CHAPTER 319: THE WOMAN IN THE MIRROR

The sharp, acrid scent of smoke was the first thing to stir her awake. It clawed into her nose, burning her throat with each shallow breath.

Her eyes twitched open slowly, vision sluggish, flickering in and out like a broken film reel. With every pulse of light came pain: the hammering throb of a relentless headache pounding through her skull. Alongside the smoke, another smell lingered in the air. Alcohol. Bitter, stinging, soaked into the carpet and clinging to the walls. It burned almost as much as the smoke, like old scars refusing to heal.

When her sight steadied, the picture of the room around her came into focus in shaky frames. It was dim, the only light coming from a single bulb overhead. The bulb buzzed weakly, flickering every few seconds, as if it too was struggling to hold on. The room itself looked like a battlefield of bottles, half-full, completely drained, some toppled over, some standing in clusters like crooked towers. Almost all of them were whiskey, their sharp fumes pooling thick in the air.

She shifted, planting a palm against the ground to steady herself. Her gaze followed her hand, and she saw hard, thick calluses dug into both palms. The kind that came only from years of gripping weapons.

A knock rattled the door. It creaked open, and a voice followed.

"Boss... you’re awake."

A young woman stepped inside. Her hair was tied up neatly, though heavy dark bags sagged beneath her eyes, betraying exhaustion. She had black hair, pale skin, and a steady grip on the wooden sword hanging at her side. It wasn’t the type of thing ordinary people carried. Not unless they lived their lives on a dojo floor.

"Long night," the woman muttered, trying to offer a thin smile. It trembled at the edges and never quite reached her eyes. "Honestly, I was worried you wouldn’t wake up. The Red Snakes made a move on Ninth Street. Figured you’d want to decide how we... respond."

Before she could even process that, another figure stepped into the room. This one was built sturdier, her short hair framing a square jaw. Her clothes matched the first woman’s, right down to the wooden blade at her side.

"We can hit their stash first," the newcomer suggested firmly. "Or we can send a message. Your call, Boss. Or... if you’re not ready, we can wait until you’ve recovered."

The woman in bed, the one they called Boss, just stared blankly at them. Her lips parted but no words came.

The silence grew heavy, uncomfortable. Finally, the square-jawed woman folded her arms, her frown deepening. "Vera."

The name stung. Her mouth opened as if to correct them, but the words died before they formed.

"Leave her alone, Sarah," the first woman interrupted, voice sharp. "You know the boss is always like this after a rejection. She drinks, drinks, and drinks again until she collapses. Honestly, I thought she’d be out cold all day. It’s a miracle she’s even awake."

Sarah’s eyes swept Vera from head to toe, sharp and unflinching. "The boss shouldn’t be seen like this. It sets a bad example for the people who chose to follow you. You’re lucky you’ve got Shooting by your side."

And with that, she turned and left.

The first woman, Shooting, lingered, offering Vera a sweet, gentle smile that softened her exhausted face.

"You really gave me a scare yesterday. But you’ll be fine," Shooting said softly. "Remember, relationships aren’t everything. With our line of work, they’re nearly impossible to manage anyway."

Her tone grew more animated, her hands gesturing as if her own frustrations boiled over. "Any normal guy who gets close to us? He runs the second he finds out the truth. And if he doesn’t, then he’s either insane, missing a screw, or so strange it’s not even worth pursuing. And if you do find someone in the same field as us..." Shooting’s voice darkened, veins visible at her temple, "...then who knows if they actually care about you, or if they’re only after an advantage, information, or the chance to stick a knife in your back!"

Her hand mimed a stabbing motion midair, sharp and frantic. Clearly, she wasn’t only talking about Vera’s troubles but her own.

Exhaling, Shooting calmed herself, then stepped toward the door. "Anyway, my point is... we’re in no rush. Just show your face. It means something to the others. It makes them feel better knowing you’ve come out."

With a final smile, she left.

Vera finally dragged herself out of bed. Her first stop was the bathroom. After relieving herself, she lifted her head to face the mirror.

Long pink hair, messy but striking, spilling just past her shoulders. A perfectly parted fringe framing a small face, plush lips, and a nose sharp enough to stand out. By any modern standard, she was beautiful, irresistibly so. She could see why others would be drawn to this body.

She splashed cold water over her face, trying to break the dream, but the mirror didn’t change.

The sound of grunts and sharp cries pulled her attention back to the door. She opened it, and her eyes widened.

A dojo stretched before her, alive with the rhythm of training. Thirty women filled the space, each gripping wooden swords. Some sparred fiercely, their strikes clashing in fast, relentless patterns. Others drilled alone, practicing movements, their blades smacking against heavy training pillars studded with rotating wooden arms. Every hit echoed through the hall, a symphony of discipline and violence.

As Vera walked across the dojo floor, the nearest pair of sparring women froze. They lowered their swords immediately, bowing low.

"Good to see you awake, Boss Vera."

More voices joined as she continued walking, greetings flowing from every side. Heads bowed, respect shown. To them, she was someone important. Someone they trusted. Someone they followed.

Her heart pounded. She looked down at her own hands again, trembling.

What is happening? How can this be real? How can this be possible?

From across the room, Shooting appeared again, smiling brightly.

"Come on, let’s get some fresh air. Like I said, you don’t need to do anything. Just letting them see you is enough of a treat, Vera."

She tugged at Vera’s arm, guiding her forward.

But inside, panic screamed louder than ever.

My name’s not Vera.

It’s Abby.

****

END OF VOLUME 2