Raised voices yanked me from unconsciousness. The harsh fluorescent lights of what appeared to be a school nurse’s office stabbed at my eyes as I tried to orient myself.

“My daughter collapsed during gym class and hit her head! You expect me to just accept this pathetic excuse for compensation?” A woman with cheap blonde highlights and too much makeup waved a piece of paper in the face of a tired-looking woman in scrubs.

“Mrs. Morgan, as I’ve explained, Jade suffered from low blood sugar. Her physical showed she had barely eaten anything all day. The school fulfilled all safety protocols—”

“Don’t give me that bureaucratic bullshit! You people are responsible for—”

“Both of you, shut up!” The words left my mouth before I could process what was happening.

Both women turned to me, stunned. I was equally surprised by the unfamiliar voice that had come from my throat. Looking down, I saw thick arms I didn’t recognize.

What the hell?

The TV mounted in the corner of the room suddenly caught my attention.

“Breaking news: A massive explosion has destroyed a private island in the Caribbean at approximately 7:10 this morning. The uninhabited island, reportedly owned by an anonymous European investment group, appears to have been completely obliterated. Coast Guard officials report no survivors…”

A rush of memories slammed into me. The facility. The explosions. My death.

Yet here I was, clearly alive, but in someone else’s body.

Like a tsunami breaking over a shoreline, foreign memories flooded my consciousness. School hallways. Taunting laughter. A frail boy with a limp. A small, dimly lit bedroom.

Jade Morgan. The name surfaced from the deluge of memories.

Pain shot through my temples as two sets of life experiences collided in my brain. I pressed my hands against my head, squeezing my eyes shut.

“Everyone out,” I commanded through gritted teeth. “Now.”

“Jade, I need to check your—” the nurse began.

“OUT!” I snarled with enough force that both women backed toward the door.

The blonde woman—Linda Morgan, my apparent mother in this life—glared at me. “We’ll discuss this attitude when you get home,” she snapped before storming out.

Once alone, I stumbled to the small bathroom attached to the nurse’s office. I braced myself against the sink and looked up.

The face in the mirror wasn’t mine. Round cheeks, double chin, mousy brown hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. But the eyes—they were sharp, calculating. My eyes, somehow, in this unfamiliar face.

I studied the reflection more carefully. The features weren’t bad—actually quite delicate and well-proportioned beneath the extra weight. The facial fat couldn’t completely hide what appeared to be decent bone structure.

“Jade Morgan,” I whispered, testing the name on my tongue. “Better than Shadow, I suppose. At least it sounds like a normal person.”

I splashed cold water on my face, forcing myself to think logically. Somehow, I—Shadow, the world’s deadliest assassin—had survived the island’s destruction by transferring into this teenager’s body.

A soft knock interrupted my assessment. The nurse poked her head in. “Jade? Are you feeling better? Your blood sugar readings are stabilizing.”

Hours later, aggressive pounding on the door jolted me awake.

“Hey, fatass! Wake up!” A girl’s shrill voice pierced through the door. “Mom says you have to make dinner tonight! Get your lazy butt out here!”

I sat up, instantly alert. Emily Morgan—Jade’s fifteen-year-old sister and constant tormentor, according to the memories now settling in my mind.

“I know you’re in there! If I have to eat another microwave dinner because you’re too busy stuffing your face with snacks, I swear I’ll—”

I flung the door open, staring down at the startled girl. Emily was everything Jade wasn’t—thin, conventionally pretty, and absolutely mean-spirited.

“Problem?” I asked quietly.

Emily blinked, clearly thrown by something in my demeanor. The Jade she knew would have hunched her shoulders, averted her eyes, and mumbled a meek “sorry” before shuffling to the kitchen. Instead, she was facing someone who had executed men twice her size without breaking a sweat.

“M-mom said you have to cook,” she stammered, taking an unconscious step backward.

I studied her, accessing Jade’s memories of daily torment at this girl’s hands. Young, but with a cruelty that went beyond typical teenage meanness.

Small in age but big in nastiness. This one definitely needs a lesson in respect.