Chapter 2: Blank Space, VIN, and Haven (Or, How to Outsmart Everyone Before Breakfast)
She woke up in a room that smelled like disinfectant and existential dread. The ceiling tiles screamed "government budget cuts," and the only window was a TV screen looping a PowerPoint on workplace safety. If this was heaven, someone had seriously misunderstood the assignment.
She blinked. Once. Twice. Three times, just to be sure. Her head throbbed with the kind of ache you get from being reborn—literally. Not in the spiritual, "I found myself at a yoga retreat" way. No, she was what they called a "reborn." Fresh start, total reset, memory wiped cleaner than a politician's browser history.
She searched her mind for her name and found… a blank space. Not a single syllable. Not even a helpful nickname like "Hey, you!" or "Person of Interest #7." Just an empty void where her identity should be. Well, that—and a vague sense she was supposed to be somewhere else, doing something important, with someone important. Or maybe she was the important one? Hard to say.
A nurse entered, clipboard in hand and a smile that looked like it had been stapled on for insurance purposes.
"Good morning! Do you know your name?"
She considered. "No, but I'm open to suggestions. Is Beyoncé taken?"
The nurse didn't even blink. "You've experienced a rare event. We call it 'rebirth.' Memory loss is common. We're here to help you recover."
"Great," she replied. "Can you recover my dignity while you're at it? I think I left it somewhere between the abduction and the PowerPoint presentation."
The nurse scribbled something on her clipboard—probably "sarcastic," "uncooperative," or "possible flight risk"—then left, leaving her alone with her thoughts, which were mostly dry jokes and the uncomfortable feeling that someone, somewhere, was waiting for her to do something heroic.
She glanced at her wrist and noticed a tag:
VIN: 001-REBRN-POOL
A Vehicle Identification Number. For a person. Classic government move—reduce you to a barcode and hope you don't notice. They'd tried to bin her, to catalog and sell her off like surplus tech. And, in a move so on-brand it hurt, the United States government had "sold" her to her own people—without realizing that's exactly what she wanted.
Because Dinah Stealth wasn't an idiot. She understood strength in numbers, and she knew the government was the real problem. The cartel they'd handed her to? Just a group of angry, broke (but soon-to-be not broke—she'd see to that) people who wouldn't listen to reason if it tap-danced across the border in a feather boa. But that was fine. She didn't need them to listen. She just needed them to follow her lead, even if they thought they were the ones in charge.
She blinked again, slower this time, and something clicked. The sterile room, the flickering screen, the dull ache in her head—it wasn't a government facility. It was her bedroom. Her Haven.
Of course. She gets kidnapped, loses her memory, and wakes up in her own bedroom. Classic.
Haven wasn't just a room; it was a fortress of solitude with a sarcastic welcome mat. The walls were plastered with dry humor, conspiracy theories, and enough tech gadgets to make a Bond villain jealous. Somewhere in the corner, a half-assembled Nerf gun leaned against a stack of books titled How to Slap People with Common Sense and Idiocracy for Beginners.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, the hospital gown rustling like a bad punchline. If the government thought they could control her by "binning" her and assigning her a VIN, they were about to get a masterclass in why you never sell a genius to her own team.
She looked around her Haven, feeling the old spark of rebellion flicker to life. The world thought it could keep her down, keep her cataloged, keep her quiet. But the world was about to learn that Dinah Stealth—Livepool, reborn, VIN and all—was nobody's property.
And as for the cartel? Well, they were about to get a crash course in common sense, financial literacy, and why you never underestimate a woman who wakes up in her own Haven, ready to flip the system on its head.
She grinned. "You're welcome in advance."