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The sensation hit her on the sixth morning like a wave of ice water through her veins. Eve was standing at the window, watching the dawn break over unfamiliar architecture, when the feeling struck. It was not pain, exactly, though pain was a part of it. It was emotion, raw and overwhelming, flooding through her consciousness as if a dam had broken somewhere deep inside. Rage. It was a bitter, helpless rage at being trapped, misunderstood, and constantly, perpetually in pain.

Except the rage was not hers.

She gasped, her hand flying to her chest as the feeling intensified. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Her vision swam with tears that had no source in her own experience. Beneath it all, threading through her body like dark water, was that now-familiar current of energy. It felt alive, aware, and deeply wrong.

This is not me. This is her. This is Sera.

The realization should have been terrifying. Instead, it was clarifying. Eve forced herself to breathe slowly and deliberately, applying the same mental discipline she had once used to remain calm during hostile board meetings. The emotion was not hers, which meant she could observe it, analyze it, and separate herself from its grip. Slowly, the wave receded, leaving her shaken but intact.

She sank into the chair by the window, her hands trembling slightly. There were echoes here, fragments of the original owner of this body. They were not memories. She could not see Sera's past or understand her experiences. But emotions remained, imprinted on the body like scars on skin. She was in pain, constant and unrelenting pain, and she was so very angry about it.

The profile of her predecessor grew more complex. Perhaps she was not a villain for villainy's sake, but someone driven by suffering to actions others could not forgive. It was an almost sympathetic thought, which was a dangerous way to think. Eve had not survived the corporate world by being sympathetic.

Over the next two days, the sensations came and went unpredictably. A flash of loneliness so profound it made her chest ache. A burst of bitter jealousy aimed at someone unnamed. A desperate, clawing need for acknowledgment that felt like drowning. And always, the thrum of magic threaded through her veins like a second heartbeat.

Eve tried to recall any memories from Sera, anything that might give her context or understanding. She closed her eyes and reached inward, searching for the familiar shapes of another person's experiences. She found nothing but emptiness, a blank wall where a lifetime should have been. I am an imposter wearing a dead woman's face. Or a living woman's face. I do not even know which.

On the eighth evening, frustration got the better of caution. Eve had been experimenting carefully with her new body, testing its limits and capabilities. She discovered she was weaker than she had been, her stamina poor, her muscles untrained. But there was something else, something that felt like potential coiled beneath her skin. She held out her hand, palm up, and thought about the current of energy she had been feeling. She imagined it responding to her will, manifesting, becoming visible and controllable.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then shadow erupted from her palm in a burst of writhing darkness.

Eve yelped and jerked her hand back, and the shadow vanished as quickly as it had appeared. The damage was done. Her heart raced with genuine fear, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. That had been real. That had been magic. And she had absolutely no control over it. She stared at her hand, half expecting it to betray her again, to unleash something she could not contain.

The servants' fear suddenly made perfect, terrible sense. If Sera had been prone to uncontrolled outbursts of shadow magic, if her emotions had triggered manifestations she could not stop, then of course everyone would be terrified of her. Dangerous. I am dangerous, and I do not even know the rules of this danger.

Eve flexed her fingers slowly, testing. The latent power remained, waiting, coiled like a snake ready to strike. Her strategic mind immediately began calculating. This was both a weapon and a liability. If she could learn to control it, it might be her greatest asset. If she could not, it would destroy any chance she had of surviving in this world.

Control. That was always the answer. She had controlled boardrooms and hostile takeovers and her own ruthless ambition for years. She could learn to control this too. She had to, because the alternative was remaining helpless in this gilded cage, feared for powers she did not understand, hated for crimes she had not committed, and utterly, completely alone.