The scream tore from Maya's throat before she even realized it.
Her mother's coffee mug hit the floor, shattering across the tile, just as the front door exploded inward. Masked men flooded the living room, shadows against the warm glow of the chandelier. Her father moved fast—too fast for a man who still wore his work tie—lunging toward her with one arm outstretched, the other already bleeding.
"Maya, run!"
She didn't. Couldn't. Feet locked, lungs burning, she stood frozen in the middle of the brownstone's open kitchen as chaos erupted.
Gunfire cracked like fireworks. Her brother slumped against the wall, his eyes wide in disbelief before closing forever. Her mother's hand, the same one that used to smooth Maya's hair before every club soccer game, reached for her—and then fell limp.
Her father was last. He staggered, blood pooling across the polished wood floor, his eyes locking on hers with one silent plea: don't let this be the end of you too.
Then silence. Deafening silence, except for her own ragged breathing.
Maya's body finally remembered how to move. She dropped to her knees, hands slipping in blood as she crawled to her family, to warmth already fading. Her sobs filled the air, shaking, begging for a rewind button the universe would never give her.
A heavy boot slammed the floor behind her. She flinched, heart ready to burst—until a female voice cut sharp through the ringing in her ears.
"Federal agents! Down!"
Dark-clad figures swarmed the wreckage, this time not intruders but saviors—or close enough. Someone grabbed Maya, yanking her to her feet. She fought at first, clawing, screaming, but arms like steel pinned her tight.
"You're safe," the agent murmured, though the lie stung. "We've got you."
She wasn't safe. Her family lay broken on the floor.
The next minutes blurred—sirens outside, neighbors screaming, flashing lights washing the Victorian windows in red and blue. She stumbled through the front door barefoot, the Chicago winter cutting into her skin. A blanket landed on her shoulders. Someone pressed a bottle of water into her hands, but she couldn't grip it. Her nails were still painted for homecoming the next night—silver polish chipped now, streaked with her brother's blood.
"Name?" one officer barked.
"Maya Castellanos," the female agent answered for her. She was Asian, maybe mid-thirties, her dark ponytail streaked with gray. Sharp eyes missed nothing. "She's the witness."
Witness. That word dug into Maya's brain like a splinter.
She was the only one left.
–––
Hours bled together. An interrogation room—no, "debriefing center." Endless questions. Did she see their faces? Did she know who they were? Could she testify?
Maya's voice cracked until it vanished completely. Her throat raw, tears gone, she stared at the tabletop's reflection of the single overhead bulb.
The female agent leaned forward, voice softer now. "Maya, listen to me. I'm Agent Sarah Chen. I'm here to protect you. But you need to understand—this isn't over. Whoever ordered that hit will come looking for you."
Maya's stomach flipped. Her club teammates, her best friend Marisol, Coach Diaz—they all thought she'd see them Monday at training. She wouldn't. She'd never go back.
"I don't…" Maya's words came out like sand. "I don't have anywhere to go."
"You have us," Chen said firmly. "And from tonight on, you're under federal protection."
The word protection sounded flimsy. Like a plastic cup against a hurricane.
–––
By dawn, she was moving.
An unmarked SUV swept her from the city, away from the skyline she used to dream beneath. O'Hare's Terminal 3 swallowed her whole, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Chen walked beside her, close enough to shield her but not close enough to draw stares.
"Head down," Chen muttered. "Don't look at security cameras. Don't wave. Don't cry."
Maya obeyed. Her carry-on felt like lead in her hand, though it held only a hastily stuffed sweatshirt, a pair of sneakers, and a photo she couldn't let go of—her family smiling at last summer's tournament in St. Louis, all of them sunburned and happy.
The gate announcement echoed: Denver boarding now.
Her pulse drummed faster. She wanted to scream, to tell the truth to every stranger brushing past her. My family's dead. I don't belong here. Don't let me disappear.
Instead, she followed Chen down the jet bridge.
–––
On the plane, she curled against the window, hoodie pulled over her face. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw it again—the flash, the spray, the stillness. Her hands itched with phantom blood.
Chen leaned across the aisle. "We're building your cover story. You're transferring from a prep school in Denver. No ties to Chicago. No friends to call."
Maya swallowed hard. Her whole life erased in a sentence.
"Why Denver?"
"Far enough to make sense. Close enough to be believable. Don't question it. Just memorize."
The hum of the engines drowned her reply.
–––
By the time they landed in Los Angeles, Maya felt hollow. Hours later, the SUV wound through palm-lined streets, golden California sun mocking her with its warmth. Ocean air replaced the bite of Midwest winter.
The campus gates rose ahead—ornate ironwork spelling out PACIFIC ELITE ACADEMY. The letters gleamed in the light, proud, eternal.
"Soccer boarding school," Chen said, as if that explained everything. "One of the best in the country. Perfect cover. You blend in, you play, you survive."
Maya blinked at her. "Soccer?"
"You're good, aren't you?"
Her throat tightened. Soccer had been joy, family weekends, her father yelling at refs, her mother packing orange slices. Now it was supposed to be camouflage.
Chen parked, turned to face her fully. "Listen. You're starting over here. Nobody can know who you are. Nobody can know what you saw. You breathe a word, you're dead."
Maya's hands shook in her lap. She nodded, though her lungs felt too tight to draw breath.
Chen studied her a long moment, then slid an envelope from her coat. She pressed it into Maya's hands. "This is everything. Your new life. Open it."
Maya tore the flap. Inside: forged documents, school ID, driver's license. A new name stamped in bold letters.
Alex Rivera.
Her chest collapsed inward. Her life stolen, repackaged.
Her voice barely escaped. "What if someone finds out?"
Chen's eyes hardened. "They won't. Or you die."
–––
Maya sat rigid in the SUV long after the engine clicked off. Students in navy blazers streamed across the courtyard beyond the gates, laughing, shoving each other, carefree.
She felt centuries older than them.
Chen placed a hand on her shoulder—gentle, but unyielding. "One more thing."
Maya turned, desperate for some shred of humanity.
Chen's gaze cut through her. "From now on, you're not her. You're him."
The words hit like a second gunshot.
–––