Chapter 2 – New Identity
Samantha's POV
The scissors don’t sound the way I expect them to.
I thought it would be sharp, metallic, dramatic—like in the movies when someone cuts away their past in one single snip. But it’s not like that at all. It’s awkward. Uneven. The blades chew through my hair instead of slicing it, each cut leaving behind jagged strands that fall in limp clumps into the sink.
The first piece hits the porcelain, dark and wet, and something in me lurches.
I grip the counter tighter. My reflection stares back at me in the bathroom mirror—red eyes, pale skin, lips pressed so hard together they’re almost bloodless.
It’s like watching a stranger.
The old me, Samantha Hale, had long hair. She used to braid it before school, curl it when she wanted to feel pretty. My sister loved playing with it, twisting it into messy buns, stealing my hair ties. Cutting it feels like killing another part of myself, like burying one more body on top of hers.
But I can’t stop now.
Snip. Another lock falls.
Snip. My shoulders feel lighter.
I cut until my hair is uneven, barely reaching my jaw. I drag my fingers through it, watching the strands stick up, messy and sharp. It doesn’t look feminine anymore. Not exactly. If I lower my head, if I wear a hoodie, if I keep my voice steady… I could pass.
I lean closer to the mirror. My face is softer than I’d like—round cheeks, lips too full. But I can harden it. I practice pulling my jaw tight, narrowing my eyes. Less “girl next door,” more “boy who doesn’t want to be bothered.”
I drop the scissors into the sink. My hands are shaking.
It’s not just about the disguise. It’s about shedding her. Samantha, the girl who laughed too easily, who dreamed about college, who believed the world was fair if you played by the rules. She’s gone. She died with my sister.
What’s left is Sam.
I test the name on my tongue.
“Sam Hale.”
It feels strange. Heavy. But right.
I open the cabinet under the sink. Inside, there’s a box I hid earlier. My disguise kit. Clothes stolen from my cousin’s closet—baggy jeans, a hoodie, an old cap. A binder I ordered online with shaky hands, paid for in cash. Sneakers that could belong to anyone.
Piece by piece, I put it on.
The binder hurts when I pull it tight across my chest. It squeezes the air from my lungs, makes my heart pound. I grit my teeth and keep going until the curve of me flattens. Until I don’t look like her anymore.
I throw on the hoodie, tug the hood up, and face the mirror again.
A boy stares back at me.
Not a perfect boy. Not polished like the ones from Dorm 9. But enough. Enough to blend in. Enough to slip past the guards at the gate. Enough to stand shoulder to shoulder with them and not be questioned.
I push my shoulders back. Drop my chin. Breathe deeper.
“Sam Hale,” I say again.
The voice is lower this time. Sharper. It scrapes against my throat like I swallowed glass, but it works.
I study myself for a long moment, memorizing the angles, the posture, the new self I’ve stitched together with scissors and lies.
And for the first time since the funeral, a flicker of something burns in my chest. Not grief. Not despair. Something hotter. Stronger.
Hope.
No. Not hope.
Fire.
Because this is how I get to them. This is how I step into their world. This is how I bring Dorm 9 down.
I reach for my sister’s necklace on the counter. The chain is broken, the silver tarnished, but it’s the only piece of her I have left. I tuck it under my shirt, pressing it flat against my skin.
Her heartbeat will be mine now. Her fight, mine.
I glance around my room one last time. The posters, the books, the bed where we used to stay up too late whispering secrets. It all feels distant, like it belongs to someone else.
Because it does.
Samantha Hale doesn’t live here anymore.
Sam Hale does.
I pull up the hood, shove my hands in my pockets, and walk out. Each step feels heavier than the last, like I’m dragging chains behind me. But I keep moving. Down the hall. Out the door. Into the night.
The streets are wet from the rain, the air sharp with the smell of earth and asphalt. Streetlights buzz overhead, casting halos that don’t feel holy.
I head toward the bus station. The bag on my shoulder feels like it’s filled with bricks, though it only holds clothes and a notebook. My new life. My new war.
I buy a ticket with the cash I saved. One way. To the city. To the school where Dorm 9 waits.
The man at the counter doesn’t even look at me twice. He just takes the money, hands me the slip, and mutters the departure time.
That’s when it hits me.
This is real. I’m really doing this. I’m leaving home behind. I’m stepping into enemy territory.
And once I cross that line, there’s no coming back.
I sit on the bench, hood pulled low. My reflection in the glass of the station window stares back at me. The boy version of me. The liar. The spy. The avenger.
Sam Hale.
I whisper it one more time, steady, convincing, sealing the mask in place.