The stench of blood burned the throat, each breath thick with iron and rot—heavy as rusted nails on the tongue.
The floor glistened with crimson under the broken light, littered with shattered bottles, splintered crates, and shell casings that winked like stray coins beneath the dying bulb's stutter.
The warehouse groaned with age. Steel beams rattled when the wind pressed the walls, and somewhere water dripped in slow, steady rhythm from a crack in the roof. Each drop fell like a countdown, marking the seconds she didn't have.
Silver leaned against the wall, one arm clamped against her ribs where the bullet had torn through.
The cold concrete bit her back; her own blood warmed the floor beneath her. Her body screamed weakness, but her eyes refused it.
They scanned the room with the precision of a predator too wounded to pounce.
Three exits. Two blocked by collapsed shelving. One crowded.
Her gaze caught on the rough men at the door—faces scarred, postures loose, more brute than soldier. A few she recognized, and the recognition only made her scoff inside.
Boots scraped glass, dragging her attention to the figure stepping out of shadow. His steps were deliberate, savoring the silence like he owned it.
"Silver." His voice cut through the space, smooth and faintly amused, as if greeting an old friend. "This is a bad way to go out."
She said nothing. Her jaw clenched, eyes locked on him.
Words would only give him more than silence ever could.
He stepped closer, the flicker of light carving his face into hard lines. His pistol dangled loose at his side—not careless, just confident. He had already decided the outcome, and it wasn't in her favor.
"How about I make you a deal?" His tone was coaxing, patient. "You tell me who called… and I'll spare your life."
The words floated there, tempting, but Silver let them pass like smoke.
Her chest rose with a ragged breath, pain lancing sharp across her side, but her gaze never wavered.
He crouched in front of her, close enough that she could see the sheen of sweat on his temple, smell the bitter tang of cologne failing to mask gunpowder and grime. Tilting his head, he studied her like a puzzle he already knew wouldn't solve.
"Come on," he murmured. "You've always been tough. But nobody's tough enough to bleed out in silence."
The pistol tapped gently against her forehead, mock affection in the gesture. His eyes gleamed, waiting for her to break.
Silver's lips curved—barely, not even a smile, more the ghost of one. It wasn't humor. It was defiance.
He chuckled, shaking his head. "That's what I like about you. You ain't no snitch."
The warehouse held its breath. The bulb buzzed and sputtered, throwing his shadow jagged across the wall.
A rat scurried through rubble, claws scratching faintly on concrete.
Silver's pulse thudded in her ears, slowing as if her body already knew what was coming.
The world shrank until it was just this moment—the cold wall at her back, the taste of iron in her lungs, and the black circle of the muzzle hovering inches from her face.
She thought of nothing and everything all at once: scars earned, fights survived, promises broken.
Faces threatened to surface, but she shoved them back down. No room for regret. Only resolve.
If this was her end, she'd go out the way she always had—standing on defiance, even if her body crumpled on the ground.
His finger tightened on the trigger.
Pa!
The shot cracked like thunder, shattering the silence, drowning the bulb's buzz, swallowing the steady drip of water. For a heartbeat the world was nothing but sound—violent, final.
Silver jerked, the wall rushing sideways as the floor tilted beneath her. The stench of iron thickened, filling her chest, blinding her senses.
And then—
Nothing.
Darkness claimed the warehouse, merciless and absolute.
—————————————
Why so much light?
Silver's lashes fluttered open, squinting at the white glare of fluorescent bulbs. Disinfectant burned her lungs—too clean, too sharp. A steady beep pulsed in her ears, mechanical and relentless, a cruel contrast to the chaos she remembered: gunfire, blood, heat.
Her body felt alien. Hollow. Slow. Unresponsive.
If I remember right… I was shot.
Fragments clawed at her memory: the warehouse, the gun, the warmth of blood soaking her clothes. She turned her head—and froze.
A hand rested on the sheets. Pale. Smooth. Untouched.
Her breath hitched. This wasn't survival. This was… something else. Alive, yes—but not her own body.
Thin. Slender. Limbs too long. Muscles slack, skin blank where her scars should have been. And the cruelest truth: not even female. She was inside a teenage boy.
"What in the bloody hell…" Her throat rasped, pulse spiking. Nightmare. Joke. Both.
"He's awake—Enzo is awake!" A voice shrilled from the corridor, footsteps scattering down the sterile hall.
Enzo. Who?
She shoved the blanket aside. Legs buckled on the tile. Weakness screamed: this body wasn't hers.
Then her bladder reminded her sharply. Shit. I have to pee.
The restroom loomed. Heart hammering, she froze at the door. Every instinct screamed wrongness—stance, aim, balance. Hands trembled as she fumbled with the hospital pants, acutely aware that she was standing somewhere she had never stood like this before.
Her gaze dipped before she caught herself. Obvious. Almost laughable. The body was… generous. Of course it had to be.
She muttered a curse and moved. Every step felt wrong: muscles lagged, balance slipped, tile bit at her feet. Sweat prickled along her hairline, nerves taut. Still, instinct carried her forward.
The first touch of that body stopped her. Weight, shape, size—pressing a truth she couldn't name, churning her stomach. This wasn't her life. Not her body. Not her world.
She forced herself through the motions—clumsy, muttering curses at each slip. When she was done, she hauled the pants back and braced on the sink. Cold water splashed her palms, numbing her fingers. Enough to steady her.
Enough to look in the mirror.
The stranger staring back confirmed everything her mind had screamed. Lean. Gaunt. Black hair to the shoulders. Cheekbones sharp, skin stretched over hollow bones.
Tall—but diminished. Only the height echoed her own—once 6'4, now cruelly reduced to 6'1.
This body's a joke. Fragile. Hollow. How am I supposed to survive like this?
"Enzo! You shouldn't be standing—the doctor's waiting!"
A girl rushed in. Exhaustion dulled her glow, dark circles framing tired eyes. Messy hair fell over pale, luminous skin. Shoulders sagged beneath invisible weight, but her presence demanded attention.
Silver's sharp gaze lingered. Who is she? Why care?
A cold hand gripped her arm, tugging gently. Instinct flared, fight rose—but the body betrayed her. She yielded. Bitter thought gnawed: I already died once. What more can they take?
"My brother's terrified of hospitals," the girl told the doctor. "That's why he ran off."
Brother.
The word cut like glass. No wonder the body stilled near her. But Silver's lip curled faintly, suspicion simmering under borrowed eyes.
I'm not her brother. Not even close.