Sleep was not a refuge. It was a dark, silent bog where formless fragments of sensation drifted: the cold of the floor, the smell of blood, the strange texture of her own skin. There were no dreams, only the shapeless heaviness of absolute exhaustion. From that nothingness, a sound began to emerge slowly and distant at first, like a drum being struck on the other side of a wall of cotton.

  Knock. Knock.

  It was rhythmic, insistent. A monotonous hammering that seeped through the fog of her unconsciousness. The sound grew clearer, closer, until it stopped being a distant echo and became a tangible, aggressive presence, pounding at the door of her refugee or her prison.

  KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

  With a dry gasp, her eyes flew open. The light was no longer the golden, slanted glow of dusk. It was a white, clear, implacable light, pouring through the cracks in the window and illuminating the dust dancing in the air. The birdsong—shrill and vibrant—filled the room, a brutal contrast to the sepulchral silence of her previous awakening.

  She looked at her hands, stretched out over the wooden floor. They were still the same: slender, feminine, dirty. The sound at the door did not stop. The insistence turned into a demand.

  I’m coming! — The voice came out of her lips before she could think. It was that voice again, the strange, female voice, higher than she remembered and with a timbre that resonated in her skull like a constant reminder. It sounded hoarse, broken by sleep and crying.

  She got up from the floor with the clumsiness of a newborn, always bracing herself against whatever was in front of her. Her gaze fell on the dark brown dress, folded carelessly over the straw mattress. She picked it up with trembling hands. Getting dressed was an exercise in humiliating alienation. The fabric, rough but clean, brushed against her skin. As she pulled it down over her hips, a sudden, almost electric shiver ran up her spine. It wasn’t cold; it was the pure sensation of otherness—the acute awareness that these curves, these contours, were not hers, and yet they responded to her commands. A shaky sigh escaped her lips. She tried to focus, to cling to a concrete task: put on the dress. Reach the door. But her thoughts fluttered like startled bats in the cave of her skull.

  Once dressed—the dress hung loose on her, as if it had been made for a slightly larger body—she crawled toward the short hallway leading to the entrance. The weakness in her legs was alarming. She clutched the cold stone wall, feeling its irregularities beneath her palms, and with an effort that made sweat bead on her forehead, she straightened up.

  Walking was a battle. Her legs trembled under her weight; each step was an unstable negotiation with muscles she did not trust. She staggered down the hallway, the sound of her own footsteps and the pounding on the door forming a chaotic rhythm. Finally, she reached the door. It was a simple construction of dark wooden planks, worn by time and dampness. But it did not open with a simple push. A thicker, heavier plank—a crossbar—blocked it from the inside, lodged into two rusted iron brackets.

  Someone locked her in here. Or… she locked herself in—the thought hovered, unsettling.

  She grabbed the plank with both hands. It was heavy, far heavier than the strength suggested by her new, thin, untuned arms. With a grunt born of pure effort, she lifted it, the muscles in her arms and back protesting with sharp pain. Her breathing quickened, turning into short gasps. With a final exertion, she managed to wrench it free and let it fall against the wall with a dull thud that kicked up dust.

  Without the bar, the door gave slightly. She pushed it—at first cautiously, then with more resolve. The hinges shrieked, a piercing sound that made her clench her teeth. And then the outside world struck her.

  First came the light. The merciless brightness of the morning sun hit her square in the eyes, blinding her for a moment with white pain. With the light came dry heat that contrasted with the damp cold of the cabin. Through rapid blinking, as her eyes adjusted, the image before her began to sharpen. It was a man.

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  He was much taller than her. Blond, with his hair shaved on the sides and an unkempt mohawk of the same straw color. A thick, poorly kept golden beard covered the lower half of his face. But what captured her attention instantly was the scar: a thick, pale, sunken line that split his left eyebrow and sank down toward his cheek, like the mark of a poorly healed axe blow. His eyes were pale, icy blue, and they assessed her without blinking, the way one examines a pack animal whose value is unknown.

  The second impact was the smell. A powerful, complex stench hit her full force: the sharp sourness of cheap, stale alcohol mixed with the dry, metallic odor of old iron and cured sweat. It was the scent of professional violence, of a hard, nomadic life.

  The man spoke first. His voice was like two granite slabs scraping together rough and stripping of any inflection not strictly utilitarian.

  Miss Selena— he said, and the name sounded strange to her. —Our contract is over. As you requested, I only guarded the door and the room. Regardless of the noise— He paused briefly, his blue eyes traveling over her from head to toe, lingering on the loose dress, her pallor, the disarray of her hair. There was no curiosity in that gaze, only cold appraisal. —Or what happened inside— he added, the words carrying the weight of everything he might have heard: the blows, the sobs, the screams.

  He straightened slightly, crossing his arms over a broad chest covered by a worn leather shirt.

  Honoring our verbal contract, I won’t ask about your current condition— he continued a small miracle of mercenary discretion, a line drawn in the sand. —But I must be clear. My time is up. I’m leaving— Another pause, this one laden with commercial expectation—Unless you wish, of course, to renew the contract.

  Selena? Me? The thought flashed through her mind like lightning. So that was the name of this new body, and she, the former Selena, the original owner of this body, had ordered this thug to stand guard. To not interfere, no matter what he heard. Why? What had she been trying to do or prevent such isolation and such purchased silence?

  Her mental processing was cut short by a dry sound. The man had cleared his throat. His icy eyes were fixed on her, waiting. Waiting for an answer, a decision. There was no concern there, no sympathy. Only the calculated patience of someone selling his time and his indifference.

  An idea—fragile, desperate—took shape. If this man had been guarding the place, perhaps… perhaps he knew something. Something about her. About what had happened. In a voice that tried to sound more confident than she felt, and that still felt alien to her, she said —If you want me to hire you again, tell me what you know about me.

  It was a clumsy move, an attempt at manipulation that sounded as false as it felt. The mercenary did not flinch. A slow smile, one that never reached his blue eyes, formed beneath the golden beard.

  That’ll be two silver crowns if you want answers— he said, his tone that of a shopkeeper offering a fair price for familiar goods.

  It was obvious. She had fallen right into his trap, exposing her ignorance, her need. A flare of frustration and a deeper fear washed over her: the realization that she was completely adrift, that even a stranger could see it.

  Forcing a look of disdain that cost her a titanic effort, she replied, —No. Forget it. I won’t hire you again.

  She stared at him, waiting—almost silently begging—for him to negotiate, to lower the price, to drop at least a scrap of information out of spite or habit.

  But the mercenary was not that kind of man. He nodded once, a sharp movement of his head. Without another word, without a farewell, without even a gesture of acknowledgment, he turned around. His heavy boots crushed the dry grass of the path with a dull crunch as he walked away, his broad, scarred figure absorbing the sunlight until it disappeared among the trees.

  He left her completely alone.

  A void even deeper than the one in the room opened in her chest. With hands now trembling from a mix of adrenaline and disappointment, she grabbed the heavy plank and, with an effort that made her muscles creak, put it back in place, blocking the door. The screech of wood settling into the iron brackets was the sound of her voluntary confinement.

  She let herself slide back against the closed door, sinking down until she was sitting on the dusty wooden floor of the threshold. The sun’s heat filtered through the cracks and warmed the back of her neck. She had one clue. Just one.

  A name.

  “Selena.”

  This body, this place, this purchased silence, all of it belonged to a woman named Selena. And she, whoever she had been before, was now her prisoner. The echo of the mercenary’s rough voice rang in her ears: “Regardless of the noise. Or what happened inside.”