SOMEWHERE. SOMEWHEN. 1928
"She looks just like you, with her eyes wide open! Haha!" A man's voice boomed through the haze, warm and rich like aged whiskey.
"She has the same facial features as you." A woman's reply floated through the fog, her voice like honey dripping from a silver spoon. "I mean, just look at those beautiful eyes!"
Eyes?
I tried to blink, but my eyelids felt heavy and uncooperative, like they'd been weighted down with stones. Everything was blurred—shapes without definition, light without source, sound without direction.
What... where am I?
The last thing I remembered was—
The gun. Buffy's hand, small and steady, wrapped around the grip. The barrel pointing at my face. That smile behind the visor. That terrible, impossible smile.
BANG.
I tried to sit up. Tried to reach for the weapon that should have been in my hand, tried to move, to fight, to do *something*—but my limbs flailed uselessly, hitting something soft. A quilted blanket. I looked down at my hands.
They were tiny. Pink. Wrinkled.
Baby hands.
"Buuu... buuu?" The sound that came out of my mouth wasn't words—it was nonsense, infantile gurgling that made no sense
( What the... why can't I speak?)
Panic surged through me, but my body wouldn't respond the way I needed it to. My neck could barely support the weight of my own head. My vision swam in and out of focus.
Two faces leaned over me, blurred at first, then gradually sharpening into clarity. A man with dark hair swept back from his forehead, strong features softened by genuine joy. A woman with cascading auburn hair and eyes the color of spring leaves, brimming with tears of happiness.
They were strangers.
And yet, as they looked down at me, I felt something I hadn't felt in the last moments of my previous life—
LOVE.
Unconditional. Overwhelming. Terrifying.
"Welcome to the world, my daughter," the man whispered, his large hand gently touching my impossibly small head.
Daughter?
The woman my new mother, I realized with growing horror and confusion—pulled me close to her chest. Her heartbeat thrummed against my ear, steady and strong. "Welcome home, Ione."
Ione.
That was my name now.
Not Redacted. Not anymore.
The realization hit me like a second bullet—I had died. Buffy had killed me. And somehow, impossibly, I had been reborn.
-
NINE YEARS LATER. THE WELTON ESTATE. 1937.
I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of my chambers, watching the sun creep over the horizon. The Welton estate stretched out before me—manicured gardens with geometric precision, marble fountains that probably cost more than the entire ramen shop had been worth, servants already moving about their morning duties like ants in a well-organized colony.
The gardens were pristine. Beautiful, even.
A far cry from the blood-stained grass where I had died.
Tsk.
I let out a heavy sigh, the sound too weary for a nine-year-old. My mind was still filled with the sound of gunshots and the image of a smoking gun in small hands. Buffy's hands. The weight of that memory sat in my chest like a stone I couldn't dislodge.
"I have a feeling it will be a tiresome day today," I muttered to the empty room. "Again."
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound of brisk footsteps echoed down the grand hallway. I didn't need to turn around to know who it was.
"Young miss!"
The doors creaked open, and my nanny scurried in, her face bright with an energetic smile that was far too cheerful for this hour of the morning. "Young miss, what were you doing up so early?"
I put on my mask—the one I had perfected over nine years of living in this gilded cage. I turned, giving her a calm, distant look that I'd learned conveyed both maturity and innocence. "I was gazing upon the beautiful morning skies."
"My goodness! That is such a romantic thing to do!" she squealed, clasping her hands together like I'd just recited poetry.
Romantic? I thought, a drop of sweat rolling down my neck. *Since when did I have a sentimental side? I was checking for snipers in the treeline.*
Old habits died hard. Even in this life of luxury and safety, I couldn't shake the instinct to scan for threats, to calculate escape routes, to assess every person who came near me for signs of betrayal.
"The skies are indeed beautiful," the nanny continued, moving toward my wardrobe with practiced efficiency, "but you should get dressed. The Master and the Lady are waiting for you."
I closed my eyes for a second, steeling myself.
*Here we go again.*
____
The nanny moved with a flurry of swish
sounds, pulling out dresses and petticoats that felt more like costumes than clothing. She dressed me in velvet and lace, each layer feeling like another piece of armor in a different kind of battle—one fought with smiles and politeness instead of guns and fists.
"The Master and the Lady are waiting for you," she reminded me again, smoothing down the front of my dress.
I walked through the grand, silent hallways of the estate, my shoes—polished leather things that probably cost more than a month's worth of ramen—echoing with a sharp *tap-tap-tap* against the marble floors. Each step felt like a march toward a stage where I had to play my part.
The doors to the dining hall opened with a whisper of oiled hinges.
My new father—Duke Ralph Percy, one of the kingdom's most successful businessmen—sat at the head of the table. His presence commanded the room even when he was simply buttering toast. Beside him sat my mother, Duchess Jane Percy, elegant and poised in a way that made every movement look choreographed.
"Oh, my lovely child! It is delightful to see you!" Mother cried out, her eyes full of a genuine love that made my skin crawl—not because it wasn't real, but because it *was*. Because I didn't know what to do with it. Because the last family I'd loved had been destroyed by betrayal.
"Thank you, Mother," I said, forcing a smile that reached my eyes but not my heart. "Good morning, Father."
Father nodded, his stern features softening slightly. "Good morning, Ione. Did you sleep well?"
"Yes, Father. Very well."
Liar. I hadn't slept properly since the night I died.
Then there was Sarah, my younger sister. She was the youngest child of the Welton household and, unfortunately, she was the most "lovey-dovey" of them all. Seven years old, with bouncing curls and an enthusiasm for life that felt almost alien to me.
"Big sister! Say ahhhhh!" she chirped, holding up a piece of sausage on her fork.
I stared at the fork. " Seriously, I can never get used to such expressions reminds me of her " . But I opened my mouth and accepted the food anyway, chewing mechanically.
"Thank you, Sarah. It was delicious," I said, reaching over to pat her head.
She beamed at me like I'd just given her the greatest gift in the world.
As the family laughed around me—a "family-oriented, loving" group that would have made my past self sick with envy and distrust—I felt the familiar weight in my chest.
Another day of pretending. Another day of wearing the mask of the perfect noble daughter. Another day of pushing down the memories of gunshots and blood and betrayal.
They thought I was their perfect daughter.
If only they knew.
The heavy oak door creaked open just enough for Nanny's kind, wrinkled face to peek through. Her eyes crinkled with a warmth that I found increasingly difficult to handle.
"Young miss! It is story time with the Lady!" she chirped, her voice bubbling with genuine affection.
I stood by the window of my opulent chambers, my back to the door. For a long moment, I didn't move. To the outside world, I was the picture of a dutiful, refined young heir, but inside, my thoughts were a chaotic storm of frustration.
Story time? Again?
"Young miss?" Nanny prompted, her head tilting in concern.
I took a breath, centering myself. I turned toward her, and in an instant, the brooding atmosphere vanished. A radiant, angelic smile stretched across my face, framed by my violet hair—an unusual color I'd inherited from Father's side of the family. I looked every bit the precious child they expected me to be.
"Yes, Nanny. Let's go!" I replied, my voice sweet and eager.
But as I stepped into the hallway, my internal monologue was far less polite. Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! Every step toward the drawing room felt like a march toward a performance I was tired of giving. I caught a glimpse of myself in a hallway mirror—the shimmering aura of perfection they projected onto me, the sparkling background of wealth and privilege—and felt a wave of mental exhaustion.
" I want to be die again " , I thought bitterly, letting out a heavy, silent sigh. Every time I have to act cute and innocent, a part of me dies.
"Let's go, young miss," the attendant urged gently, oblivious to the existential crisis occurring behind my eyes.
We reached the sitting room, a grand space bathed in soft afternoon light and decorated in shades of royal blue and gold. There, lounging on a plush sofa, sat Mother—radiant and composed. Beside her sat Sarah, her eyes lighting up the moment I appeared.
"Over here, Ione!" Mother called out, her voice fluttering with warmth.
I forced my feet to move, putting on my best "good girl" persona while my mind screamed for a quiet, dark room where I could drop the act. The "shining" young miss had arrived for story time, whether I liked it or not.
Mother patted the space beside her on the sofa. "Come, darling. Today we'll read about the Princess and the Seven Knights."
Sarah bounced excitedly. "It's my favorite!"
I settled onto the sofa, arranging my dress properly, and let Mother's voice wash over me as she began to read. The story was typical fairy tale fare—a beautiful princess, brave knights, a villain defeated, true love triumphant.
Fairy tales, I thought, staring at the ornate illustrations in the book. *They never tell you what happens after. They never show you the betrayal that comes when the masks slip. When the person you loved most becomes the one holding the gun.*
"Ione? Are you alright, dear?" Mother's hand touched my shoulder gently.
I realized I'd been staring blankly at the page, my expression having slipped for just a moment.
I quickly smiled. "Yes, Mother. I was just... captivated by the story."
Sarah giggled. "Big sister always gets so serious when she's thinking!"
But I just smiled and let them continue, playing my role in this new life, this second chance I never asked for.
All while the word that had burned through my dying consciousness still echoed in the darkest corner of my mind:
KILL.