I sank onto the bed, but it didn't sink with me. Too stiff, too pristine, like sleeping on a goddamn museum display. Everything in this room—the carved wood, the silk-threaded tapestries, the scent of incense curling in the air like a leash—wasn't mine. It was Uncle Chen's world, built on power and patience and a sense of control so suffocating it turned the walls into something alive. Watching. Waiting.
I leaned back against the headboard, the cool lacquer pressing against my spine, and let out a slow, shuddering breath. My only hand drifted to my face, fingers pressing hard into my temple. I was shaking.
The mirror across from me reflected the mess of my existence in a perfect, unbroken pane of glass.
A tangled wreck of purple hair that hadn't seen a brush in weeks, eyes rimmed with exhaustion, a face paler than I remembered. A stranger sat there, slumped and hollowed out, with only the flicker of something mean and burning left in her gaze.
Ragweed.
