skyline.
The skyscrapers glittered like beacons of power. Once untouchable. Once above her station.
Not anymore.
Her lips curled into a dangerous smile.
"This time," she whispered, her voice low and steady, "I'll rise from nothing. And when I do… I'll take it all back."