Angelina’s POV

The first thing I heard was the sound of keyboards clicking.

Then whispers. Low voices, the shuffle of feet, someone laughing.

I opened my eyes.

Fluorescent lights. White ceiling tiles with those little holes in them. The kind you stare at when you’re bored out of your mind in—

Wait.

I jerked upright, every muscle tensing. My hand went to my side, reaching for the Glock that should’ve been holstered there.

Nothing.

“Aria? You okay?”

A hand touched my shoulder.

I moved on pure instinct. Grabbed the wrist, twisted, used the momentum to spin and rise. One second I was sitting, the next I was standing on top of the desk, hauling some scrawny kid up by his collar until his feet dangled off the ground.

“Who the fuck sent you?” The words came out ice-cold. “Which organization?”

The kid’s eyes went wide. “What? Aria, what are you—”

I scanned the room in half a second. White walls. Motivational posters—some bullshit about “reaching for the stars.” A whiteboard at the front covered in math equations. Rows of desks where teenagers sat with their phones out, earbuds in, completely checked out.

A classroom.

This was a classroom.

“What organization?” The kid was laughing now, despite the fact I had him by the throat. “Aria, you must’ve been having one hell of a dream!”

The room erupted.

“Oh my god, she’s actually lost it!”

“Someone get this on video!”

“Aria’s doing her action movie thing again!”

Phones came out. A dozen cameras pointed at me. Kids were standing up, crowding closer, all of them grinning like this was the best entertainment they’d had all week.

“This is going straight to TikTok!”

“She watches too many movies!”

“Aria’s the main character now!”

They were laughing. All of them. Even the teacher—a middle-aged woman in a cardigan—just looked annoyed, not alarmed.

“Aria, you’re insane!” The kid was still dangling from my grip, but he sounded more surprised than scared. “I’m Logan! Your desk partner! Put me down, I can’t breathe—”

I looked at my hand.

My hand holding this kid’s collar.

Small. Pale. No calluses. No scars.

This isn’t my hand.

My hands were rough from years of weapons training. Scarred from knife fights and burns.

These hands were soft. Delicate. They looked like they’d never held anything heavier than a phone.

I looked at my arm. Thin. No muscle definition.

This isn’t my body.

The last thing I remembered was water. Cold Pacific water filling my lungs. The yacht exploding above me, pieces of it raining down like shrapnel. I’d felt at least three ribs snap, felt something tear inside my chest. Felt myself sinking, sinking, the light fading as the water pulled me down.

I’d died.

I’d fucking died.

And now I was… here?

“Aria Sterling!”

The teacher was walking toward me, a red pen in her hand like a weapon. She tapped it against my desk twice.

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