The nurse wheeled me out of the hospital two days later, even though I said I could walk. She gave me a paper mask, sunglasses, and a thick coat, as if I were some fragile celebrity with sunlight allergies.
I wasn’t.
But I played along.
Outside, a black military SUV idled in the cold morning air. It looked like it belonged in a convoy, not a hospital driveway. A soldier stood by the door, hand raised in a stiff salute.
“Good morning, Miss Jiang. The General’s waiting at home.”
Not your father. Not your family.
The phrasing was careful. Controlled.
The driver didn’t talk much. The windows were tinted, the road bumpy, and the silence heavy. I stared at my hands—small, pale, smooth. Not mine, but becoming familiar. Jiang Lanying’s body. Still not sure if I belonged in it.
The House
The Jiang estate sat behind two layers of security gates, stone walls, and a guard post with two armed men standing at ease. Not a mansion, not quite a compound—something in between. Cold, symmetrical, spotless.
No flowers. No family photos. No welcome.
Inside, a housekeeper led me to my room. Large. Minimal. A desk, a single bed, a wall-mounted screen, and shelves lined with military texts and prep manuals. Everything was perfectly arranged—lifeless.
“This is where you’ll sleep,” she said. “The General expects you downstairs at 1800 for dinner.”
I nodded. She left.
I stared at the books on the desk: Military History of the Eastern Territories, Combat Ethics, National Defense Structure.
No fiction. No journals. No traces of who the old Lanying really was.
That was the first thing that scared me.
The Brother
At 17:59, I came downstairs wearing the uniform they left folded on my bed. Sharp lines. Navy blue. Gold trim on the cuffs. It felt like armor.
At the table sat a man I hadn’t met yet, but recognized instantly: Jiang Rui.
Older brother. Cadet major at National Defense Prep. Age nineteen. Clean-cut. Back straight. Eyes sharp.
He didn’t look at me when I entered.
“You’re late,” he said without turning.
“It’s 18:00 on the dot.”
“Late for a Jiang.”
I didn’t answer. Just sat across from him. A maid brought soup and rice, placed it without a word, and left.
The air crackled with something unsaid.
“I heard you hit your head falling down the stairs,” he said.
“That’s what they told me.”
“You remember it?”
“No.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Convenient.”
I met his stare head-on. “You think I did it on purpose?”
“I don’t think anything yet. That’s the problem.”
First Flash
That night, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror after everyone else had gone to sleep. I pulled the mask off my face. Washed away the powder they’d used to hide the bruising near my temple.
And there it was. A faint scar under the hairline.
I stared at it, and suddenly—
A flash.
Running. Breathless. Someone yelling behind her. A stairwell. A hand on her shoulder. A shove.
Darkness.
Gone.
I gripped the sink, heart pounding. The mirror fogged up from my breath.
I didn’t just fall.
Someone pushed her. Pushed me.
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