The cell was colder than I remembered. Or maybe that was the fear settling into my bones, a deep, gnawing dread that wouldn't let go. We had been thrown in here after the so-called trial—a mockery of justice that lasted all of fifteen minutes—after the sentence had been passed with all the emotion of a bureaucrat stamping a meaningless form. Execution. By firing squad. At dawn.

  We sat in silence for a long time, the weight of those words pressing down on us like a physical force. The others were still trying to process what had happened, what was still happening. Me? I was trying to stay ahead of it. Thinking. Calculating. Searching for some way out of this, some path that didn't end with bullets tearing through our bodies before the sun broke over the horizon.

  Mara was the first to break the silence, her voice low, distant. "I remember things. Things that aren't mine."

  Victor scoffed, rubbing his temples like he was nursing a headache. "Tell me about it. My last body? Let's just say he wasn't a saint. And the things he did... they're in here now." He tapped his temple and exhaled sharply. "Like echoes that won't shut up."

  Mara turned to him, her dark eyes sharp. "What did you… What did he do?"

  Victor hesitated. "Does it matter? He's dead. Or maybe he never existed. Maybe I'm the one who's dead, and this is just some twisted punishment. Or worse—maybe he's still out there, in my body, wearing my face, doing God knows what."

  "It matters. Because I remember too. And I don't like what I'm remembering." Mara crossed her arms, jaw tightening. "The person I was before this—she wasn't just surviving. She was a bounty hunter. Tracked people down, turned them in, took the money, and never looked back. And now? I can feel her guilt, like it's mine." She clenched her fists. "And I don't know how to make it stop."

  Victor let out a bitter laugh. "Guilt? You got off easy. The last guy I was in? He didn't just betray people. He sold them out, used them, discarded them like they were nothing. And when they finally came for him, they didn't just drag him away. They took his family too. Hauled them into the street, made him watch while they put bullets in them one by one. And the worst part? It's not just a memory—it's in my bones, in my breath. When I close my eyes, I don't just see it. I feel it. Like it happened to me."

  Mara stepped closer, her gaze unyielding. "So what? Are we them now? Or are we still us? Because every time I close my eyes, I don't just see what she did—I feel it. Like I made those choices. Like I betrayed those people. And I don't know if that feeling ever goes away."

  Victor exhaled through his nose, looking away. "I don't know. Maybe that's the real punishment—becoming something you swore you never would."

  A heavy silence settled between them. I watched, listened. Their conversation echoed something I had been afraid to admit to myself. The more we jumped, the more the pasts of the bodies we wore bled into us. Memories, instincts, emotions—they weren't just ghosts. They were becoming part of us.

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  Simon sat on the floor, arms wrapped around his knees. He hadn't spoken much since we were thrown in here. His hands twitched, fingers moving restlessly, like they needed to be fixing something—anything—to distract from our reality.

  Then, I noticed something strange.

  His fingers weren't just twitching. They were moving in a controlled, repetitive motion, like tracing something unseen. The movement looked too practiced, too precise to be random—just the deliberate way his thumb and forefinger pinched and twisted, like muscle memory fighting its way to the surface.

  "We weren't supposed to be here," he mumbled, his voice tight.

  I turned to him sharply. "What do you mean?"

  Simon hesitated, fingers still moving in that unconscious, practiced rhythm. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple despite the chill. "I just... I mean, none of this makes sense, right? We shouldn't be here."

  His tone was off, guarded. He wasn't outright lying, but he wasn't telling the whole truth either. Something in his eyes—a flicker of guilt, perhaps—told me there was more to the story than he was letting on. I narrowed my eyes but let it drop—for now. We had more immediate concerns.

  Gray was the only one who hadn't spoken, hadn't visibly reacted at all. He sat in the corner, watching. Just watching. His pale eyes tracked every movement in the cell with predatory focus. His fingers moved absently, rubbing against his palm, then tracing along the edge of the bench beside him. At first, I thought it was just a nervous tic, a subconscious motion to keep his hands busy. But there was something deliberate about it—something measured. Like he was waiting. Like he was preparing.

  I took a slow breath, forcing my racing heart to calm. "We need a plan."

  Mara scoffed, turning to face me with disbelief. "A plan? You got one of those in that big brain of yours?"

  "We get one shot at this. The guards expect us to die quietly. We won't give them that."

  Silence fell over the cell. Then, after a beat, Simon shifted uncomfortably. "I, uh... I might be able to do it."

  I turned to him sharply. "Do what?"

  "Pick the locks," he said, fingers twitching again.

  Mara frowned. "Since when do you know how to pick locks?"

  Simon opened his mouth, then closed it. His breathing hitched slightly as something surfaced. "I just... I just know."

  He swallowed hard, his hands clenching before relaxing again. He shook his head, muttering under his breath. "I remember him. I know why I'm here. How he's here... none of this makes sense."

  "Who was he?" I asked quietly.

  Simon flinched. "I don't know. Just... someone who got caught. Someone who needed to get out. I can feel it—his fear, the hunger, the cold." His fingers curled like they were grasping something invisible. "He wasn't a thief, not at first. But when you're starving, when the world locks you out, you learn. You learn the feel of tumblers shifting under pressure, the patience of listening for the right click. It wasn't about stealing. It was about surviving. He had to get past doors meant to keep people like him out. And when he got caught..."

  "Now I'm here. Again. Stuck in another body with another life bleeding into mine."

  Gray had been silent the entire time, but his fingers never stopped moving, tracing small patterns over the wooden bench beneath him. Then, suddenly, he spoke.

  "I remember," Gray said, his voice quiet but firm. We all turned to him, the weight of his words pressing against the silence. He looked as if he was about to say more, to reveal something none of us had considered.

  Then, the sound of boots echoed down the corridor. Heavy, unhurried.

  If you enjoyed this chapter, don’t forget to like and follow for more!Your support helps a lot, and I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments!

  I made some edits. There was a bit of repeated text in the previous version, and I expanded Elias’ realization of his past memory. I wanted it to hit harder, be more respected, and feel fully fleshed out in both tone and placement. Reliving these moments as his life flashes before his eyes creates a different kind of impact, and I think it makes for a more powerful experience.

  As a newer writer, I’m always looking to improve and craft the best experience for readers. If this chapter resonated with you—or even if it didn’t—let me know your thoughts! Did this moment hit the way I intended? I’d love to hear your perspective in the comments.