CHAPTER 1: The Girl Who Died

Elena/Ileana Pov.

I gasped, my eyes flying open as cold air rushed into my lungs.

For several seconds, I couldn’t move. I lay on a hard metallic surface, staring up at a harsh, flickering white light that made my eyes burn.

My chest heaved rapidly as I fought to gather my thoughts.

The last thing I remembered was my office in Bucharest. The floor-to-ceiling windows. Andrei’s worried voice. The sudden, agonizing collapse as my body gave out.

Then blackness.

I slowly turned my head. This wasn’t my office.

The room was small, cold, and smelled strongly of bleach and old copper. Heavy leather straps bound my wrists and ankles tightly to the metal table.

‘A hospital? Had Andrei managed to get me to a medical center in time?’

I tried to sit up, but a sharp, burning pain shot through my limbs, and the leather cut deep into my skin. I froze.

My wrists were covered in deep, ugly purple bruises under the bindings. Some were fading, but others were fresh.

I had spent my entire life as an assassin and syndicate boss, keeping my body in peak physical condition. My hands were supposed to be calloused, strong, and lethal.

These hands were small, thin, and fragile. The skin was so pale I could trace the blue veins beneath it.

Before I could process what was happening, I felt a heavy pressure against my skin.

A man in a stained white coat was leaning over me. He wasn't checking my pulse. His hands were reaching beneath the wet hospital dress stuck to my body, his touch slow and dirty.

"What the hell are you doing?" I rasped.

My voice sounded wrong. It was light, soft, and completely stripped of my usual Romanian accent.

The man froze instantly. He slowly looked up, his face draining of all color until he looked like a ghost.

"You're... you're awake?" he stammered, his lips trembling.

Before I could answer, a sudden, blinding agony exploded behind my eyes.

A flash.

Cold water drowning my face. A metallic table. This exact room.

The same man in the white coat standing above me, smirking as he turned a dial on a humming machine.

Electricity tearing through my muscles. Searing pain. A frantic scream cut short by starving lungs.

Another flash.

The same man laughing as I wept. "Hold her down. She doesn't get to rest."

I gasped, squeezing my eyes shut as the images burned through my brain.

‘Please stop,’ a soft, broken voice whispered from somewhere deep inside my mind. ‘Please, someone make it stop.’

I opened my eyes, my breathing shallow and fast. I stared at the man standing over me.

I didn't know him. Yet every nerve in this fragile body remembered the touch of his hands and the sound of his voice.

The memory didn't belong to me, nor did the overwhelming terror trapped in my chest.

I don't beg, I reminded myself, forcing my cold, assassin instincts to override the panic. I kill.

My fingers strained against the leather restraint on my right arm. A stainless-steel tray sat on the small table beside me. Among the gauze and medical bowls lay a clean silver scalpel, just within reach.

The doctor stepped backward, his voice shaking. "Wait... stay calm—"

I didn't waste a second. Stretching my fingers to their absolute limit, I hooked the scalpel’s handle and pulled it into my palm

With a swift twist of my wrist, I angled the blade beneath the worn leather strap binding my right arm, slicing cleanly through the hide.

My hand broke free.

My body moved on pure reflex. Despite the weakness in my muscles, my combat instinct was flawless. I reached up, grabbed the front of his collar, and yanked him down toward me.

His eyes widened in shock.

I whipped the scalpel across his throat in one smooth, sweeping motion.

Blood sprayed across my face and the damp white hospital dress. He made a wet, gurgling sound, clutching his neck as he stumbled backward and collapsed heavily onto the floor, twitching once before going still.

Reaching down, I used the scalpel to slice through the remaining straps on my left wrist and ankles. I sat up on the metal table, wiping the blood from my cheek with the back of my hand.

I stared at the corpse. I had killed dozens of men in my life. The sight of blood felt completely natural to me, but the sheer lack of physical strength in my arms was terrifying.

My gaze shifted toward the polished steel tray beside me. I picked it up, holding the reflective metal in front of my face.

I froze.

The woman staring back at me wasn't me.

Long, matted raven-black hair hung around a pale, delicate face. Striking emerald-green eyes stared back at me in total shock.

It was an ethereal, heartbreakingly beautiful face—and it was completely unfamiliar.

I slowly raised a trembling hand and touched my cheek. The reflection did the exact same thing.

"No," I whispered. My fingers moved down to my jawline, tracing the bone. "This isn't my face. What did you do to me?"

I looked down at the dead doctor on the floor. "Did you switch my face?"

The heavy wooden door burst open.

A middle-aged nurse stepped inside, carrying a clipboard. She took one look at the pool of blood spreading across the floor, then at the doctor's lifeless body.

Her clipboard clattered to the ground.

She opened her mouth and let out a blood-curdling scream.

I swung my legs off the table, raising the stainless-steel tray defensively as my feet touched the cold tile floor. "Shut up and stay back!"

The nurse stumbled backward against the wall, her hands trembling violently as she stared at me. "Miss... Miss Ileana, please! Calm down!"

I paused, my brows drawing together. "Who?"

"Ileana," she choked out.

The name struck something deep inside my brain. A sudden, sharp pain flared behind my ribs.

A memory flared: A gentle woman with kind green eyes, stroking my hair while singing a soft lullaby in Romanian.

Mama.

My head throbbed violently. I gripped the edge of the metal table to keep my balance.

Another memory: Heavy iron gates swinging shut. A younger version of this body being dragged across the gravel by two large guards.

A stern man, a polished woman, and a young girl standing by a luxury car, watching with satisfied smiles.

The girl in the memory was sobbing, screaming until her throat was raw: "I'm not crazy! Father, please! I'm not crazy! Let me go!"

The memory vanished as fast as it came, leaving me breathless and dizzy.

"What..." I pressed my palm against my forehead, my heart hammering against my ribs. "What was that?"

The nurse stared at me like I was a monster. "You... you don't remember?"

"Remember what? Where the fuck am I?"

"You're at Saint Aurelia Psychiatric Institution," she stammered, her voice barely a whisper. "In Verona."

Verona. Italy.

My stomach dropped.

I had been in Bucharest. I died on the floor of my own office in Romania. So why was I standing in a mental asylum in Italy? And whose body was I wearing?

A sudden surge of foreign emotion washed through me—bitter sorrow, helpless rage, and years of suffocating despair. None of it belonged to me.

I pressed my hand firmly against my chest. It felt as if another soul had left its painful echoes trapped inside these bones.

The nurse swallowed hard, taking another inch toward the door. "He… was just prepping your body. You were pronounced dead an hour ago."

"Dead," I repeated softly.

I remembered dying. My heart had stopped.

And whoever had owned this body had died too, under the torture of electric shocks and cold water.

Before I could ask another question, frantic shouting echoed down the hallway outside.

"Doctor Vane! In here!"

"Get the orderlies!"

"She killed the assistant! Secure the room!"

Heavy, rushed footsteps thundered toward the door. My assassin instincts instantly kicked in. Danger was coming, and this body was far too weak to sustain a prolonged fight.

I tightened my grip on the small scalpel.

The door slammed open. Four large men in white overalls rushed into the room, their faces covered by medical masks.

Heavy plastic tasers crackled in their hands, bright blue sparks jumping between the metal prongs.

Behind them stepped a taller man with graying hair and a sharp, cruel face. His nametag read Dr. Vane.

The moment my eyes landed on him, a violent wave of hatred surged from the deepest dark corners of my heart.

Another memory hit me like a physical blow: Dr. Vane's face hovering above me, his voice cold and amused.

"Do you have any idea how much your father pays us every month, Ileana? They want you broken. They want you forgotten."

Electricity. Agony. Cold laughter.

And a final, dying wish: I wish I was strong enough to make them pay.

I stared at Dr. Vane. The urge to rip his throat out was overwhelming.

Something inside me was begging for blood.

Was it my anger—or hers?

Dr. Vane stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes moved from the dead assistant on the floor to me, his jaw dropping in absolute disbelief. "You..." he breathed. "You were flatlined. You were dead!"

A slow, dark smile crept onto my face. I tilted my head to the side, my eyes fixing on him with a dangerous, unhinged focus.

"Apparently not," I said softly.

Dr. Vane's shock quickly morphed into deep fury. He stepped back, pointing a finger at me. "What are you standing there for? Get in there and hold her down! Double the dosage!"

The four orderlies stepped forward, their tasers sparking loudly.

In the memory fragments, the timid, broken girl named Ileana would have cowered in the corner. She would have dropped to her knees and begged for mercy.

But the woman standing in front of them now was a dead predator in a new skin.

I rolled my shoulders, cracking my neck with a subtle tilt of my head. A cold, unhinged smirk stretched across my lips.

"But I only just got here," I murmured, my voice dripping with quiet dark amusement. "At least offer me some tea first."

The orderlies hesitated, exchanging confused glances.

Dr. Vane's face turned red. "You crazy bitch!" he yelled in Italian. "Subdue her now!"

I pointed the bloody scalpel toward Dr. Vane, tilting my head even further to the side, my emerald eyes wide and terrifyingly calm.

"I have no issue with any of you," I said softly, staring right through the men. "Why don't you just step aside and give him to me?"

The orderlies froze, visibly unsettled by the sadistic smile on my face.

"Move, you fools!" Dr. Vane screamed from the doorway.

The men raised their tasers and stepped toward me again.

I tightened my grip on the silver scalpel, letting the crazy, bloodthirsty warmth take over my fragile new limbs. I didn't know how I was alive. I didn't know why I was in Italy.

But I knew how to butcher a man.

I smiled, my eyes gleaming in the harsh fluorescent light.

"All right, then," I whispered. "I gave you a chance. Bring it on."