The first thing I noticed was the weakness.
I opened my eyes to a ceiling of rough wooden beams.
The smell of bread.
And woodsmoke.
A dull throb pulsed at the side of my skull — like I’d taken a stock to the temple.
I shifted.
My body felt wrong.
Too light.
I lifted my hands.
Thin wrists.
Narrow fingers.
“…What the hell?”
The voice wasn’t mine.
A stranger’s in my mouth.
I turned toward the dark glass of the window.
The reflection was faint — too blurred by shadows to make out much.
But when I curled my lip into the old scowl that once shut men up mid-sentence…
The face in the glass only pouted back.
Impossible.
Hands that couldn’t wrap a pistol grip.
Let alone break a nose.
Smudged, but no scars.
Faces flickered in my head, blurred but insistent.
A nun’s hand on a crystal.
A priest’s voice reciting words.
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Not my memories…
But they clung like smoke.
They told me my name was Harl.
Eight years old.
Dumped on the steps of Saint Odran’s Church.
I flexed my fingers.
One. Two. Three. Four.
The ritual that once steadied my aim.
Eight… years… old.
I’d survived forty-two.
In a world where men like me didn’t get happy endings.
And now I’d been reduced to this.
“From hitman to slum brat…”
My new voice rasped two octaves too high, like a kid playing tough.
If my old crew had heard me…
They’d have laughed themselves sick before putting a bullet in my head.
I pushed myself upright.
The shirt slipped off one narrow shoulder, hanging loose like a sack.
I swung my legs off the cot.
They dangled.
Nowhere near the floor.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
If this was a divine joke…
The gods had a sick sense of humor.
The door creaked open.
A nun stepped in — young, maybe mid-twenties, habit plain but her eyes warm.
“Thank the Saints…”
She pressed her hand to my forehead.
“No fever. That’s good.”
She hesitated. Then smiled gently.
“And don’t frown so hard. A proper young lady should smile more.”
“…Who are you again?”
Her eyes widened.
“You don’t remember?”
I shrugged.
“It’s alright. You’ve only been here a day.
The fall must have rattled you more than we thought.”
She sat beside me.
“Yesterday you came in from the rain.
We gave you the standard test — crystal in one hand, coin in the other.
If you’ve got the Gift, the crystal flares.”
As if a pistol wasn’t enough… now I’ve got to worry about fireballs.
“Did it?”
“You didn’t make it that far.
The priest started the blessing, you went pale, and dropped like a stone.”
She checked the side of my head with careful fingers.
“Lucky it’s just a lump.”
“So… no magic?”
She exhaled.
Relief spilling out.
“No. Ordinary. And that’s a blessing.
The Empire’s at war.
Gifted children get taken — trained, sent to the front.
Most don’t come back.”
I said nothing.
Because in the last flicker of that memory haze…
I saw it.
A pulse of light.
In the crystal.
“That’s good, then,” I lied.
She gave me a small, relieved smile.
Then stood.
“Rest. The bells will ring soon.”
A priest lingered at the end of the hall.
Half in shadow.
Expression blank — but something about him crawled under my skin.
Strange.
Why couldn’t I read this guy?
She left.
Closed the door softly behind her.
He waited a moment.
Then followed her out.
This second chance is for a quiet life.
No contracts.
No debts.
No one aiming for my head.
I won’t be noticed.
Not again.
If trouble comes…
I’ll end it the way I always have.
But I’ll stay hidden.
And I will survive.
Peace is the goal.
Clean hands?
…I don’t buy it.
But I’ll give it a shot.
The nun’s words came back to me:
“A proper young lady should smile more.”
A proper young lady.
…I wasn’t just a kid.
I was a girl!?
“Awesome. What’s next — pigtails and a skipping rope?”
Quiet life, huh?
Yeah, right.
The gods weren’t done with me yet.
