#shattermeseries

𖥸┈┈┈𖥸┈┈┈𖥸┈┈┈𖥸┈┈┈𖥸┈┈┈𖥸┈┈┈𖥸

❝𝑴𝒂𝒌𝒕𝒖𝒃.

𝑰𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒍𝒎 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒔, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖.

𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒔, 𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒇 𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒆, 𝒏𝒐 𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒘𝒓𝒐𝒕𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒐𝒓 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝒊𝒕. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒃𝒆 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒇 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒐, 𝑰 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒇 𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑰'𝒍𝒍 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒐.❞

❝𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒎 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒕, 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒇 𝑰'𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒕? 𝑬𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒖𝒔? 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐?❞

❝𝑰 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒅𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒊𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕, 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒇 𝒊𝒕 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒔 𝒅𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔.❞

𝑨 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎, 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒚 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒖𝒏𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒌, 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕, 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒏𝒆𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒇𝒖𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒅.

❝𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂 𝒇𝒐𝒐𝒍.❞ 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒑, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒓 𝒊𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒗𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒓.

𝑯𝒆 𝒕𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒂 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒑 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒓, 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎. 𝑯𝒊𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒖𝒕, 𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂 𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒂 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒃𝒓𝒖𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒆𝒌. ❝𝑰𝒇 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂 𝒇𝒐𝒐𝒍 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒔 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒈𝒐, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒊𝒕.❞

𝑺𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔, 𝒔𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈—𝒎𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒖𝒃𝒕, 𝒎𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒆 𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒓. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒄𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒚, 𝒂 𝒅𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒅𝒎𝒊𝒕.

𝑩𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒘, 𝒅𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒏, 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒅𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒎𝒆. 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒂𝒔 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒂 𝒇𝒐𝒐𝒍 𝒂𝒔 𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔.

𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒘𝒂𝒔𝒏'𝒕 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒐𝒐𝒍𝒔. 𝑰𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒗𝒊𝒗𝒂𝒍, 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒂 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒘𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒆. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒔, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒊𝒕. وإنما الناس بحار فلا تحكم على أعماقهم و أنت لا ترى إلاشو اطنهم. "𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒑𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒂𝒔, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒅𝒐 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒋𝒖𝒅𝒈𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒅𝒆𝒑𝒕𝒉𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒔."

Sofía messed up—big time. She had a mission, one she was supposed to execute flawlessly. But she didn't, and the reasons were brutally simple: she despised that bitch, Lena Mishkin. The hatred she felt was all-consuming, fueled by a deep-seated resentment toward everyone who had power, money, and the ability to crush others without a second thought. It didn’t help that Nyx—the rebellion she worked for—had seemingly relegated her to a demeaning role, one that felt more like a joke than a real mission.

     They put her in a position that was supposed to "uncover secrets about the Reestablishment", but in reality, it was nothing more than a tedious, humiliating exercise in futility. A role beneath her: She had to work as her damn maid. It couldn't have been more embarrassing and useless. What information was she supposed to get from being the maid of a spoiled child? They must hate her —more than the devil, more than any enemy— if they sent her there.

     Or at least, that's how Sofía saw it. She was convinced that everyone in Nyx underestimated her. They must have, to assign her to such a meaningless task. It was as if they were mocking her, placing her where there was nothing to do and nowhere to go, all while expecting her to be grateful for the opportunity.

     So, she took matters into her own hands. The plan was simple: poison Lena Mishkin. End her, and maybe, just maybe, strike a blow against the corrupt system she despised. But before she could carry out her plan, the Sentinels intervened, catching her red-handed. Now, she was facing the consequences.

     As punishment, they assigned her a mission that was truly humiliating—working as a maid for the Supreme Commander of Asia's family. It was the ultimate disgrace, a far cry from the role she had envisioned for herself within the rebellion. And because of her colossal screw-up, she had to change her identity, a necessity that only added to the peril she was in. In this new world, a new identity meant increased danger, more risk, and fewer allies.

     A spy is only designated one identity per lifetime — usually one with his or her real name to avoid suspicion, people don't just disappear...you know? The problem is that as times change, these identities are worth more than gold. Finding someone with your similar past and characteristics is impossible — and even more so if every life on earth is being monitored by the Reestablishment. Dead or alive.

     And there, the difference between a good spy and a bad spy is made. It's simple, the good one doesn't cause problems and keeps their identity intact. The bad one... well, in the case of our protagonist, she ends up being called Seraphina. Yes, she ended up getting rid of the name she had been using for 17 years, to use an unknown one. And ugly, quite ugly.

     But Sofía had it coming. She knew that from the moment she decided to defy orders and act on her own impulses. She was a rebel by nature, a fighter who couldn't stand the idea of bowing to anyone. Sofía had always been driven by a fierce independence, a need to prove herself to those who doubted her. She was cunning, resourceful, and not afraid to get her hands dirty. Yet, beneath her tough exterior, there was a part of her that longed for recognition, for someone to see her worth beyond the roles she was assigned.

     Now, to make things better, the oldest son of the Ibrahim family seemed to recognize her. Worse, he seemed to remember her. Which is practically the worst thing that could happen to a spy. But even in this new, dangerous life, Sofía wasn't one to back down. She might have messed up, but she wasn’t done yet. Not by a long shot.

Haider shouldn't have recognized her. She was just a server, one among the countless faces that had drifted through his life. In his world, servers were meant to be invisible, fleeting presences that came and went without leaving a trace. But there was something different about her. Something that made her stand out in a way no one else had before.

     He found himself remembering details he had no business recalling—her hair, the way it framed her face, the fluidity of her movements, her silhouette that lingered in his mind long after she'd passed.

     He had only seen her a handful of times, all by mistake, glimpses caught in moments when his attention had wandered. She used to work for the Mishkin family, another name in a long list of employees. But there was something strange about this memory, a detail that gnawed at him. He was almost certain that her name wasn't Seraphina. He had overheard it once, Lena Mishkin shouting in one of her fits of anger. The name had started with an 'S,' but it was shorter, more concise—something he could almost grasp but couldn't quite recall.

     The more he thought about it, the more it unsettled him. Haider wasn't the type to dwell on the people who served him. He had been raised to see them as part of the background, necessary but unimportant. Yet, she had carved out a space in his mind, and now he couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right. Why had she reappeared here, in his house, under a different name? Why was she so hard to forget?

     It didn't make sense, and Haider hated things that didn't make sense. His life was built on order, on clear lines of power and control. But this woman—whoever she was—had disrupted that order, however briefly. And for reasons he couldn't yet explain, he needed to know why.

𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐀 𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐑

𝐎𝐫

𝐒𝐎𝐅Í𝐀 𝐀𝐔𝐁𝐑𝐘 𝐃𝐄 𝐋𝐀 𝐕𝐄𝐆𝐀

ᴜɴᴅᴇʀᴄᴏᴠᴇʀ ꜱᴘʏ

☾

17 ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴏᴏ ꜱᴛᴜʙʙᴏʀɴ. ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀꜱ: ꜰɪʀᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʀᴇᴄᴏɢɴɪᴛɪᴏɴ: ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴇʀᴄᴇɪᴠᴇ ꜰᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛꜱ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴ. ʙᴜᴛ ʙᴇ ᴀᴡᴀʀᴇ, ʙᴀᴅ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴ ᴡʜᴇɴ ꜱʜᴇ ᴜꜱᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ 12 ᴘ.ᴍ.

❝𝘐 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘢𝘻𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦; 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘳 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘯. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯, 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘺, 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘥𝘶𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴.❞

𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐇𝐈𝐌

ꜱᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜᴘʀᴇᴍᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴀɴᴅᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴀꜱɪᴀ

☾—𖤓

⁺₊⋆ 𖤓 ⋆⁺₊

𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐇𝐈𝐌

ꜱᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜᴘʀᴇᴍᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴀɴᴅᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴀꜱɪᴀ

𖤓

18 ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴄᴏɴꜰɪᴅᴇɴᴛ. ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀꜱ: ɴᴏɴᴇ ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ.

❝𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘴.❞