Xander carried the stunned woman into the new home and stepped through the doorway with her still in his arms before coming to a stop.
The space was larger than he expected. Beyond the entrance the apartment opened into a wide living area, and a glass wall on one side let the city lights glow through in soft blues and reds. A long gray couch faced a large black screen mounted on the wall, while the floor stretched smooth and pale, polished to a shine. Off to the side stood a kitchen with white counters and metal appliances, everything clean and sharp-edged.
The woman in his arms shifted.
"Can you let me go?"
Xander looked around. "Where?"
She pointed to a chair with wheels, her voice cold. "There. Drop me there."
He walked forward, set her down carefully, and straightened to look around once more.
"Is there somewhere I can wash my face?"
She adjusted her legs with her hands and pointed toward a door at the edge of the living room. Xander nodded, glanced at her pale, smooth face in the dim light a moment longer, then forced himself to turn and head for the bathroom.
The room felt strange, yet it had a mirror and a sink. He turned the tap, splashed water over his face, and looked up.
The face that stared back was not his.
It was a young face with black curly hair and brown eyes, the skin smooth and the jaw narrow, the expression in the mirror completely blank. He shook his head.
No. This is not me. What is happening?
He looked down at his hands. They were rough in a way that did not match the face at all. This could not be. He had died—he knew he had died—so how was he here?
Was this mind projection? No. His mind was too clear for that. Soul projection? He touched his own body and found it solid and warm, every sensation intact. He looked back at the mirror where the strange face stared out at him, then touched his cheek and felt his own fingers against the skin.
Well. I am here now. First I need to know who the people around me are and piece everything together. I must act the part. Know your enemies more than yourself.
He let out a slow breath and stared at his reflection.
Your new name is Orson.
He took a towel, dried his face, and walked out of the bathroom, pausing just before he opened the door.
Pretend you know she is your wife.
He stepped out.
The woman did not look up. She was focused on a flat device in her hands, its soft glow lighting her face, and Orson watched her for a moment without speaking. Then his stomach made a low sound. He touched it, glanced at her again, and when she showed no sign of having heard he walked over and tapped her shoulder.
She looked up. "What?"
He pointed at his stomach.
She stared at him. "Wow. So what do you want me to do about it?"
Orson said nothing and simply kept looking at her. She looked back. The silence stretched until she finally spoke.
"Look, I know we’re married, but you don’t expect me to cook in this condition, right?"
More silence.
She sighed. "Why don’t we order something?"
Orson continued watching her. She shifted in her chair and looked past him.
"Just sit down on the couch while I order food."
She used a small remote and rolled the chair toward the dining table. Orson watched her move away, then walked to the living room. He did not notice the remote resting on the couch cushion, and the moment he sat the television turned on.
He jumped.
The screen was massive and bright. Men in colored uniforms ran across a green field, chasing a ball while the camera followed them from above and a crowd cheered somewhere off-screen.
Orson leaned forward.
They trap mortals inside a big box.
He watched the game with his head tilted. The rules made no sense. The men ran one way, stopped, then ran the other way. A whistle blew and the crowd roared.
Some time passed before the doorbell rang. Orson stood and approached the door, which was made of glass but tinted so that only one side could see through. He could see the person outside while the person could not see him. He opened it.
"Delivery for Miss Lenora Sloane."
Orson looked at the man, but before he could ask anything a sharp voice came from behind him.
"Yes, that’s us."
He turned. The woman sat in her chair near the dining table. Lenora. Her name is Lenora.
Orson took the food while Lenora signed the delivery man’s device. The man nodded and walked away.
They sat together at the dining table. The food was beef with sauce and soup, steam rising from the containers. Orson watched Lenora for a moment, then reached over and took her plate. She opened her mouth to protest but stopped when she saw him cutting the meat into small pieces, working slowly and carefully. When he finished he pushed the plate back to her.
They ate in silence.
After the meal Orson gathered the plates and washed them in the kitchen sink. When he finished he walked back to the living room and found Lenora trying to use her arms to lift herself from the chair toward the stairs. He did not think. He simply walked over and lifted her.
She opened her mouth, yet nothing came out. Her face turned red.
She pointed to the main bedroom on the second floor. He carried her up and into the room, where a large bed made with white sheets waited. He set her down gently.
She looked up at him, cheeks still flushed.
"I have to use the bathroom. To bathe. Before I sleep."
Orson looked at her. "Okay. Do you need help with your clothes?"
Lenora grabbed at her shirt and pulled it tight. "What do you think you’re about to do?"
"If I recall, we are married. So."
Her voice sharpened. "This is just a contract marriage that I had no choice but to agree to."
Orson studied her. A marriage of convenience. So someone had forced this. Who had Orson been before he woke up in this body? He had questions, yet asking them now could expose him, and unknown danger was a risk he could not take.
He nodded. "Okay. If you say so."
He lifted her again, carried her into the bathroom, and set her down on the edge of the tub.
She looked at the shower controls. "Just turn the water on and you can leave."
Orson examined the strange metal fixtures, turned the handle, and watched water pour from the showerhead. He nodded and left, closing the door behind him.
The bedroom was spacious. He looked around at the white walls and dark furniture, but before he could move Lenora shouted from the bathroom.
"Orson!"
He rushed in.
She stood braced against the edge of the sink, water dripping from her hair and clothes in slow heavy drops. The fabric clung to her skin. From the waist down she felt nothing—no cold, no wetness, no weight of the soaked cloth. Her legs hung useless and unresponsive. She could not shift them or feel whether they were still properly beneath her. Only the upper half of her body registered the chill and the drag of wet fabric.
"Help me," she said, her voice low and steady. "I need these off."
Orson stepped closer without a word, his expression flat and distant. He closed his eyes fully and reached for the hem of her shirt.
The moment his fingers brushed the bare skin just above her waist she felt it—a sharp jolt. His hands were colder than the water. Sensation stopped at the line where feeling ended, yet above it the contact was vivid.
She flinched.
"You’re doing that on purpose."
"No." His voice stayed even. "You’re shifting your upper body. Stay still."
He worked the shirt upward. The wet cloth dragged slowly over her ribs, catching for a second before peeling free. Every time his knuckles grazed her skin the same cold spark jumped beneath it, and she hated how her body reacted to the contrast of his chill against her damp heat. Her breath hitched.
He got the shirt over her head and dropped it to the floor with a wet slap.
Then he slid one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back before lifting her. She felt only the pressure against her torso and the shift of air. Her legs remained dead weight in his hold. He carried her the few steps to the tub and lowered her carefully onto the edge, keeping one knee braced against the side for balance.
"Hold still."
She gripped the rim while he worked the fastenings of her trousers open. She could not feel his fingers at her waist or the slow peel of fabric down her hips and thighs. The cloth simply disappeared from her vision. Cold air touched the skin of her stomach and the tops of her hips, yet below that there was nothing.
The trousers came free.
His boot slipped on the wet tile.
He pitched forward.
The tub caught them both. Water sloshed up around them as his weight landed fully on top of her, driving the air from her lungs. She felt the hard press of his chest against her bare breasts, the heat of his breath near her cheek, and the cold of one hand braced beside her head. Below her waist she felt nothing of the way their bodies had settled, nothing of the press of him between her unresponsive thighs, nothing of the complete exposure of her lower body. Only the upper half of her registered the sudden full contact of skin against wet cloth.
Silence.
Water lapped softly against the porcelain.
Lenora’s eyes were wide. Orson’s were open now too. He stared down at her, his face only inches from hers, expression still blank with the same controlled coldness he always wore. Yet something in the set of his shoulders had changed—a faint tension. His gaze did not slide away. The sight of her completely bare beneath him had registered. It did not soften his face or color his skin; it simply held him there a fraction longer than necessary.
She looked back at him with the same proud, distant set to her mouth, the same refusal to show weakness, even as her cheeks burned.
"Get off me," she said, her voice sharp.
He did not move at once. The pause was brief.
Then her hand cracked across his cheek, the sharp sound echoing off the tiled walls.