The morning air was sharp and biting, a chill that would have sent the old Lila burrowing deeper under her blanket. But this wasn't the old Lila anymore. This was her. The one who once stalked shadows, carried blades like extensions of her own hands, and never tolerated weakness—not in herself, not in anyone.
The digital alarm buzzed at 5:00 a.m. She silenced it with a flick, swung her heavy legs over the side of the bed, and stood. Her muscles groaned, her lungs burned from even the thought of what was coming, but she ignored it. Pain was a familiar friend.
She laced up the scuffed sneakers she found at the foot of the bed, stretched stiffly, then pushed herself out the door.
The street was nearly empty, save for the occasional hawker setting up for the day. Lila started jogging. Her new body was uncooperative—each step felt like she was dragging a bag of stones. Her chest heaved, her knees wobbled, and sweat poured down her forehead within minutes.
She muttered under her breath, "Pathetic. This body is pathetic."
But she didn't stop. She forced her legs to keep pounding against the pavement, her breath ragged but determined. Every step was war. Every drop of sweat was proof that she would reclaim control.
By the time she staggered back home nearly an hour later, her clothes clung damp against her skin, her face flushed. Her mother gave her a puzzled look from the kitchen doorway.
"Lila? Jogging?" Her mother tilted her head, frowning as though the sight didn't make sense.
Lila wiped her face with the hem of her shirt, forcing a straight expression. "Trying something new," she muttered, then went inside.
---
School – The Showdown
The whispers began as soon as she stepped into the hallway. Lila felt the eyes on her—curious, mocking, testing. She ignored them, walking with her back straight, shoulders squared. The old Lila had shuffled and kept her head low, but not this one.
It didn't take long before the wolves circled.
"Look who decided to show up after fainting yesterday." One of the girls sneered, blocking her path. The others giggled, smirks plastered on their painted faces.
The leader, tall with arms crossed, leaned close. "You should be ashamed, Lila. Falling like a sack of meat. Maybe next time, we'll bury you properly."
The old Lila would've bowed her head, mumbled an apology, and walked away. But this Lila? She tilted her head, lips curving into a slow, dangerous smile.
"Funny," she said softly. "You bark a lot for someone who needs a pack to feel brave."
The hallway went silent.
The girls blinked, unsure if they'd heard right. Lila's gaze was unflinching, sharp as a blade.
"You think you scare me?" she added, stepping forward until the leader had to tilt her chin up. "I've faced men who kill for a living. And you? You're just little girls playing monster in the dark."
The smirk slid off the leader's face. The others shifted uncomfortably. For the first time, they had no comeback.
Someone gasped from the crowd that had gathered. Whispers spread like wildfire. "Did you hear that? Lila talking back?"
Satisfied, Lila brushed past them, her every step calm, deliberate, like a queen dismissing her subjects.
Behind her, the girls stood frozen, their pride torn to shreds.
---
In Class – Boredom of a Genius
By the time the math teacher droned on about quadratic equations, Lila was fighting to stay awake—not because she didn't understand, but because it was insultingly simple.
She tapped her pen against the desk, muttering to herself, "These problems wouldn't even warm up my brain."
Her seatmate glanced at her strangely.
When the teacher called her to solve a question on the board, she rose lazily, scribbled down the solution in seconds, and walked back to her seat without even waiting for approval.
The teacher stared at the correct answer, blinking, while students whispered again.
Then, as though to insult them all, Lila leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.
She slept.
Right there in class.
---
The Debt Collectors
The peace didn't last.
That evening, the sharp pounding on the door rattled the whole house. Her mother flinched, her brothers stiffened.
"Open up! You think you can hide forever?" a rough voice barked.
Her eldest brother cursed under his breath, rising. "It's them again."
Before he could reach the door, it burst open. Three men in black jackets barged in, eyes gleaming with malice. They kicked over a stool, shoved a chair aside, and the crash echoed through the small home.
"Where's the money? Huh? You think debts vanish because your old man's rotting in the ground?" the leader spat.
Her brothers stood in front of their mother, fists clenched. "We said we'll pay—just give us time!"
"Time?" The leader grabbed a vase and hurled it against the wall, shattering it. "You've had time! Pay now, or we'll strip this house bare."
Lila stood in the corner, watching. Her assassin instincts screamed to intervene, to snap their necks and end the chaos. But she forced her hands to remain at her sides. Not yet.
Instead, she slipped silently into the back room, pulled out the battered phone, and sat on the bed.
Her fingers danced across the screen with muscle memory she hadn't forgotten. Firewalls fell. Codes unraveled. Within minutes, she hacked into the dormant account of Laura—her old self, her assassin identity.
Her lips curved. Still works.
She transferred exactly $2,000 into the debt collectors' boss's account.
---
The Shock
Minutes later, one of the men's phones rang. He answered, listened, then his face drained of color.
"Boss says… we're done here."
"What?" another snapped.
"Money came through. Two grand. Now shut up."
The three of them froze, exchanged glances, then, without another word, left.
Her brothers stared after them, wide-eyed.
"What just happened?" the younger one whispered.
Her mother's hands trembled as she clutched her chest.
The eldest turned to Lila, suspicion in his eyes. "What did you do?"
She walked out of the back room, face calm, expression unreadable.
"Nothing." Her tone was cold, final.
Before they could press further, she climbed the stairs to her room, leaving them speechless in the wreckage of their living room.
Miles away, in a darkened office lit only by the glow of monitors, a woman in black knelt before her superior.
"Sir," she said quietly, "we just traced a hack. Someone accessed Laura's account and withdrew $2,000."
The man, broad-shouldered with a scar across his cheek, froze. For a moment, silence filled the room.
Then his lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile.
"So… she's alive after all."