Cold. That was the first sensation. A bone-deep, pervasive cold that somehow didn't hurt.
Esdeath's eyes snapped open, pupils contracting sharply against the dim light of the alley. Her chest heaved as she gasped for air, each exhale creating a thick cloud of condensation that hung unnaturally still in the air around her.
"What the—" The voice that emerged wasn't Mark's. Higher, smoother, with an edge like a blade wrapped in silk.
She tried to sit up, palms pressing against wet concrete. Only it wasn't wet—it was covered in a thin sheet of ice that spread outward from where she lay. Her gaze followed the expanding frost until it reached the first body.
A man in a tattered coat lay sprawled five feet away, his skin a pale blue, frost clinging to his eyelashes and beard. Beyond him, two more figures—one slumped against a dumpster, another face-down on the pavement. All motionless. All frozen.
"Did I..." She couldn't finish the thought.
Snowflakes drifted lazily around her, defying gravity and wind patterns, swirling in response to her quickening breath. The cold wasn't coming from the air—it was radiating from her skin, pulsing outward with each frantic heartbeat.
She raised a trembling hand before her face. Long, elegant fingers. Pale skin. Not Mark's hand. Not his body.
A sudden, searing pain lanced through her skull. Images crashed through her consciousness like shattered glass:
A young girl with blue hair practicing sword forms in a sunlit dojo, movements precise beyond her years.
The same girl, older now, sparring with a tall man whose eyes crinkled with pride as she executed a perfect counter.
"Again, Uncle. I can do better."
Moonlight through a window. The girl curled into herself on a small bed, silent tears tracking down her face as she clutched a photograph of a smiling couple.
Two fresh graves on a hillside. Snow falling. A promise whispered into the wind.
The memories weren't Mark's. They belonged to someone else—someone whose body she now inhabited.
"Esdeath," she whispered, the name rising to her lips unbidden.
The wail of sirens cut through the night, distant at first but growing louder with alarming speed. Esdeath's heightened senses picked up shouted commands—"They're down this way!"—followed by the thunder of multiple footsteps.
"Shit," she hissed, scrambling to her feet. Her movements were too fluid, too graceful—nothing like Mark's former gangly limbs. She snatched up a plastic grocery bag that lay nearby, its contents spilled across the frosted concrete.
A carton of milk had cracked open, white liquid pooling and freezing instantly where it touched the ground near her feet.
Esdeath backed away from the fallen men, taking in the full scene for the first time. Four gang members lay scattered across the alleyway in various positions—one curled into a fetal position, another sprawled with arms outstretched. Their skin held an unnatural blue tinge, frost coating their eyebrows and lashes.
The cold had preserved expressions of shock and terror on their faces.
Her gaze traveled upward. Icicles hung from a rusted fire escape, some as thick as her arm, gleaming dangerously in the dim streetlight. The entire alley glistened with a thin sheet of ice, transforming the grimy urban passage into something from a winter fairy tale—beautiful and deadly.
"Did she do this?" Esdeath whispered, feeling the disconnect between Mark's consciousness and this new body. Then understanding clicked into place. The memories, the power surging through her veins, the cold that didn't bite but embraced her—it wasn't just possession or cohabitation.
She shook her head, watching her breath crystallize before her. "No. We did this."
The sirens screamed closer. Red and blue lights began to flash at the mouth of the alley, casting eerie colored shadows across the ice-slick walls.
Esdeath turned away from the frozen alley, adrenaline surging through her veins. The approaching police would have questions she couldn't answer—not when she barely understood what had happened herself.
Ducking into a narrow side passage between two buildings, she moved with a grace and speed that felt alien yet natural to her body.
A rusted fire escape hung just above her head. Without thinking, she leapt upward, catching the bottom rung with ease. The metal frosted beneath her fingers, but she barely noticed as she pulled herself up with surprising strength, climbing swiftly and silently until she reached the rooftop.
The city sprawled before her, a maze of lights and shadows. Sirens wailed below as emergency vehicles converged on the alley she'd just fled. Esdeath crouched at the edge of the roof, watching police officers discover the frozen men. Their shocked exclamations carried on the night air.
"We need to move," she muttered to herself, backing away from the edge.
She turned and sprinted across the flat rooftop, approaching the gap to the next building with calculating eyes.
Mark would have hesitated—would have frozen in fear. But this body knew what to do. Esdeath accelerated and leapt, sailing through the air with perfect form before landing in a roll on the adjacent roof.
One building after another, she put distance between herself and the scene, finally dropping down into an empty alley several blocks away. Her breath came in even puffs of crystalline mist despite the exertion.
Leaning against a brick wall, Esdeath closed her eyes as another wave of memories washed over her:
A small apartment with worn furniture but spotless floors. A tall, broad-shouldered man with kind eyes and a scar across his jaw preparing dinner in the kitchen.
"Esdeath! If you're late for school again, I swear—"
A girl's bedroom with martial arts posters on the walls. Trophies—not hers, but her uncle's—lined a bookshelf, alongside framed photos of a smiling couple holding a blue-haired toddler.
A certificate of achievement from High School, sophomore year.
A dojo. The smell of sweat and discipline. Her instructor's surprised expression as she executed a complex kata perfectly on her third attempt.
"You're a natural, Esdeath. I've never seen anyone pick this up so quickly."
The fragments coalesced into a coherent picture. Esdeath. Sixteen years old. Orphaned at nine when her parents died in a car crash. Taken in by her uncle—her father's brother—who raised her in his modest apartment. Three months ago, she'd started taking martial arts classes at a local dojo, displaying an uncanny aptitude that surprised even veteran instructors.
Esdeath pushed herself away from the wall, needing to keep moving. The night air felt mild against her skin, though she noticed goosebumps rising on the arms of passersby bundled in jackets. Temperature clearly affected her differently now.
She walked with purpose, trying to appear normal despite the chaos in her mind. The streets were unfamiliar yet recognizable—like places she'd seen in dreams or forgotten photographs. Her feet carried her automatically, muscle memory guiding her through neighborhoods her conscious mind didn't recognize.
A gas station's bright fluorescent lights caught her attention. The illuminated sign displayed: "Gas: $1.52." Esdeath stopped short, blinking in confusion.
"A dollar fifty-two?" she whispered. "That can't be right."
The shrill ring of a nearby payphone startled her. A payphone. When was the last time Mark had even seen one of those in active use?
Her gaze drifted to a light pole plastered with overlapping posters. "The Matrix Reloaded" and "Finding Nemo" featured prominently, their colors still vibrant, not yet faded by sun and rain.
"Those are... old movies," she murmured, frowning.
Something wasn't adding up. Esdeath approached a trash bin and spotted a discarded newspaper. She pulled it out, hands trembling slightly as she unfolded it to reveal the date.
November 12, 2003.
As she stood frozen in shock, more memories surfaced, filling in the gaps of the evening's events.
Her uncle had asked her to pick up groceries—milk, bread, eggs. A simple errand she'd done countless times. The corner store was only three blocks from their apartment.
"Be back before nine, okay? I'm making enchiladas," he'd said, handing her twenty dollars.
The store visit had been uneventful. It was the walk home when everything changed. Four guys had stepped out from the alley, blocking her path. The tallest one had grabbed her arm.
"You're Rodriguez's little cousin, aren't you?" he'd demanded.
"I don't know any Rodriguez," she'd answered truthfully, trying to pull away.
They hadn't believed her. One had shoved her against the wall while another knocked the grocery bag from her hands.
"Tell your cousin he owes us. And we're collecting, one way or another."
Fear had turned to anger. Anger had turned to something else—something cold and powerful surging through her veins. The temperature had plummeted. Ice had formed on her fingertips, then spread outward in a deadly wave.
Esdeath tucked the newspaper into her pocket, mind reeling from the implications. Not just a new body, but nearly two decades in the past. The game that bizarre "god" had played with her fate was crueler than she'd imagined.
She needed shelter—needed time to think. The address from Esdeath's memories surfaced: Apartment 4B, 1342 Westlake Avenue. Her feet carried her through the unfamiliar streets with the confidence of someone who'd walked them a thousand times.
This neighborhood wasn't wealthy by any measure. Graffiti marked territory boundaries on brick walls. A group of teenagers huddled around a trash can fire gave her measuring looks as she passed, but something in her posture—the predatory grace she now carried—made them reconsider any confrontation.
Esdeath turned down a narrow street, recognizing landmarks that felt like déjà vu. The bodega where Esdeath bought candy every Friday. The laundromat with the broken neon sign. The community center where her uncle volunteered on weekends.
The apartment building stood five stories tall, brick facade weathered but sturdy. She slipped inside the front entrance, climbing four flights of stairs with barely elevated breathing. Outside 4B, she hesitated before reaching into her pocket, finding a single key on a worn Power Rangers keychain.
The lock turned smoothly. Inside, the apartment was modest but meticulously kept. A small living room with a worn couch. Kitchenette with dishes drying on a rack. Down a short hallway, two bedrooms—one clearly her uncle's, the other her own.
Esdeath moved to a shelf where framed photographs stood in neat rows. Her fingers traced over an image of a smiling couple holding a blue-haired toddler—Esdeath's parents. Another showed her uncle in military fatigues, arm slung around a younger version of her father.
The bathroom mirror revealed a stranger's face. Pale skin, striking blue eyes that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light. Dark blue hair framed sharp features that held both beauty and danger. Her lips had a bluish tint, as if she'd been out in the cold too long.
"This... is real. And I'm her now," Esdeath whispered, watching her breath frost the mirror's surface.
She wandered into her bedroom—walls painted a soft gray, a twin bed with navy blue covers, a desk with textbooks stacked neatly beside it. Honor roll certificates hung beside martial arts competition photos.
Exhaustion crashed over her as the adrenaline finally ebbed. Esdeath collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
"Guess I've got homework... and a whole new life to figure out."
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