⸻
"Eleanor, would you be willing to die in your sister's place?"
⸻
2:00 a.m.
St. Vincent Private Hospital, downtown.
The lights in the VIP corridor flickered like a dying moon—cold, unstable, indifferent. Eleanor Harper walked quietly, hugging a thermos to her chest. Inside was homemade chicken broth—slow-simmered since dawn, meant for her younger sister, Lily.
She had learned long ago how to walk without sound.
How to exist without taking up space.
Voices leaked through the half-closed door.
"As long as Eleanor cooperates, the investigation will disappear," her father said calmly, as if he were approving a contract. "She's obedient. She won't make trouble."
Her stepmother responded without hesitation. "Exactly. Lily's health is fragile—she can't handle stress. Eleanor is stronger. She's the right choice."
Eleanor's fingers tightened around the handle until her knuckles turned white.
This wasn't the first time she had been sacrificed.
Just the first time it had been said so clearly.
She stood outside the room until the warmth in the container faded.
"Sis?" Lily's soft voice came from inside.
Eleanor pushed the door open and smiled—the gentle, practiced smile she had worn her entire life. She spooned the soup carefully and held it to Lily's lips.
"You're always so good to me," Lily said, eyes shining.
Eleanor nodded. "You're my sister. It's what I should do."
Should.
She swallowed the word whole.
⸻
The exchange was scheduled for 4:00 a.m.
Eleanor was guided into a black luxury sedan. Through the window, her father rested a hand on her head, his voice soothing.
"Don't be afraid. You're just helping with an investigation. Daddy will bring you home soon."
The door closed.
The engine started.
Something inside her chest collapsed quietly.
She didn't cry. She didn't resist.
Instead, she remembered being sixteen—the one time she rebelled. She had dyed her hair midnight blue and met a man in a black coat in an alley. She'd asked him for a lighter.
He had looked at her with pale, unreadable eyes and said, "You're a child. Don't learn bad habits."
She dyed her hair back the next day.
Because her father said disobedient daughters didn't deserve medical bills paid.
Tonight, she could finally be disobedient.
The price was her life.
⸻
The car didn't stop at a police station.
It drove toward the outskirts—an abandoned cold-storage warehouse.
The metal doors opened like a mouth with no mercy.
Eleanor was restrained against a steel pillar, breath turning white. Frost clung to her lashes.
Across from her sat a young man in a tailored suit, leisurely stirring hot cocoa.
"I'm sorry, Miss Harper," he said politely. "But you have to disappear. It's the only way everyone can feel safe."
Eleanor looked at him. "Am I obedient enough?"
He paused, amused. "You are. That's why you're suitable."
She closed her eyes.
She counted in her head, like memorizing answers in school.
One.
Two.
Three.
Then—
Boom.
The warehouse doors exploded open.
Cold fog surged as a man stepped inside, black coat sweeping the floor. His presence silenced the room.
His eyes—dark red in the mist—locked onto Eleanor.
Something inside her burned awake.
He walked to her slowly, brushing frost from her lashes with surprising tenderness.
"Eleanor," he said, like he'd been waiting centuries to say her name.
Her throat tightened. "Do you know me?"
A low laugh. "I've been looking for you."
Memory cracked open—firelight, a pale face, a borrowed flame.
It was him.
The restraints snapped apart.
He pulled her into his arms, steady, inevitable.
"Do you want to live?" he asked softly.
"Yes," she whispered.
"Then listen carefully." His fingers tilted her chin up. "From this moment on, you don't belong to them anymore."
"Then… who do I belong to?"
A faint smile curved his lips.
"Me."
He pressed her palm against his chest.
No heartbeat.
Only something older. Heavier.
"I'll give you a second life," he said. "In return, your second life is mine."
Eleanor understood.
This wasn't salvation.
It was claiming.
She nodded. "Okay."
Darkness swallowed her whole.
The last thing she heard was his voice against her ear—
"Good girl. Stop giving your life to people who don't deserve it."
⸻
Eleanor gasped awake.
A piece of chalk struck her forehead.
"Eleanor Harper," the teacher snapped. "Answer the question."
She looked down.
A classroom desk.
Sunlight.
Her wrist—no deep black scar. Only a faint pink bite mark from years ago.
The blackboard read:
October 9th, 2018
She had gone back in time.
Then she saw him.
Standing in the hallway shadow, watching her.
He mouthed one word.
"Come."
Her spine went cold.
This wasn't a miracle.
It was debt—collected early.
⸻
End of Prologue