The snow fell like silent judges over Moscow's Presnensky District, each flake a witness to my final failure. Blood pooled beneath my tactical gear, spreading across the pristine white ground outside the Federatsiya Tower. Twenty years of perfect executions, and this is how it ends—bleeding out on foreign soil because I got cocky. The bitter Russian winter seeped through my kevlar vest, a cruel contrast to the warmth spreading from the sniper's bullet lodged in my chest.

  Some elite operative I turned out to be. I'd spent two decades as the go-to assassin for clients who could afford perfection, building a reputation that made governments shudder. Now I was just another body cooling in the Moscow snow, my target safely evacuated while I lay dying.

  My mind drifted to the faces—God, all those faces. The young environmental activist in Prague who'd begged for his children's lives before I put two rounds in his chest. The quantum physicist in Berlin whose last words were a desperate plea for more time to finish his research. The tech mogul in Dubai who never saw the garrote wire coming. Each kill had been clinical, precise, professional. But now, as my own blood painted the snow crimson, their eyes stared back at me from the darkness. They probably felt just like this—cold, alone, wondering if any of it was worth it.

  The metallic taste of copper filled my mouth as I coughed, each spasm sending white-hot agony through my chest. Amateur mistake. Never take the same sniper position twice. The rival operative had studied my patterns, predicted where I'd set up for the shot. Twenty years of playing God had made me believe in my own invincibility. Arrogance kills faster than bullets.

  What a joke. I'd earned millions but never owned a home, living instead in safe houses and five-star hotels. Never planted a garden, never adopted a pet, never felt the simple joy of waking up next to someone who knew my real name. The organization had promised wealth, purpose, power. Instead, they'd hollowed me out one contract at a time, until Natalie Blackwood became just another cover identity I couldn't remember creating.

  My fingers were going numb now, the infamous Moscow winter claiming them inch by inch. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed—a mournful song for a life wasted in service to death. How many times had I disappeared into the shadows while similar sirens raced toward my handiwork? The irony wasn't lost on me as I lay dying in the same city where I'd carried out my first contract.

  "I want another chance," I whispered to the universe, watching my breath form crystals in the frigid air. "Just one more opportunity to truly live."

  Then darkness claimed me, and the snow continued to fall over Moscow's indifferent streets.

  .......

  I woke with a gasp, my hand instinctively searching for the fatal wound. Instead, I found myself in suburban Connecticut, consciousness a violent, jarring intrusion. Something was terribly, terrifyingly wrong. The suffocating sweetness of lavender air freshener filled the air, a grotesque mockery of a life I shouldn't remember. A life that ended lifetimes ago.

  My hands were impossibly small. I flexed fingers that should have been calloused and scarred, finding only the soft pudginess of a child. The knife scar, the burn—gone. Replaced by smooth, untouched skin.

  This isn't right. This isn't my body. Am I a child?

  Twenty years of combat experience screaming in a child's skull. Muscle memory fighting against limbs that can barely reach the kitchen counter. What kind of fucked up cosmic joke is this?

  My eyes scanned the room, and recognition slammed into me. A place I hadn't seen in over two decades. The Warren house… My hyper-vigilant mind, sharpened by years of combat, dissected every detail.

  The Warren house stood like a mausoleum of wealth—all gleaming hardwood and Persian rugs that cost more than most cars. Every surface screamed of carefully curated perfection, from the fresh-cut flowers in Waterford crystal to the gilt-framed photos of a family that never truly existed. Even the air felt expensive, filtered through top-of-the-line HVAC systems that kept the reality of the outside world at bay. The opulence felt more suffocating than ever, each pristine surface a reminder of the artificial life I'd been forced into.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Jesus H. Christ, not this fucking gilded cage again. I always hated this place.

  The thought barely finished forming when Robert's voice sliced through the wall, sharp as a blade and twice as cold. "We can't keep her. I don't want her. I've got enough to deal with," he spat. "The blood work confirms it."

  Not-Father. Obsessed with bloodlines and appearances, as always. I clenched my small fists, muscle memory fighting against the limitations of this child's body.

  “Susie’s our daughter. The DNA proves it. I wanted one child, not two,” Robert snarled, his voice thick with disgust. “Damn it all… why couldn’t only one of them… die in the crash? The Murphy’s were weak, pathetic. Couldn’t even survive a fender bender.” His rage wasn't fueled by grief, but by the sheer inconvenience of it all, as if dealing with a broken appliance rather than the death of human beings. The casual cruelty, the utter disregard for human life—it was a deep, throbbing ache that resonated through the decades.

  I pressed against the mahogany-paneled wall, a child's body trembling with adult rage. Their voices seeped through the wood, toxic and cold.

  This wasn't just about their country club image anymore. Somewhere across town, the real Susie Warren lay unconscious in a sterile hospital bed, her existence a cruel twist of fate that emerged from the same car crash that had killed my biological parents.

  The truth had unraveled with brutal efficiency—one routine blood test, one emergency transfusion, and their carefully constructed facade had shattered like safety glass. Switched at birth. I almost laughed at the cosmic irony. Because apparently, this whole situation wasn't fucked up enough already.

  The scene in the hospital corridor played through my mind with haunting clarity—technically, it had happened just yesterday in this twisted timeline. I could still smell the antiseptic air, see the fluorescent lights casting sickly shadows across the Warrens' faces as they processed the news. Their initial shock had melted into denial, then crystallized into something far more dangerous: calculation.

  Mercy General on that snowy December night had been a perfect storm of incompetence, a cascade of errors that had reshuffled lives like a deck of cards. The hospital itself was gone now, demolished years ago, its records reduced to dust and digital fragments. Only the DNA remained, those microscopic strands of truth that had become a cold, clinical betrayal of everything I'd known.

  Margaret's manicured nails dug into her palms. Robert's jaw tightened. Their biological daughter, raised by strangers. An imposter in their home. And now, those strangers were dead.

  Their hushed plotting filled the sterile air. "Placement," "private adoption," the Hendersons' name a chilling whisper.

  "The farm arrangement is finalized. The Hendersons will take her next week." Margaret's saccharine voice dripped with malice.

  How convenient. I'm not theirs, so I'm cargo. Twenty years later, and it still stings.

  The rational part of me, the part scarred by the world's ugliness, wasn't surprised. Margaret's perfect family photos never showed the locked doors, the withheld meals, Robert’s indifference. Maybe some part of her always knew.

  But the speed of it. One blood test, and eight years of "family" evaporates. No tears, just a swift transaction.

  The fucking Hendersons. Round two.

  Their "therapeutic farm environment" was a forge for broken children. Last time, I froze. Paralyzed by betrayal. That paralysis cost me everything.

  Not this time. This time, I have twenty years of experience crammed into this eight-year-old skull.

  My small hands curled into fists. Even simple tasks felt Herculean. The physical limitations were infuriating, but the mental disconnect was worse. Twenty years of tactical training warring with a child's impulses.

  Trust fund sociopaths, selling off a kid like a defective appliance.

  The Hendersons’ "farm" was a waypoint in a trafficking network. The Warrens would get their $250,000.

  Six days until the transfer. Six days to execute my plan. Supplies cached, guard rotations memorized, escape routes mapped.

  I can't even throw a decent punch with these noodle arms.

  My adult mind raced, my child's body struggled. The security system was a joke, but the eight-foot fence…

  Keep it together. You've infiltrated worse. Just pretend you're eight. For now.

  The rage was cold, calculated. I wasn't just escaping; I was dismantling their operation. The accelerant was already in place.

  They think they're getting a scared little girl. They're getting a weapon.

  I straightened, forcing my legs to still. The disconnect between mind and body was jarring. But I had advantages: knowledge, experience, the perfect disguise.

  Their mistake. Last time, they made me a weapon. This time, I already am one.

  I rose silently, projecting an image of childish fear. Margaret's voice drifted from the study, practicing her lies. I let my face fall into the perfect mask.

  The best cover is the one they give you. Time to play the victim. For six more days.

  This time, I wouldn't be the scared little girl waiting for others to determine her fate. This time, I would be the author of my own story.

  And it would begin right here, right now.