Luciana felt consciousness come and go like waves, carrying flashes of light and feelings of movement, only to be pulled away, back into a numb darkness. Vaguely, she could feel herself being dragged – her limp, bare feet pulling along a smooth floor.

What's happening? Where am I?

"Wait, stop –" she groaned, battling her drug-induced haze for clarity. Weakly, she tried to tug her limbs from her captures, tried to plant her feet to escape them. But her kidnappers barely noticed her effort, her small frame too weak and frail to impact the hulking soldiers.

"I think she's waking up," one said, not breaking stride.

"Just give her more vervain," the other replied.

Vervain? What's ver – holy hell! A hot stab of pain in her neck bled agony through her veins. An injection of pure acid, it felt like. She could feel it in her bones, her muscles, her mind. Everything hot, then weak. Finally, darkness consumed her vision and the final wave of consciousness slipped away.

Luciana woke in a disorienting haze, her senses struggling to pierce through the fog of confusion. As consciousness slowly reclaimed her, she found herself in a grim enclosure, sprawled across the unforgiving embrace of a cold concrete floor. Iron bars loomed before her, casting ominous shadows against the solid concrete walls that enclosed her on all sides. Where am I? she wondered, struggling to make sense of her surroundings.

Every movement was a struggle against the weight of exhaustion and the throbbing ache in her head. With a Herculean effort, she attempted to rise to her feet, grappling with the overwhelming weakness that seemed to pervade every fiber of her being. Clinging to the iron bars for support, she forced her trembling legs to bear her weight. She'd never felt so weak in her life, not even on her deathbed as a human.

Her cell faced another, and it was only then that she looked up to see another man watching her behind his own bars. He was tall and slender, with dark hair and watchful brown eyes. There was a classic handsomeness about him, evident in the sharp contours of his jaw and the subtle hint of muscle beneath the fabric of his worn attire. But he was also pale, dark bags resting under his eyes, hair disheveled. He leaned against the bars, too, and although he looked more solid than she felt, she could tell he was weak, too.

"Good morning, sunshine," he says, offering what appears to be a genuine smile.

Before she could respond, the loud creak of a heavy door screeched through their little prison. An older man in a lab coat strides in with long, confident steps. He's wearing a brown suit and a straight, navy tie, and his eyes are cold beneath small, round glasses. His thinning brown and grey hair was well greased and combed back, professional-looking to the era. He looked a stark contrast to his prisoners.

His shoes tap an echo with each step, until he stops abruptly at her cell, giving her a once-over before scribbling some notes into the file. He then flips the page, reading through some sort of list. "21307 – Luciana Harper. Born in 1920 to Ruth and Raymond Harper in Springfield, Maine. Family moved to New York shortly before the market crash... no siblings, parents deceased…" He's skimming through the details of her life like it was all boring details on an unimpressive resume. It both flared her anger and made her feel small at the same time.

"Don't forget my underground fight club days and gambling addiction," she said, a small smirk on her lips when he looked up at her through the tops of his glasses, trying to decipher whether or not she was telling the truth. He couldn't tell, and that bothered him. But more importantly – Luciana could tell it bothered him, and that made her feel braver, stronger.

"Oh – and I'm super allergic to coconuts," she added, pointing to his file. "Make sure you write that down." His brows knit together, displeased.

Annoyed, he resumed skimming the file. Then – "Ah, there it is," he said, sounding more interested. "Our estimates put your transition in December 1940." He closes the file and holds it under his arm, now staring directly at Luciana. Hungry eyes travel over her face, her collar, then linger at her torso, tracing the shape of her hourglass, the curves of her breasts, of her hips, all the way down her long, pale legs. "You're young," he realizes. It's an observation, not a compliment.

Luciana felt a cold shiver run through her. Every survival instinct screaming for escape. There was something about the way he looked at her, a sense of chilling control that made her feel naked and vulnerable. She wanted to back away from the bars, away from him in the farthest corner of this cell until that small, wicked smile fell off his face. But as her legs struggled to hold her, she knew she would fall if she let go of the bars.

"How did you die?" he asked, his eyes still roaming over her. It was as if he could see through her clothes, through her skin, into the deepest parts of her. She'd never been more creeped out in her life.

Luciana swallows, pulling herself closer to the bars, trying to appear taller, stronger. She's fucking terrified but she's not going to let him know it. "Come a little closer and I'll show you."

The man in the other cell chuckles. The man in the suit frowns. "No matter," he said, his voice low and firm. "I'll find out eventually." With that, he turns and exits the makeshift prison, shoes clicking with each step.

The moment she hears the door shut, she collapses. Every muscle in her body aches with hot, stiff pain. Her blood felt hot, and the sweat on her own skin seemed to sting. And yet, that pain didn't compare to the overwhelming weakness she felt. Like her body weighed a thousand pounds, heavy and exhausted and unwilling to do as her mind told it.

Just standing for that short conversation seemed to zap everything out of her.

"Luciana," said the man in the other cell, still watching her. He tasted her name like it was wine, truly drank it in, accent and all. "A pretty name for a pretty woman."

She rolled her eyes and turned her head to look at him. His playful expression matched the hint of flirtation she caught in his tone. "And you are…?"

"Lorenzo St. John," he said, flashing another genuine smile. "But you can call me Enzo."