The Russian

A sharp scraping of metal on metal sliced through the fog in Janae's mind.

A second earlier, she was still in deep darkness, feeling death slowly erase her consciousness; but now she woke up again, though not in her original body—the body of another Janae.

A blinding headache—another Janae's dying scream still rattling inside her skull.

Then memories—not hers, but another Janae's—flooded in.

The Bennett estate.

Marble floors.

A ceiling so high it could swallow the sky.

"From today, you are no longer a Bennett."

Another Janae's father—Preston—sat on the highest seat.

He didn't look at another Janae. Like she was a defective product he was finally discarding.

"Father—" another Janae began. "I can prove myself."

"It's too late." Camilla was there. Leaning against the sofa, smiling. The smile she always wore when she had already won. "Janae, you still don't understand, do you? Your ability rank determines your value. D-Class. Even having you as my sister is embarrassing now."

The memory shifted.

A colder one.

Donnell.

Another Janae's fiancé.

The man she had given everything to.

"The engagement is canceled." He didn't hesitate. "I can't marry a failure."

He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I need a mate who can awaken her beast-soul, Janae. Not someone who barely flickers."

He threw the betrothal token at her feet. It shattered against the marble. "Don't beg. It's pathetic."

The memory broke apart.

Janae opened her eyes.

The sky was wrong.

Not the high, clear sky of the Bennett estate.

A bruised, festering gray, choked with smog.

The air was thick with rust and oil and something rotting.

She was lying on a pile of debris.

Broken metal.

Corroded wiring.

The ground beneath her was soft, gray-black dust that smelled of sulfur.

She tried to sit up.

Pain lanced through her ribs.

Her hands were scraped raw.

Her clothes—what was she wearing?

Rags.

Someone else's clothes.

She looked inward.

The vast, forest-like dimension of her personal storage space—gone.

A dead, silent void.

She tried to summon the life-giving energy that had once made emperors kneel—a pathetic trickle.

Weak as a dying ember.

Cold panic seized her.

She was nothing.

Less than nothing.

A shadow fell over her.

She looked up.

A man stood there.

Skeletal.

Ragged.

His eyes gleamed with a hungry, knowing light.

In his hand, a rusted metal pipe.

He grinned.

Yellowed teeth.

Filthy fangs.

"Fresh meat," he rasped. "I know your type the moment I see you." He circled her slowly, pipe tapping against his palm. "Soft skin. Clean neck. No scar on your face."

He laughed. "A noble. Clan-born. Some little princess who got flushed down the Imperium's toilet."

She said nothing.

"Let me guess," he continued. "Daddy kicked you out? Or was it a fiancé who couldn't wait to trade you in for a better model?"

The words hit like a physical blow.

Janae's jaw tightened.

He leaned closer.

"I've seen that look before. The 'I used to matter' look. You know what happens to people like you here? Nothing. You just die slower than the rest."

"You're wrong," she said.

Her voice came out rough, unfamiliar.

"Am I?" He laughed. "This place doesn't care whose daughter you were. On the Ashfall Peninsula, there's only one law: you're either holding the pipe, or you're getting your skull caved in."

The Ashfall Peninsula.

The name triggered something.

A memory from another Janae.

The Imperium's dumping ground.

Where they sent the broken.

The disgraced.

The unwanted.

She was here because of them.

Because of Camilla.

Because of Donnell.

Because of every person who had decided she was worthless and thrown her away.

Jed crouched down, bringing his face close to hers. "You can scream if you want. No one's coming. The Imperium doesn't patrol here. Doesn't send rescue. They dump their garbage, and we clean up the scraps."

Something inside her snapped.

Not fear.

Not despair.

Anger.

She remembered Donnell's cold voice.

"I can't marry a failure."