Override Protocol

Where am I?

Ah, my head. It feels like it’s splitting in two. Guess I really overdid it this time. Drinking till dawn and now dealing with a hangover on the first day of class. Brilliant. I just hope the professor doesn’t beat us to the room today.

I shift uncomfortably, rolling onto my side. Something feels...off. My wrist stings. What the hell?

There’s a tightness, almost searing. My skin is raw where something is cutting into it. I try to move, but my shoulders ache and stiffen, my arms numb. My hands... they’re behind me. Bound.

What did I do this time?

Squinting, I blink into the darkness. It’s pitch black. For a second, panic flares—have I gone blind? I blink again, slow and deliberate. Once. Twice. No light, no shapes. Just an empty void.

No, I’m not blind. Definitely not.

The brush of my lashes grazes against something soft. A blindfold. My eyes itch now, and the sensation leaves me frustrated and disoriented. My stomach rumbles in protest, its growl cutting through the muffled silence. Then I hear it—a faint sound, distant but growing.

I shift my weight and contort myself awkwardly, flattening onto my stomach. My breathing quickens as I press my forehead into the surface beneath me. A mattress, maybe? It’s firm and unfamiliar.

Just like they taught you. I think to myself.

I brace myself, digging my knees into the mattress, and push upward with what little strength I can muster. Blood rushes to my head, a dizzying wave crashing through me. My wrists throb, the bonds biting deeper as I shift.

The sound I heard earlier grows clearer now, a haunting melody. Music?

Why does the sun go on shining...Why does the sea rush to shore...

The faint, melancholic voice fills the room, echoing softly.

Don’t they know it’s the end of the world...’Cause you don’t love me anymore...

The song’s sweet, mournful tone sends chills down my spine. My head pounds harder as I try to piece everything together. The last thing I remember—what is the last thing I remember? My mind spins, lightheaded and woozy.

I thought I kicked everyone out before I passed out.

It was all a blur—the laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the chaotic energy that filled the night. The party wasn’t even my idea, but the Arts and Literature Club insisted on celebrating my achievement like it was the triumph of the century. An A-plus on a thesis defense was a big deal, sure, but they treated it as if I’d rewritten the history of Queen Cleopatra herself.

To be fair, I was proud of that forty-page masterpiece. A deep dive into Cleopatra’s reign—the genius, the politics, and the unapologetic cunning that shaped her legacy. She was a woman who didn’t just rule; she conquered. Not just lands, but people, hearts, and politics.

Cleopatra wasn’t just some jewel-draped queen lounging on a throne. She knew exactly what she wanted and used every tool in her arsenal to get it. Beauty, intellect, power—all wrapped in a package that made even the most stoic men crumble. Hell, I’d crumble for her too. Those lips? That presence? If I lived in her time, I’d gladly be another pawn in her game. She was the kind of woman who could make you feel like a goddess even as she stepped over you.

Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong era. Give me the ferocity of ancient rulers over the soulless grind of today’s world any day. At least they had a purpose, even if it was soaked in blood and ambition. These days, people only care about fleeting thrills—cheap, shallow, and utterly corrupt.

The party was a mix of wild revelry and careful restraint. After all, we didn’t want the school’s management breathing down our necks for underage drinking—or worse, whatever was being smoked discreetly in the backyard. They called it a “banquet” in the spirit of Vikings, but let’s be real: we were amateurs compared to those warriors. Still, the chaos was strangely comforting, a temporary escape from the emptiness that usually lingered in this house.

This house—my house now—wasn’t always mine. It belonged to my parents. They’re gone now, taken by some inexplicable tragedy that no one could explain. My dad was a detective, my mom was a therapist. An odd combination, sure, but it worked. He was methodical, and she unraveled the minds of others with ease. Together, they created… well, me.

An eccentric, peculiar offspring with a knack for finding beauty in ancient chaos and detesting the modern world.

Now, it’s just me in this house—me and the memories that cling to its walls. On nights like this, with music pounding and strangers spilling drinks on the furniture, it almost feels alive again. Almost.

Of course, even after both my parents were gone, I wasn’t left to rot in an orphanage. I had substitutes—my mom and dad’s relatives—who took me in. They’re the best. It’s almost comical how they treat me like the only daughter in the world. My cousins? Well, they don’t find it so funny. There’s always a scene whenever I visit them; they can’t stand the fact that I get all the attention.

Looking back at the party then compared to now, things have changed, but not that much. I had ten beers and found myself in some ridiculous competition. Tyron, full of himself as always, challenged me to a drinking contest. This guy? Nothing but talk. Sure, he’s good-looking, but not impressive unless I decide to bless him with my attention. The prize? Well, it was clear to both of us what it was. For Tyron, it was me. But for me? I had a different idea. I demanded his best friend, Greg. A cherry on top of the cupcake, you know? Cute, fluffy, and sweet—though, let’s be real, still nothing compared to the ancient, legendary figures I’d prefer any day.

Of course, all of this depended on the conditions we set and whether the prices matched up. If both sides agreed, the deal was done. You could ask for anything, and that’s how things went down. I bet Greg was so sure his buddy would win, mostly because of the way their dumb, sexist minds worked. To their disappointment, I ended up winning after ten chugs of beer. But the prize? It wasn’t for me. I chose to gift Greg to my best friend, Calix.

Calix had been obsessed with Greg since the first day of class. His constant, thirsty comments and wild fantasies about him were enough to make me want to crawl into a hole and never come out. I wasn’t caught off guard by what was at stake during the competition, but in that moment, it hit me that this was the best bet I could place. It was oddly satisfying to watch them together in the guest room. It wasn’t like Greg to just give in like that, but there he was, bowing down and letting himself be... well, you know. It was baffling, but somehow amusing.

The rules were simple: whatever happens in this house stays in this house. No recordings. Ever.

Easier said than done. It’s mind-boggling, really, especially considering most of my family works in civil service. In fact, in certain circles, they could easily be labeled as spies.

Now that I’m starting to piece everything together, my current state makes no sense. It’s confusing, almost like something out of a dream. I remember the details before I passed out after the competition, but that wasn’t all that happened. Before the contest, we were dancing and singing. The leader of our club had read a photocopy of my paper, and it was one of the most awkward moments I’ve ever experienced. Everyone in the room stared at me like I was some kind of freak, spilling milk everywhere—not in a good way, of course. Their faces? Horrified, disgusted, and bemused.

And honestly? I wasn’t any better. I was brazen enough to explain what I had written and defend the work I’d kept hidden for so long. I believe the universe has a plan for everyone, even if it seems like some twisted joke. With sharp senses, those legends we rarely hear about—those we aren’t interested in learning from—are the ones who get it, who parallel their lives with the motion of the universe. That’s why I’ve lost my faith in humanity. If not, then why would my family push me so hard to be sharp, clever, and fierce? Yeah, I think so too.

Trying to stand up, I slide my legs together and accidentally kick something metallic. It bounces, echoing throughout the room.

Was that my baby knife?

It’s not weird for me to sleep with a knife next to my pillow at night. Dad trained me to be alert, and now my Uncles and Aunts are continuing that education, making me even sharper. Mom hated the idea of me keeping dangerous things around, but she wasn’t much different from Dad. She’d make me read ten thousand pages of books by philosophers and great minds like Sigmund Freud, then defend my thesis against hers.

I’ve got to admit, I love what I do now because of them. I’m athletic, sharp, and capable. I’ve skimmed through all the books in our library—and I’m still going. There’s so much more to discover, and my family continues to shower me with praise and reassurance every day. Their gratifying criticism makes me feel like I’m floating in the clouds, but I can’t let it make me air-headed. I won’t disappoint them. I need them to see me succeed, to watch me excel.

They’re both queer and mad as a hatter, but I salute them. I love them so much that I’ve come to terms with the name they gave me to carry through life—Lilith.

I lower my legs to the floor, tapping my baby knife, convinced I can cut through whatever’s holding me back. Just as I gather my strength, I hear the door creak.

Is someone here?

The woman’s voice comes at me like a storm, fast, louder, and her words ring through me, vibrating deep into my core...

I wake up in the morning and I wonder

Why everything’s the same as it was

I can’t understand, no, I can’t understand

How life goes on the way it does.

I wince, trying to pinpoint where the voice is coming from. But I can’t see a thing—just pitch-black fabric covering my sight. I wait, keeping still, hoping something will shift. Finally, I break the silence.

“Who’s there?” I ask with authority, standing my ground.

The footsteps grow louder, moving closer. It sounds like a man, his shoes clicking softly as he walks with purpose, each step infused with a strange kind of passion.

“Do you really not know?” he asks, his tone mocking. It’s low and deep, a voice that sends a chill down my spine. I’d guess he’s in his mid-thirties, maybe early forties. His build? Well, that’s something I’d have to figure out. Is this his way of being intimate? Maybe he’s into BDSM.

I grunt, shifting to the side, the bed creaking under me. Then, a small sunken spot forms beside me. I can feel the heat radiating off him. He’s warm.

But in the midst of my thoughts, my senses start to adjust, and I realize I might be mistaking people’s voices.

“Are you not comfortable?” he asks, his voice still taunting.

Do I even need to answer? Who would be comfortable in a situation like this? Unless—unless it’s those who enjoy this stuff and have grown immune to it. I’ve read about it. BDSM: Bondage, Dominance, Sadism, and Masochism.

Calix—my best friend—has told me all about it. He’s done it more times than I can count. Sure enough, whenever we’re together, sexual topics come up. We’re not strangers to these things. I may be a virgin, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t explored other areas.

I shift uncomfortably. I’m tied up, and it makes me wonder if anything more has happened down there. But no. I don’t feel anything strange down there. Just... this mess I’m in. I lean closer to the man beside me, trying to make sense of last night.

“Well, since we’ve come this far, do you mind untying me?” I ask, my voice strained.

Silence. Then I try again, pushing past the doubt in my mind.

“Okay, Greg. Cut it out. I’m not mad, and I’m not going to strangle you for trying. This joke’s gone too far. My neck’s killing me, and my wrists are sore from whatever string you used to tie me up.”

A beat of silence, and then I hear it—a chuckle.

Hold on—this isn’t Greg. I can tell. I’m never wrong when I recognize someone from afar. Dad used to play these games with me: training drills on how to escape when tied up, and how to memorize every detail around you like you’re a camera. How to recognize someone from their smell, looks, and voice. All those drills, from my dad, sharpened me. Made me vigilant. Made me sharp.

And this—this guy? He’s not Greg.

I hold my breath and exhale slowly. Stay calm. I scan my memory, tracing every person who went to that party. Everyone. Not a single stranger in the bunch. I know every single one of them.

But this guy... I’ve never seen him before. Yet, there’s something familiar about him. His smell—it’s like déjà vu, but I can’t place it. Before I can get closer, he shifts, and I freeze.

“Just yesterday, you were hitting on me. Complimenting how good I look,” he says, his voice dripping with a hint of mockery. “And here you are, mentioning another guy’s name.”

Who the fuck is this guy?

“That kind of makes me... What’s the term?” He pauses, pacing back and forth. “Ah, yes. Unhappy. You remember that, right? You said it yourself yesterday at the party. ‘I look unhappy.’ Maybe now you get why.”

He stops in front of me, his presence looming.

“Have you learned your lesson yet?”

I flinch as he steps closer, his jeans brushing against my knees. His scent intensifies, but I still can’t place it. Damn it. Why can’t I remember?

A cold hand touches my face. His fingers slip under the cloth, brushing my eyes, and then yanks it off. My head slams against his abdomen, but I don’t have time to recover. Before I can move, his hand presses down on my forehead, pushing me back.

My heart stops.

He’s standing there, right in front of me. His black fringes prickling on his forehead. A black cap—no initials, no identifying marks. A black hoodie that wraps around him like a shadow, and that fucking mask, covering half his face.

I try to focus, but my vision is blurry, my mind spinning. I don’t recognize this motherfucker.

“Sasha, are you listening, baby?”

Sasha? Who the fuck is Sasha? Why is he calling me that?

My vision is still blurry, but I try to focus. Has my sight gone completely to shit? I can barely make out his brow furrowing, a hint of disappointment, maybe...

“Tsk. Tsk. You didn’t learn your lesson, did you? After everything I’ve done—cutting all your fingers.”

A whimper slips from my throat, involuntary, as his words hit me like a punch.

His hand smashes against my mouth, cutting off my breath. He presses me down onto the bed. I can feel it then—the unbearable sting, the excruciating pain. Numbness creeping in.

My fingers—they’re gone.

I try to lift myself, but the weight of it drags me down. Blood loss is making it harder to focus. My fucking fingers... gone.

The rage surges through me, burning hot and sharp. I glare at him with everything I have, my anger seeping into every fiber of my being.

I struggle, but not to escape. I wait for the right moment. He’s too close now. I open my mouth, feeling his finger near, and with everything I have, I bite down—hard. My jaw trembles with the force. I don’t stop, pushing through the pain until I feel the bone, that fucking phalanx.

He yanks his hand away, his body jerking back as I feel the skin tear from his finger.

“Ouch! Sasha! Bad girl! You!”

His voice sharpens with anger. I hear the song still blaring in the background, on repeat, grating against my nerves. He rushes to another room, and the sound of things crashing to the floor fills the space. He’s searching for something—probably a plaster to cover that damn finger I almost tore off.

Ha! You’ll need stitches for that, buddy. I bit down so hard, you’ll be lucky if you don’t need a hospital. Too bad I didn’t get enough force to chop it off completely.

I seize the chance, my body still reeling from the pain and blood loss. I sway slightly, the stars falling in and out of my vision. I look around, trying to make sense of where I am.

This isn’t my room.

This isn’t my house.

I check myself—my body. I see everything: my thighs, my feet, my chest. The clothes I’m wearing. My stomach drops.

It’s a fucking bombshell that leaves me speechless.

THIS IS NOT ME.

I’ve touched, seen, smelled, and heard my own body a thousand times. There’s no chance in hell I wouldn’t recognize it. But this—this isn’t mine. This body doesn’t have abs or muscles—just a slim, curvaceous physique.

A student. A Kappa Kappa. I’ve seen them around campus, too busy flaunting their wealth and status, walking around like they own the place. I never paid them much attention, because they didn’t bother me. But now? Maybe I should’ve. Maybe this is the universe’s way of showing me my ignorance. A punishment for not even acknowledging their existence.

“Sasha... Oh, Sasha...”

He comes swaying out, humming softly, calling out my “name.” I glance at his hand—red streaks and white cloth wrapped around it. I can’t help but smirk, the sarcasm oozing through.

“You’ve gone fierce in a matter of hours. Last night, you were bawling your eyes out, saying goodbye to each of your fingers. What’s changed? That smirk tells me you’re hiding something.”

His voice is muffled beneath the mask. I can’t place it—there’s no trace of recognition. No connection to anyone from the party or anyone who knows me.

He staggers closer, stepping into my space again. I wince from the pain in my hand, and he notices.

He squats down, leaning into my face. His presence is hollow, like it’s pressing in from every angle without invitation. I meet his eyes. Dark grey, with hints of yellow.

Fucking hell.

Those eyes—they’re the kind I’d imagine in my fantasies.

I glare back at him, not backing down. My gaze is full of void—empty and burning with defiance. What a waste. I wish you had a different color. This one doesn’t suit you.

I study him, trying to get a better sense of him, and inhale his scent. But it’s familiar—too familiar—and I can’t place it. It gnaws at me, driving me mad.

He reaches up, and with a cold, swift motion, slaps my cheek hard. I’m thrown back onto the bed, my jaw snapping with the impact. Did he just—?

What the hell was that hand?

Throbbing pain pulses through me, the numbness creeping up my neck. I can’t move my head. I feel weak, defeated. My entire body is screaming for release, but there’s nothing I can do.

He reaches out again, this time grabbing my hair, yanking me upright. His eyes are still the same—empty, void of anything.

“Is there another identity you’re hiding? I told you, pay attention when I’m teaching you something. Tell me something, Sasha. Why are you still smirking?”

His brows furrow, a flicker of something in his eyes. I must’ve hit a nerve, but I’m no longer smirking. The pain from my jaw is unbearable. It’s dislocated, and I can’t even speak properly.

His gaze falls to my jaw, and he tilts his head, as if considering something.

“Oh, sorry. That hit might’ve been too much. I didn’t mean it. Here, let me help.”

He grips my chin, and I feel a sickening pressure as he tries to maneuver my jaw back into place. I hear it before I feel it—the clicks, the grinding. It’s excruciating. My vocal cords burn as I try to scream, but the pain is too much. I’ve never felt anything like this.

This body... it’s too weak.

“There. You’re pretty again. Hahaha!”

This guy is completely damaged. A fucking psychopath. I’ve met him before, I know I have. So why can’t I see his face in my memories? Why can’t I place his identity? Whoever this fucker is, I can feel him like a shadow pressing against me. I consider another possibility—maybe this is all just a nightmare. A terrible, twisted hangover dream. Maybe I’m just sleeping awkwardly, tangled up somewhere in the house. I try to convince myself, but I can’t shake this suffocating anxiety against him.

He stoops low and climbs on top of me. His hands press down on either side of my head as he lowers his face toward mine. His brows furrow again, but now it’s a different kind of look—something sad.

“I don’t like this look of yours. I don’t like seeing you unshaken. Sasha, are you used to the pain?”

His head moves in a zigzag pattern, like a snake, slithering down my body. I feel the contrast—his warmth and the coldness of his presence. This fucker is playing with me—or with this body I’m trapped in. He doesn’t like that I’m not reacting. That’s what this is. A game to him.

I let him do whatever he wants, enduring every vile thing he does. He bites my neck, bangs his head against my stomach, and slips his fingers inside. I won’t give him the satisfaction. As long as I can hold on, I won’t break. Let’s see who gives up first.

It went on for what felt like ten hours, though it was only ten minutes. He got nothing. I can see it in his eyes—he’s not happy. Not at all. His frustration is thick in the air as he bolts up, pacing back and forth, searching for something.

“Where is it? Did you hide it? I know it was right here, ready for the last pleasure I could give you.”

He’s everywhere—rummaging through the washroom, squatting down, bending over, digging through the pillows and drawers like a man on the verge of breaking. I keep my eyes on him, every movement sharpening my focus.

Then, suddenly, he stops.

“Found it!”

His voice cracks the silence, and I can feel the twisted smile underneath that mask.

I slide my gaze to his hand, and my throat tightens. I swallow hard, the weight of what he’s holding sinking in.

It’s a butcher knife. A fucking butcher knife. The one I bumped into and dropped on the floor earlier. Fuck. Don’t tell me he’s planning to chop me into pieces with that.

Shit…

He skips toward me, that damn song still playing on loop in the background, like it’s a twisted soundtrack to this nightmare.

“Sashaaaaaa... Are you ready, baby? This is the lesson you missed.”

His leg glides over my body, pinning me down. I’m completely helpless beneath him, no defense. The only thing I can do is watch him and brace myself for whatever comes next. But there’s one thing that keeps me anchored.

First, this is all a bad dream, and I’ll wake up as soon as he kills me. Second, it’s an out-of-body experience, so once this nightmare is over, I’ll return to my original body. Third... I recognize his scent. That’s it. I’ve met him before. I don’t forget faces, voices, or scents. I know this fucker.

He lowers his head, and I can see the twisted joy in his eyes. Before he can indulge himself further, I smirk, wiping the happiness off his face.

“Again,” he growls, “you’re doing it again. Why are you smirking like that?”

I stare at him, unflinching, my attitude as defiant as ever.

“Am onto you,” I spit, my words bold and biting.

His eyes go bloodshot, and in slow motion, I see the butcher knife descend, inches from my face, its cold steel reflecting the dim light.