Then—I woke up screaming.
Not from the bullet in my chest, but from the ungodly, ear-splitting luxury of a first-class train compartment. My eyes snapped open to polished mahogany, velvet upholstery, and a steady, teeth-rattling clack-clack vibrating up my spine.
Hand under the coat. No holster. No blades. Nothing. Diagnostic run: door locked, reinforced glass, zero weapons. Two escape routes if I kicked out the window. Manageable.
Then I looked into the brass mirror.
My fingers were long, manicured, and completely wrong. A violently expensive silk dress wrapped around a body that definitely belonged to a fresh-faced woman in her early twenties. I grabbed my hair—long, jet-black, cascading past my shoulders—and stared.
Tan skin. Sharp, blood-red eyes. An expression of pure, predatory murder.
“No.”
Ding.
The door slid open, and a sweating conductor bowed so low his nose nearly brushed the carpet.
“Lady Tiara! We are approaching the capital station. The Duke’s escort is waiting.”
Tiara.
The name hit me like a runaway freight train. A tidal wave of someone else's memories slammed into my skull like a blender set to "trauma": The elite Carter Duchy. A tragic kidnapping twenty years ago. A massive nationwide manhunt for a missing heiress everyone assumed was bird food.
Great. I wasn't just a dead hitwoman—I was Tiara Carter, the long-lost daughter of the empire’s most terrifying duke. Half the vultures in high society had spent two decades carving up my inheritance.
Sucks to be them. The underworld's deadliest blade was back, and she wasn't serving tea—she was serving collateral damage.
I raised a hand, and a faint silver shimmer rippled over my fingers. I reached toward the far wall. Pop. Space folded like a cheap accordion. My hand touched the wood instantly without me moving an inch.
Oh, look. Upgrades.
Spatial Manipulation: Distort distance, fold trajectories, compress dimensions, and probably decapitate a guy from two rooms over.
Biological Regeneration: A paper cut on my finger sealed itself shut in real time.
A slow, vicious grin spread across my face. My old body was a fine-tuned weapon, but this new chassis could rewrite physics for fun.
The conductor reached for my heavy trunk. “Allow me, Lady—”
“Don't.”
He froze. I flicked my wrist. Space folded, the trunk vanished, and reappeared a second later with a floor-cracking THUD directly on his toes.
The poor guy nearly leaped into the ceiling.
Outside, the train screeched to a halt at a platform packed with flashing cameras, nervous guards, and pale cousins looking like they'd just swallowed a brick.
“Is that really her?”
“After twenty years?!”
“God help the relatives who spent her trust fund.”
I stepped onto the platform to a chorus of gasps. Fear was a fantastic accessory, and taking back my empire was going to be an absolute bloodbath.