The mirror shows a stranger.
Dark hair, longer than I expected. The swelling around my right eye has gone down enough that I can see it's dark, brown, maybe, or very dark hazel. My jaw is covered in several days' worth of stubble, bruised purple along the right side. There's a cut above my left eyebrow, partially healed. The gash on my temple looks angry and red despite Isabella's care.
But it's not the injuries that make me stare.
It's the body beneath them.
I'm built like someone who's spent years training. Broad shoulders, defined muscles in my arms and chest and abdomen. Not gym-fit. Something harder. More purposeful. And scars, old ones, faded white lines that tell stories I can't remember. A long one across my ribs. Another on my shoulder. A small circular mark on my left bicep that could be a burn or a bullet wound.
My body has seen violence. A lot of it.
I touch the scar on my ribs, tracing the length of it. Six inches, maybe seven. Knife wound, probably. It's old, years healed, but it was deep.
Who am I? What kind of life leaves marks like these?
I don't have answers. Just questions that lead to more darkness.
I turn away from the mirror and step into the shower.
The water is lukewarm at best, but I don't care. I stand under the spray and watch days of blood and dirt and sweat circle the drain. The water stings the cuts, but the pain is cleansing somehow. Real. Proof that I'm alive, even if I don't know who I'm alive as.
I find soap, basic, unscented, and wash carefully. My ribs protest when I reach too high, and my head throbs with every movement, but I'm thorough. Washing my hair is the worst. The gash on my temple screams when I touch it, and I have to grip the shower wall to stay upright.
But eventually, I'm clean.
I turn off the water and step out, reaching for one of the towels Isabella left. It's old and thin but soft. I dry off slowly, carefully, trying not to reopen any of the cuts.
The clothes she brought are neatly folded on the toilet lid. I pick up the shirt first, a plain blue button-down, soft with age and washing. Her father's. A dead man's clothes.
I put it on anyway. It fits well enough across the shoulders, though it's slightly loose in the waist. I button it up, and my hands move with practiced efficiency. I've done this thousands of times before, even if I can't remember a single instance.
The pants are dark brown, casual. They fit better than the shirt. I zip them up and realize there's a belt coiled on top of the pile. I thread it through the loops.
And that's when something shifts.
My hands know exactly how to feed the belt through. Not just the mechanics of it, but the specific angle, the exact amount of tension. And more than that, my fingers instinctively check the weight of it. The thickness. Whether it could be used for something other than holding up pants.
I freeze, the belt half-threaded, staring at my hands.
What the hell was that?
I finish with the belt, but slower now, paying attention to every movement. When I'm done, I look at myself in the mirror again.
Better. I look almost human now. Still bruised and battered, but clean. Presentable.
I move to leave the bathroom, and that's when I notice it.
I'm walking differently than I did a moment ago. Not the careful, pained shuffle of an injured man. Something else. My weight is balanced. My steps are quiet. Almost silent on the tile floor.
I'm moving like I'm trying not to be heard.
I stop, forcing myself to walk normally. But it's hard. It feels wrong. Like my body wants to move this way, heel-toe, weight distributed, every step calculated for minimum sound.
Why would I know how to do that? Why would I need to know?
I push the thought away and leave the bathroom, making my way back down the hallway. The house is quiet except for the distant sound of a clock ticking. Elena must still be asleep.
Isabella is in the kitchen, washing dishes at the sink. She turns when she hears me, and something flickers in her expression.
