Once An Eaton, Always An Eaton

Prologue 🔪 Mother

A/N: It's finally here! First chapter (or, technically, prologue) of the sequel! I know I'm about two days late - I'm so sorry for that! Life has just been throwing curveball after curveball at me, and I've been so overwhelmed with the amount of work I've had. Please, forgive me. :(

Everything I said in the last book and the author's note of this one still holds true; I'll keep working on chapters, and I'll still be putting the first book through editing, it just might take a bit longer than I initially thought. Especially with what the next month consists of for me - I've got academic competitions and reviews to do, AP exams to study for, auditions to prepare for, a driver's test to pass- my schedule is a bit packed, as you can probably tell.

Anyhow, let's get into the story!

At first, the scene is innocuous.

I sigh, shifting to try and alleviate the burning in my shoulder blades as I push open my apartment door. Obviously, the motion is ineffective. The tattoo will likely keep aching for a few days, if not longer.

All I want to do is flop into my bed and sleep. Tattoo flu, Tori calls the phenomenon. Apparently, it happens when your body is trying to heal from being continuously stuck with needles, resulting in a depletion of energy.

My eyes skim over my apartment. After six months in Dauntless, it feels much more like home. A part of that is probably how lived in it is now; it's still neat, a habit from Abnegation that I haven't managed to drop, but the stacked papers on one of the side tables, the half-full trash can, the folded-up blanket laying over the back of the couch - all of it contributes to the sense that this is a home, not a showroom like Abnegation homes so often seemed to be.

But then, my eyes catch on a small, white, folded piece of paper, lying on the center table.

My breath catches.

That wasn't there when I left.

Heart pounding, I glance around my apartment again, paying special attention to shadowed areas where a person could hide. But, as far as I can tell, there's nobody there. What's even more baffling, nothing seems to be missing or moved around. The only change is the tiny piece of paper that manages to be so incriminating.

I approach it slowly, like I expect it to attack me. I'm not sure why - the worst thing the little note could do is give me a paper cut - but my instincts are blaring warnings in my head, and I'm not stupid enough to ignore them.

Finally, with no small amount of hesitation, I grab the note, unfolding it carefully.

The handwriting is small and rough, but the slight slant to it gives it an elegant edge.

I take in the words, my eyes growing wider with each one.

On the day you hated most

At the time when she diedIn the place where you first jumped on.

A chill starts creeping up my spine. This is a joke. It's got to be a joke.

But, somewhere deep down, I know it's not a joke. Somebody went to the trouble to set up a meeting time, make a riddle for it, and break into my apartment to deliver this note, which would have brought serious consequences if they were caught. Few would put themselves at such risk for a joke.

The ground doesn't feel quite so steady under my feet anymore. I sink down onto my couch, still gripping the note, running my eyes over it again and again, still trying to process the words.

In the place where you first jumped on. That one's easy - it's probably the train platform from which I jumped onto the train, while my blood on the Dauntless coals was likely still wet.