Beatrice gazed into the mirror, her reflection both recognizable and alien.
She felt herself caught between two identities: the gentle, introspective Beatrice and the cold, lethal assassin known as Blade.
"I'm still Blade, aren't I?" she whispered to her reflection, a mixture of defiance and despair coloring her voice.
The reflection stared back, impassive, as if waiting for her to answer her own question.
When she closed her eyes, images flashed—fluid martial arts sequences and the silent swoosh of his blade—danced behind her eyelids.
She could almost hear the swish of the weapon cutting through the flesh, the dull thuds of her targets falling to the ground.
After waking from a coma, the memories in her head began to collide between Beatrice and Blade. As her younger sister Victoria visited her, Beatrice slowly regained memories of her true self.
Now, she felt like Blade, trapped in Beatrice's body. The stark contrast between her assassin instincts and her inherent gentleness created a tumultuous inner battle.
As the door to her room suddenly swung open, a tall, muscular man, standing at about 185cm, entered and fixed his gaze on Beatrice.
His expression was cold and impassive, as if untouched by either joy or sorrow at her awakening from the coma.
"Strange," thought Beatrice. "He's my husband, isn't he? Atlas Hawk."
Memories of her wedding day began to flood back.
She recalled the grand, elegant setting, adorned with countless white roses and sparkling lights, creating a dreamlike atmosphere.
She remembered walking down the aisle, her heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and fear, her eyes locked on Atlas—her soon-to-be husband, who stood proudly yet enigmatically at the altar.
Atlas had been a figure of strength and mystery, his sharp features softened only slightly by the slight upturn of his lips as he watched her approach.
Despite the festive occasion, there had always been a certain reserve about him, a distance that never quite closed between them, even as they exchanged vows.
Now, as he stood before her, that same distance was real. His tall frame filled the doorway, his presence imposing yet oddly detached.
The sternness in his jawline, the unyielding set of his eyes—all of it made Beatrice feel as though she was looking at someone familiar yet fundamentally altered.
The complexity of her emotions was overwhelming—here was the man she had vowed to spend her life with, yet in this moment, he felt like a stranger.
Beatrice struggled to reconcile the man from her memories with the aloof figure now standing before her.
As she tried to speak, her voice faltered, caught up in the storm of her reawakening memories and the unsettling reality of their present disconnect.
"Atlas, you're here," Beatrice finally said, her voice a blend of hope and hesitation.
Atlas moved slowly towards her, his steps measured. "Yes, I'm here," he replied, his voice neutral. "How are you feeling?"
His formal tone stung a little. "I'm… confused," Beatrice confessed. "Seeing you feels both familiar and strange. Aren't you glad to see me awake?"
Atlas, however, appeared disinterested, his posture relax as he leaned against the wall. There was a coldness in his eyes that hadn't been there before.
"Not really."
Beatrice's heart sank as she sensed the hostility beneath his words. "Why are you being like this? Don't you care that I was in a coma? I almost didn't wake up," she said, a hint of desperation creeping into her voice.
Atlas shrugged, his indifference almost palpable. "I've had a lot of time to think while you were unconscious. Maybe too much time."
Feeling her heart tighten, Beatrice persisted, "What's going on? Why do you seem like you wish I hadn't woken up?"
With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of unspoken truths, Atlas finally met her gaze.
"Honestly? I was relieved when you were in that coma. I didn't have to deal with… us," he confessed, his voice low.
Beatrice felt a sharp sting at his words, her worst fears confirmed.
"You were relieved? You wished I hadn't woken up?" Her voice broke as she struggled to process his admission.
Atlas looked away, uncomfortable under her scrutiny. "It's not simple, Beatrice. Our marriage, it was never what I wanted. I thought I could make it work, but I was wrong."
The room fell silent, the distance between them more profound than the physical space. Beatrice withdrew her hand slowly, wrapping her arms around herself for comfort. The man she loved and the man sitting before her seemed worlds apart.
"Where do we go from here, Atlas? What do you want?" she asked quietly, fearing his answer.
Atlas's response was slow, his words deliberate. "I don't know if there's an 'us' to go back to, Beatrice. Maybe it's best if we think about what living apart looks like."
The words slipped from Beatrice's mouth, but it was Blade who spoke them, not Beatrice.
"Oh?! Should we file for divorce?"
The question was harsh, almost clinical, a stark contrast to the loving nature Beatrice had always shown towards Atlas.
It was unthinkable for her to suggest such a thing—she loved Atlas deeply, it was Blade's pragmatism and detachment surfacing in a moment of vulnerability.
Atlas looked startled, his eyes widening slightly at the sudden shift in Beatrice's demeanor.
"Is that really what you want?" he asked cautiously.
Beatrice, or rather Blade, replied with a cold clarity that was uncharacteristic of the loving wife Atlas had known.
"Yes, why prolong the inevitable? If you're already finding relief in my absence, why should we pretend there's something left to salvage?"
Atlas's gaze hardened as he processed the harsh logic in her words, but he sensed something was off.
"Shut up!" Beatrice screamed.
Regaining control, Beatrice immediately softened, her expression morphing into one of distress.
"No, I… I didn't mean that, Atlas! I'm sorry, it's just… there's a part of me that's still trying to figure things out after coma," she whispered.
"I feel like I'm not just myself anymore," Beatrice confessed, her voice trembling. "There's someone else with me, inside me, trying to take over."