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—𝟎𝟎𝟏.- ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱʜɪʀᴛ, ꜱɪʀ?—

̶S̶e̶r̶a̶p̶h̶i̶n̶a̶

𝑺𝒐𝒇𝒊𝒂 ☄

         𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐁𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐃. 𝐍𝐎—𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐇 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐁𝐄 𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐋. I step inside the Ibrahim estate, trying to stop my mouth from dropping open. The place is ridiculous, almost offensively so. Every inch of the house seems to glisten with gold, marble, and crystal. It is like someone had looked at a normal mansion and said, 'No, let's make it bigger. Let's make it unbearable.' And then they had. Though I have no idea what a normal mansion looks like, but I doubt it's this. There's no world in which this is normal.

Karim glances over his shoulder at me, noticing my expression but saying nothing. He continues leading me down a series of long hallways, each one more extravagant than the last. Paintings that look like they could buy a small country hung on the walls. Rugs so plush I feel like I am walking on clouds. I can't help but wonder how many people had died—or been killed—to fund this palace.

This is it, I thought. I've officially entered hell.

As we reach a set of large, ornate doors, Karim stops and motions for me to wait. "You'll stay here until the Commander is ready to see you," he says in English, his accent thick.

The commander? As in 'THE Supreme Commander of Asia'? What the hell? Never in a million years, would I have guessed that the Supreme Commander would be the one seeing me. It's weird. But then again, what isn't weird about them? Still, I'm a servant, just a servant in their eyes and knowledge. 

Maybe it's a test.

Maybe he already knows I'm a spy.

Or maybe he's just naturally paranoid and wants to personally meet those who will work in his house.

Yes. Let's hope it's the last one.

I don't know if I should nod or thank him, so I just stand there like an idiot, trying not to let the panic show on my face. When he leaves, I glance around the room. It's big, like everything else in this house, with tall windows that let in beams of light that make the room look even more golden. There are chairs with intricate carvings, probably worth more than my old "apartment", and a long table with vases of fresh flowers. Where did they even get flowers? Such a thing seems crazy nowadays. Everything screamed untouchable. Like them.

I stand there, in my ragged clothes, wondering how long I'd have to wait. My thoughts race. What the hell am I doing here? What had I signed up for? I try to remember why I even agreed to come. Oh, right. Because I had no choice.

I can almost hear Trix telling me to stop whining. But I can't help it. I'm a natural complainer.

After what felt like an eternity, the doors open again, and a tall, broad-shouldered man enters. I know instantly who he is. Supreme Commander of Asia, Musa Ibrahim. He is intimidating, with dark, piercing eyes and a face that could turn stone to dust. His hair is graying at the temples, but it only adds to the severe look he carries with him. He wears a perfectly tailored military uniform, the badges on his chest practically glowing.

"So," he says, his voice deep and rough. "You're the new girl." His eyes scan me with the kind of scrutiny that makes me feel like I am being weighed and measured. He has an accent, not too strong but noticeable. 

"Yes, sir," I reply, keeping my voice steady.

He doesn't waste any time. "I received your recommendation. It said you were... loyal. Competent." His eyes glint with something unreadable. "You have a great amount of experience, but this is your first time working in a household. Am I right?"

For a split second, my heart falters, and I feel the burn of adrenaline spike through me. The recommendation letter. The one the rebellion had so carefully crafted. It's unbelievable that they set all this up on such short notice. Or maybe they were planning to get rid of me much earlier...

I force my face to stay neutral, steadying myself under the intensity of his gaze. "Yes, sir."

It wasn't just any letter—it was a piece of fiction spun from desperation. I remember how they worded it, each sentence so carefully chosen to paint the perfect picture of me, the perfect cover story. Seraphina, a loyal, competent worker from a respectable background, someone with an unwavering sense of duty. Someone who had no ties to anything or anyone.

Whoever this Seraphina was, I feel sorry for her. The letter had been designed to get me into this room, sitting in front of this man. A forged document, created to convince him—and the entire system—that I was exactly the kind of person they wanted in the Ibrahim household. It's one of the best things we're good at. Playing with the Reestablishment. But as the old saying states, playing with fire...

They'd praised the scheme like it was foolproof. The rebellion has networks in place, people with forged credentials and access to systems where no questions were asked if you knew the right people or paid the right price. One fabricated letter, and I was in. But standing here now, in front of the Supreme Commander, with his sharp gaze dissecting every move I make, every breath I take, it feels anything but simple.

I can feel the pressure in my chest, a creeping tension that crawls up my spine, threatening to make me freeze. But I can't afford to falter, not here. Not in front of him. My mission depends on my ability to play this part perfectly. What did the letter even say exactly? It's all a blur now, words like efficient, dedicated, submissive, loyal to the cause, flashing through my mind. But there was one line, one line that felt like a subtle knife: she can be trusted with discretion. A lie, of course. A lie designed to get me closer to the secrets they needed.

Trusted. I almost scoff at the irony.

I wonder what he thinks when he looks at me. Does he see a servant? A loyal worker ready to dedicate herself to his family? Or does he see something else? A crack in the façade? Does he feel that creeping sense of unease, that instinct that tells him something is off?

"I assume you already know what's expected of you."

His words echo in my mind, sharp and heavy, weighted with more than just professional expectation. There's a test in his tone, something challenging beneath the surface, like he's waiting to see if I'll falter.

I nod, keeping my expression as neutral as possible. A perfect statue. "Yes, sir."

But inside, I'm calculating. I'm playing the part the rebellion told me to play—the obedient, competent worker. Seraphina, who would never question an order or stray from her duties. A mask I have to wear if I want to stay alive in this house, if I want to succeed in this mission and go back.

My loyalty to the rebellion burns quietly under my skin, a constant reminder of why I'm really here. I am no one's servant. Not really. I'm here to infiltrate, to gather information, to undermine them from the inside. The Ibrahims. Their power, their control—it all has to come crashing down.

And they will.

One by one.

"I expect nothing less than complete obedience," he continues, his tone even, but his eyes gleaming with an edge. "You'll serve my family as if your life depends on it."

It does, I think bitterly. More than you know.

"Of course, sir," I say, my voice steady, controlled. "You can count on me."

Inside, I remind myself: this is just the beginning. The letter may have been forged, but this moment is very real. One wrong move, one flicker of doubt, and the whole operation could come crashing down.

I glance at his face, trying to read the tension there. There's something about the way his gaze lingers, that makes my skin crawl, but I don't flinch. I won't give him the satisfaction.

"I'll make sure to uphold the expectations," I say, adding just the right amount of humility to my voice.

"Good." He circles me, his gaze never leaving my face. "Because I don't repeat orders. You will follow orders exactly as given. No deviations, no mistakes. I don't tolerate mistakes. Understand?"

"Understood."

He stops in front of me, his expression hard as stone. "You start tomorrow. 5 a.m. sharp. But today will be a practice day, so tomorrow you'll already know what you will be facing. Anything else?"

I know it's a rhetorical question. I know he isn't really waiting for a different answer from: 'No, sir.' But I have to. I shouldn't, because I also know I should be able to control my powers. But I can't seem to do it. So...

Fuck it.

The words slip out before I can stop myself. "I don't work past 11 p.m.," I mutter so fast I actually think I just babbled. 

The silence that follows is deafening. He turns his head slowly, his eyebrows raised. "What did you just say?"

I swallow, realizing I am already on thin ice. But I couldn't back down now. "I don't work past 11 p.m., sir."

For a moment, he just stares at me, clearly trying to figure out if I am serious or just stupid. But sadly enough I'm just stupid. "And why, exactly, do you think you have the right to set your own hours?"

Don't start stuttering now Sofía, "I-I don't, sir. It's just I can't work past 11 p.m." Because working past 11 p.m. would mean being closer to 12 p.m. meaning I won't be able to control my powers. Not if there are people around interacting with me.

But what if he asks why? What I'm going to say if he asks why? God, I'm stupid. So, so stupid.

Commander Ibrahim's eyes lock onto mine, and I feel my stomach drop. His dark gaze pins me in place, as if he is trying to dissect me just by looking. For a long, agonizing moment, the room is filled with nothing but the heavy weight of his silence. Then, his expression shifts—first confusion, then amusement.

"And why is that?" His voice is smooth, but there is an edge to it, like he is daring me to give the wrong answer.

Shit. It seems illegal for me to think before speaking.

I blink, my mind racing to come up with something believable. My pulse pounds in my ears. "Because... that would be child labor?" My mind is begging itself to shut the fuck up. Child labor? Who do I think I'm working for? Mother Teresa? Well—maybe that wasn't the right example of goodness but—I'm stupid. That's it. As simple as that. These people do worse than child labor. 

The silence stretches on, thick and suffocating. Commander Ibrahim's eyes narrow slightly, and for a split second, I thought I was done for. But then—unexpectedly—he bursts into laughter.

What the actual fuck?

It isn't a small chuckle or a quiet laugh. It is a full, booming laugh that echoes off the ornate walls. I stand there, frozen, completely unsure of how to react.

"Child labor," he repeats between laughs, shaking his head as if it is the funniest thing he'd heard in years. "You're... what? Fifteen?"

"Seventeen, sir," I correct, trying to keep my face as neutral as possible while my internal monologue spirals into full panic. Great job, Sofía. You've made the terrifying Commander of Asia laugh. What's next, a stand-up comedy gig?

He shakes his head again, clearly entertained. "Well, we wouldn't want to break any laws now, would we?" Right, because he's the one making the rules. God, please bury me deep enough to reencounter the dinosaurs. He glances over my shoulder, and I turn to see Karim standing in the doorway like a ghost. The man has a way of appearing and disappearing without making a sound, which is more than a little unsettling. 

"Kallem Zahara touriha w t3allimha," the Commander says in Arabic. ("Tell Zahara to show her around and teach her.")

Huh?

I caught enough to know he was talking about me, and by that I mean he was looking at me the whole time. But the rest was lost. I can only hope it wasn't anything too horrible.

Karim nods and responds quickly, though his words are lost on me. I hate this feeling—the sense of being left out of a conversation that involved you. But I have no choice but to stand there like a confused puppy and hope for the best.

Commander Ibrahim gives me one last amused look before waving his hand dismissively. "Take her to her room. She starts tomorrow."

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, grateful to finally be leaving his presence. As Karim led me back through the winding halls of the mansion, I couldn't shake the feeling of dread crawling up my spine. So, I am in. But at what cost? This place feels like a gilded cage, beautiful on the outside but filled with danger on the inside. The Commander is watching me. I can tell. He doesn't fully trust me yet— and being honest he has no reason to—, and that means I have to be extra careful. One wrong move, and I would be exposed before I had a chance to do anything for the rebellion.

As we approach the wing where I'd be staying, I glance at Karim, who seems completely unfazed by everything that has just happened. His face is the same blank mask as before. He pushes open a door to a modest, albeit richly decorated, room. "This will be your quarters. You share them with two other women," he says simply.

I walk inside, taking in the space. It's clean, with a large bed and ornate furnishings. It isn't exactly luxurious by this mansion's standards, but it's far better than what I'd expected for a maid's quarters. I turn to thank Karim, but he is already gone, the door clicking shut behind him without a word.

Sighing, I sit down on the bed and stared at the intricately carved ceiling. The reality of the situation finally hitting me full force. I'm alone, in the middle of Asia, about to serve one of the most powerful families in the world. And I don't even speak Arabic.

Great start. Just like any horror movie. 

I sigh for what feels like the hundredth time, lying back on the bed and staring at the ceiling of my new room. My new life as Seraphina Delacour, maid to the Supreme Commander's family, will officially begin today.

Fuck.

The uniform they'd left for me is staring back with as much enthusiasm as I have for this whole plan. It's gray, coarse, and about three sizes too big, like I'd stolen it. It hangs on my frame like a child playing dress-up. Perfect. Just what I need to feel even more out of place in this bizarre setup where I, a trained spy, am supposed to be blending in with the help.

Where are the missions where I get to kick some asses? Where are the missions where I can use all my training?

Bella says that all the other things we 'learn' besides hitting the gym are considered 'training' too. And I never believed that, but right now, I really wish I had paid more attention to the Arabic classes. Or to any other class, really. 

But that's exactly their idea of punishment for me.

Wonderful. 

As I fumble with the collar, trying to adjust it so I don't look completely ridiculous, there's a quick knock at the door. Before I can even think to respond, it swings open.

A woman, sharp-featured with an expression that could slice through steel, storms in. Her face might be late forties, but her energy screams younger—and not in the 'youthful and spry' kind of way. No, she has the vibe of someone who hasn't got the time or patience for any of this. Behind her, a timid young girl hovers, holding the door like it's a sacred duty. Her eyes flick nervously between me and the woman.

This unknown woman barely gives me a glance before snapping something in rapid Arabic to the girl. I catch none of it—just the cadence of someone who's used to being obeyed without question.

"W enti, lazem teg3di bsittaqil? Yalla, ma 3ndna wake nrja3 l'nawm!" she barks at me. ("And you, are you going to just stand there? Let's go, we don't have time to go back to sleep.")

Yup. Just what I said recently. 

"Uh... sorry... I don't understand," I stammer, trying my best not to sound too out of place, which is obvi ously impossible when I look like a slaughtered lamb.

Scary-woman looks at me with an expression that clearly says, 'I don't care what language you speak, just stop wasting my time.' She exchanges a glance with the girl, and they begin a back-and-forth conversation in Arabic. I catch one word that might be 'stupid ' but hey, maybe I'm being too sensitive.

"Shgelt?" Scary-woman asks the girl, her voice dripping with impatience. ("What did she say?")

The girl looks terrified but squeaks, "Athni t'goul ma t3arf te7chi 3arabi." ("I think she said she doesn't speak Arabic.")

The scary-woman's sigh is dramatic enough to win an Oscar. "Shlon ti3milna w ma t3arf ti7chi 3arabi?" she mutters, rubbing her temple as if the very thought of me existing here is giving her a headache. ("What is she doing here if she doesn't know how to speak Arabic? ")

She pauses, looks at me like she could turn me into dust right there and sweep me away, and then looks at the girl with a raised eyebrow. "Gadri t3rf tasawi tarjama?" ("Can you translate? ")

The girl nods meekly. "Agdar ajarreb... bass ana bas a3ref shwayat ashiya lama kint bil madresa." ("I can try... But I only know a few things from when I was in school.")

Scary-woman huffs but doesn't argue. With a sharp flick of her wrist, she gestures to me, and the girl steps forward like she's about to face a firing squad.

"Uh... hello," she says softly, her eyes wide. "My name is Aya. And she's Zahara. I will try to help you."

I flash her a small, thankful smile. "Thanks, I appreciate it. I'm So-Seraphina."

And thank God someone here can understand me.

Aya does her best to keep up with  ̶s̶c̶a̶r̶y̶-̶w̶o̶m̶a̶n̶'̶s̶  Zahara's rapid-fire instructions, translating as we go. Apparently, the first thing I need to do is find a uniform that fits better, because, as Zahara puts it through Aya, 'I look ridiculous.' Thanks for the confidence boost.

Next, Zahara delivers the golden rule: I must follow her orders, no matter what.

Because that's not ominous at all.

Everyone here wants me to follow orders and surprisingly enough that's the biggest thing I hate. Slowly, my mother's reasons for sending me here make even more sense. And I hate that even more.

Zahara is something like the