LOST DAYS

Reina never thought of her childhood as anything out of the ordinary. She learned the fundamentals like any other child—her ABCs, mathematics, and how to shoot. She was raised by a mother and father who watched her with a strict eye, ensuring her education was enriched with history, chemistry, and poisons. They taught her to read, to write, to aim. And they made it clear that mistakes had consequences.

She still remembers the first time she was off target.

The gun was heavier than anything she'd held before. At nine years old, she had grown used to the Nambu pistol, but the Type 90 sniper rifle was different. The weight of it strained her arms, the strap digging into her small shoulders. Her father stood beside her, watching.

"Remember to breathe... focus on the key points of the target," he instructed.

She tried to steady her aim, shutting one eye and looking through the scope. Her muscles burned from holding the rifle up for so long.

"Shoot," her mother said flatly. "If you hesitate, the target will be gone."

Reina swallowed. Her heart pounded. She had been trained to shoot with the accuracy of a seasoned officer—perhaps even better. And yet, her body resisted.

She squeezed the trigger.

The shot rang out, and the recoil sent her crashing to the ground. The impact knocked the air from her lungs, leaving her staring dazedly at the sky. It took her a moment to realize she had hit the dummy's shoulder instead of the designated target point. Before she could react, rough hands wrenched the gun from her grasp.

"Are you insane?!"

Her father towered over her, rage twisting his features.

"What if you had missed and killed your mother?"

Reina blinked, confusion flickering through her mind. She had hit the target. Not the right part, but it was still a hit. Was that not enough?

Her father's stare made her feel small—like she was under a microscope, every flaw magnified. Finally, he turned away.

"Take her inside. She needs to be set straight."

Her mother grabbed her roughly by the collar of her blue coveralls, dragging her toward the house. Reina pleaded, promising to do better, begging for another chance. Her mother said nothing. She never did unless it was about training.

The dining room smelled of polished wood and old paper. Reina barely had time to process before her mother shoved her into a chair. She muttered something under her breath as she disappeared into the kitchen.

Guilt weighed heavy in Reina's chest. She clenched her small fists, her breath coming in quiet, shaky exhales. Was this what failure felt like? Was this how disappointment was supposed to feel?

Her mother returned, placing a cup in front of her. The liquid inside was thick and milky.

"Drink."

Reina hesitated, searching her mother's face for any sign of approval or forgiveness. Nothing. Just the same cold stare. Slowly, she lifted the cup to her lips.

The taste was sweet but wrong. It coated her tongue with an unpleasant texture, making her gag slightly. She swallowed it down, sitting in silence.

And then the dizziness hit.

The room tilted, the edges of her vision blurring. A rock seemed to form in her throat, nausea clawing its way up her esophagus. She barely had time to whimper before she lurched forward, vomiting onto the linoleum floor. The smell coating the air in the room with nauseating fumes

"Tsk."

A sharp kick landed against her side, sending her sprawling onto her back. Her skin was clammy, her breaths ragged. Her mother crouched beside her, expression unreadable.

"How do you expect to be the best if you can't handle a light dose of hemlock and peroxide?"

Reina's glassy eyes met hers, silent tears slipping down her cheeks. Her body trembled, but she bit her lip, swallowing down any further weakness. Her childish form felt burning cold against the floor.

"You're better than this. You need to be better than this."

Darkness crept at the edges of her mind before she finally passed out.

The next morning, training resumed as if nothing had happened.

Her parents added strength training to her regimen, acting as if the night before was simply part of the curriculum. So Reina learned to do the same.

As the years passed, she made fewer mistakes. But she could never avoid them completely.

One time, she was off by half an inch. It gnawed at her like an infection, festering beneath her skin. She knew what was coming.

Her father tied her down to the dining table, securing her wrists and ankles. Reina lay there calmly, waiting.

Her mother draped a cloth over her face.

The first jet of water hit.

It was cold, sharp as knives. It filled her nose, her throat, her lungs. She jerked instinctively, but the restraints held firm. The pressure stopped just long enough for her to gasp in a ragged breath before another wave came. sharp and painful through the cloth as she tried her damndest to hold her breath.

Two hours. On and off.

When it was over, she was untied and lectured. Business as usual.

She left the table with a black eye and a nosebleed, but she didn't complain. This was normal. This was what every daughter had to do to earn her parents' approval.

If she closed her eyes, she could still feel the weight of the water, the burning in her lungs. She remembered staying up long into the night, practicing in the field, vowing to never make the same mistake again.

And when she failed—when she was alone—she punished herself, ripping strands of hair out to quietly remind herself to be better. Because if no one else was there to do it, she would.

This was normal.

This was the average childhood experience.

So when an ADA agent once asked her about her past, Reina simply shrugged.

"It was like anyone else's"