Chapter 1

Kidnapped at seven, I spent fifteen years in the lawless badlands across the border.

In the official archives, my identity was just a string of numbers. I had no name.

After I was finally brought back, my dad named me Serene—wishing me a peaceful turn of fortune.

I forced myself to blend in, learning how to pick out discounted eggs at the grocery store and how to smile politely at the neighbors.

My mom, terrified I wouldn’t adjust to normal life, held my hand every single day during our afternoon walks.

But my stepsister, Chloe, had lived in that mansion for twenty years, enjoying the luxury of having both parents to herself.

The day I returned, she smashed her glass on the floor in a silent rage.

Three years later, she brought her boyfriend, Marcus Sterling, to our house for a brutal showdown.

Marcus’s thugs dragged my paralyzed mom out of her wheelchair, pinning her flat against the greasy kitchen tile.

Chloe unscrewed a bottle of heavy-duty dish soap and shoved the neck of the bottle into my mom’s mouth.

"Are you going to sign over the deed or not? If you don't, I'll force another bottle down your throat."

My mom choked, vomiting thick green bubbles, but she still desperately clutched the house deed to her chest.

Chloe looked up at me, laughing. "Why aren't you screaming? Aren't you supposed to be some quiet, antisocial freak? Go crawl into your corner and hide."

I didn’t say a word.

I calmly pulled the heavy chef's knife from the wooden block and wiped the blade on my apron.

"Chloe, do you know what they taught me during my years in the badlands?"

"What did they teach you?" Chloe laughed out loud. "How to prep vegetables? How to wash dishes? Or how to dig for expired canned food in the trash?"

Marcus didn’t speak. He just took a drag from his cigarette, his eyes scanning me with cold amusement.

I stood by the stove, gripping the knife.

My mom lay on the floor, green chemical foam dripping from the corner of her swollen, bleeding mouth.

She looked up at me, her eyes filled with terror.

"Serene... put the knife down," my mom’s voice was raspy and thick. The harsh chemicals had already blistered her tongue, making her words sound like she was choking on cotton. "Mom is fine... don't do it."

Chloe knelt down, pinching my mom’s chin with her manicured nails.

"Mom, you should tell her that kitchen knives are for cutting meat, not for making pathetic threats."

The biggest thug in the room took a heavy step toward me.

"Drop it."

He reached out to grab the blade.

His movement was slow, his angle clumsy, his palm facing upward—in the training camps abroad, we called this "begging for a broken wrist."

I flicked my wrist. The razor-sharp edge sliced clean through his palm.

In an instant, muscle and skin parted, revealing the white flash of tendon underneath.

The six-foot-three giant shrieked, his scream echoing louder than my mom's.

A second thug lunged at me from behind.

Without turning, I slammed the heavy butt of the knife backward, striking his wrist bone with surgical precision. His taser dropped to the floor with a loud clatter.

A third man raised a wooden chair over his head.

I dodged—

But my foot slipped on the soapy foam spreading across the floor.

That split second was all it took.

The fourth guard rushed me from the side, landing a heavy kick right into my lower back.

I slammed hard into the soapy puddle. The knife slipped from my grip, sliding deep under the refrigerator.

A heavy boot stepped directly onto my right wrist.

The sole ground down, making the small bones in my wrist creak under the pressure.

"You can actually fight," Marcus said, flicking his cigarette ash onto my hair. He crouched down to look at me. "But what now?"

Chloe walked over, her steps slow and arrogant.

She held another bottle of dish soap, twisting the cap off with a click.

"So you learned some parlor tricks abroad, huh? Want to play with knives?"

She grabbed my jaw, squeezing hard.

Her nails weren't long, but she knew exactly where to press, locking her fingers onto my jaw joints.

"Open up. If Mom got a taste, you should get one too."

"Chloe—" my mom screamed from the floor, her voice barely sounding human anymore. "She’s your sister—"

"She’s a stray dog."

Chloe poured the chemical liquid straight into my mouth.

It was lemon-flavored, sweeter than I expected.

But then my throat started to burn. It felt like swallowing a handful of shattered glass as the alkaline chemicals stripped the lining of my esophagus.

I didn’t fight back.

The timing wasn't right yet.

The knife was under the fridge, my wrist was pinned under a boot, and my mom was still on the floor.

Using my free left hand, I slowly reached into my apron pocket.

My fingers brushed against a cold, rusted metal object. A military-grade distress beacon that had been with me for fifteen years.

I pressed the red button.

The indicator light didn’t turn on.

Chloe noticed the device in my hand. She blinked in confusion, then laughed even harder.

"What is that? A walkie-talkie? Who are you calling? Your garbage-collector friends from the slums?"

Marcus stood up, pulling out his phone to dial a number.

"Jax, I'm at the Vance estate. Yeah, bring your boys. All of them."

He hung up and looked down at me.

"Serene, you just mutilated four of my men."

The roar of heavy engines echoed from the street outside.

Chloe threw the empty bottle aside and leaned down to whisper in my ear.

"Jax is the king of Oakhaven's underworld. Three hundred men, armed with machetes, are about to block this entire street."

She patted my cheek mockingly.

"Where’s your little kitchen knife now? Go on, go get it."

I kept silent.

My mouth was full of chemical foam. I couldn't swallow, and I couldn't spit it out.

The beacon in my hand remained dark.