Even in her previous life as G-69, she had worked with plenty of men. Soldiers, researchers, the occasional scavenger who still remembered how to aim. None of them had looked quite like this man.
Oleander’s hazel eyes carried a coolness that made it hard to look away. Not cold exactly. More like he kept every thought neatly where it belonged.
His presence reminded her of a bowl of clear chicken broth she once made for soldiers after a long zombie raid. Nothing fancy—chicken bones, charred ginger, wild greens, a little salt.
Jasmine had always believed real strength was like good broth. It didn’t need to shout. It just had to hold everything together.
Impressive without trying to be.
"See?" Tansy scoffed. "She’s drooling all over him."
"Tansy. Enough. Don’t pour oil on the fire."
Oleander’s frown was mild, but it was enough. Tansy instantly pressed her lips together.
Jasmine watched her. Maybe the girl’s mouth had a medical condition that made prolonged silence painful.
Oleander stepped closer to the bed and examined Rosalie from head to toe. Jasmine moved to the opposite side and did the same.
He looked intelligent. Possibly intelligent enough to discuss things instead of immediately accusing her of murder.
"Did you poison her?"
Jasmine’s mouth opened a fraction. He had asked first. She closed it again and swallowed against the dryness in her throat.
"No."
"Then what happened?"
"I already said. I don’t remember."
"Liar!" The mother cut in at once. "How could you not remember? You followed her to District 5 even after she forbade you! You knew how dangerous that place was, yet you still insisted!"
Jasmine took a slow breath. Finally. Something useful.
Two hours of insults, and this was the first piece of actual information. Dangerous District. So this world wasn’t peaceful either.
She had wondered earlier if she had landed in some other corner of her old post-apocalyptic world. But that seemed not the case. The security here looked better, the buildings tighter, and there was no morrowbane. Future? Past? Something sideways? None of the options felt clean.
"I didn’t see her arrive with Rosalie when she came for guiding me," Oleander said, glancing between the mother and Jasmine.
"She left after Rosalie did."
"But she’s E-Rank. The guards wouldn’t have let her through the perimeter."
"Ole!" Tansy jumped in again. "She’s Jasmine. She can flirt with D-Rank guards with that fake-innocent act of hers. My friend saw her leaving a motel club with a couple of them last week!"
Jasmine kept examining Rosalie while the accusations continued. Apparently she was also receiving a free, detailed update on the previous owner’s hobbies.
Interesting. Just how much trouble had this body managed to collect in one lifetime? And what kind of life required that many poor decisions?
Her eyes moved over Rosalie again. Something caught her attention near the side of the neck, half-hidden by white hair.
She leaned in. Her fingers started to reach—
"Don’t you dare touch my daughter, you filthy mutt!"
The mother grabbed her arm and yanked. Jasmine lost her balance and slammed into the wardrobe with a heavy crack before sliding to the floor.
Several people gasped.
Jasmine only flinched, eyes closing briefly against the dull spread of pain across her back.
Even the mother looked faintly startled by how little reaction she got. The hesitation lasted less than a second.
"I should never have let my stupid husband bring you into this house."
She raised her hand again.
Another hand caught her wrist before it could land. Oleander stepped between them, expression tightening.
"Please calm yourself, Mrs. Trunken."
"Calm? My daughter is dead! Your fiance is dead! How can you still be calm? I want to tear that bastard child apart!"
"There is no proof she killed Rosalie," Oleander said, voice steady. "The only fact we have is that she was found with the body. We’ll do an autopsy. From this point, the case belongs to the Federation. I need your husband to sign the permit."
He lowered the mother’s hand and gave it a brief, careful squeeze. "I promise I’ll see this through properly."
"I’ll call my husband." The mother pulled free and headed for the door.
Jasmine watched Oleander’s back.
Had he just taken her side?
The mother’s sharp glare made her drop the thought. She focused instead on her own hands. They were trembling as she tried to push herself up. The pain in her back was manageable. The shaking was not.
Why was this body so dramatically weak about everything?
The core inside her had already started fading. A few minutes of usable strength, then nothing. Well, she had never been an E-Rank before. In her old life, G-69 had been the strongest S-Rank test subject they had. Surviving in this body was going to require patience she wasn’t sure she possessed.
While she struggled, Oleander crouched in front of her. Their eyes met. He studied her face longer than necessary, frown deepening.
Jasmine’s brows twitched.
"If you’re not going to help me up, could you move?"
He blinked, clearly not expecting the bluntness.
"Do you really not remember?"
She exhaled. Explaining things twice had never been her favorite activity.
"You won’t believe me without proof. So how exactly am I supposed to prove amnesia?"
For now, playing the amnesiac victim was safer than announcing she wasn’t the original Jasmine. She still knew too little about the rules here.
Oleander looked down and let out a short, almost silent chuckle. It vanished as quickly as it appeared. When he met her eyes again, the composure was back.
"I know the fastest way to prove it. But let the professors decide. Come on. You’re coming with me."
He held out a hand.
Jasmine stared at it. She was usually the one offering help. Being on the receiving end felt wrong, like wearing someone else’s gloves. The last time she took someone else’s hand, she had ended up dead in a lab.
Her fingers stayed on the floor.
Oleander didn’t wait. He simply took her arm, hooked it over his shoulder, and pulled her up.
She tried to push back, but she was too weak to retaliate. Her feet touched the ground, and her knees immediately informed her that they were not prepared for the responsibility.
Damn it. This body was committed to being difficult.
His arm settled around her waist to keep her upright.
"Argh—"
"Does your lower back hurt?"
"I think so."
He shifted his hold higher, taking more of her weight. The room filled with fresh whispers.
"Ole!" Tansy yelped. "You’re actually helping her?"
An older man with silver hair and a matching mustache hurried in, the mother right behind him.
"Oleander! Are you caring for her right now?"
"Ole! How can you hold her like that in front of your dead fiancée?" the mother demanded.
Oleander looked at her, unimpressed.
"Would you prefer I let her fall?"
The mother opened her mouth and closed it again.
"I wouldn’t need to help Jasmine if you had controlled your temper earlier, Mrs. Trunken."
"Wait... what did you do?" The older man turned to his wife, then to Jasmine. The concern on his face was so open it made her shoulders tense. He looked like he wanted to come closer but wasn’t sure he was allowed.
Something warm and unfamiliar stirred in her chest. She didn’t recognize it and didn’t particularly want to. She kept her expression blank.
Then his gaze landed on Rosalie. Everything in his face changed. He went to the bed, dropped to his knees, and took his daughter’s hand.
"How could this happen to you, child?" His voice broke. "How could you leave before your parents?"
He started to cry. The mother sank down beside him. Within moments, both of them were sobbing. Tansy stood behind them, patting their backs with the careful rhythm of someone who knew the expected motions.
Jasmine watched.
Grief. She had seen it often enough. Inefficient, messy, and still necessary. People needed a way to respect the dead.
"Mr. Trunken, sorry to interrupt." Oleander’s voice cut cleanly through the crying. "I need your signature for the autopsy permit. I sent it to your BeepAir."
"Ah... right. Right." The older man wiped his face, stood, and tapped the device on his wrist. Then his fingers moved through empty air. A faint translucent screen flickered into existence.
Jasmine’s eyes stayed on it.
Holographic interface. Cleaner than anything she had used before. This world had better toys.
He finished and lowered his hand. "I’ve sent it back. Please take care of my daughter’s case."
Oleander checked his own wrist, and nodded.
Despite the continuous complaints from this body, Jasmine found herself curious. The place was strange, clearly dangerous, and apparently better equipped than the one she had left.
"The Cleaner team will collect Rosalie’s body soon," Oleander said. "I’m taking Jasmine with me now."
"You’re taking her already?" Mr. Trunken’s concern returned. "She hasn’t been sentenced, has she?"
"Husband! Why do you keep defending that killer?" The mother hit his arm.
He brushed her hand away. "There’s still no proof. And Jasmine is also my daughter. And..." His eyes moved between Oleander and Jasmine, hesitant. "The engagement with the Barlon family still has to proceed, doesn’t it? Right, Oleander?"
"Husband! You can’t mean—"
"Uncle!" Tansy cut in. "Rosalie’s body isn’t even cold and you’re already talking about marriage arrangements? With her killer?"
Jasmine mostly tuned them out. A dull throb was spreading through her lower back, and standing was becoming a negotiation.
She leaned slightly toward Oleander.
"If you’re taking me somewhere to treat me, can we go soon? My body feels weird."
He gave her a brief look that might have been reassurance.
"Regarding that, Mr. Trunken." His voice rose just enough to stop the argument. "My father will summon you later. I’ll take my leave now."
"Why do you have to take her yourself?" Tansy demanded. "Let the guards do it."
"No need." Oleander’s tone left no room for discussion. "This is faster."
He closed his eyes.
A soft current of air moved through the room. Jasmine barely had time to register the shift before the bedroom stretched, thinned, and disappeared.
One moment they were there.
The next, they weren’t.
The people left behind stared at the empty space, each wearing their own private mix of shock, anger, and the sudden realization that they had lost control of the scene.