The musty smell of decay penetrated the nostrils. Suman opened his eyes. What you see is a peeling wall covered with dark green mold spots, like festering human faces. There was a hard bed underneath me, which made my back hurt. She sat up, and the expensive silk pink nightdress she wore slid down her shoulders, revealing a large area of snowy skin. The air was cold, like an ice cellar. "Where is this?" There was a sharp pain in my mind, and countless unfamiliar memory fragments were forcefully inserted, like a rough steel knife stirring up the brain. Suman, twenty-two years old, is a daughter of a wealthy family. She has nothing but money. She has a pampered personality and has no ability to restrain a chicken. This is the setting of this body. And her soul belongs to the special forces instructor who was holding down an AK with one hand on the battlefield in the Middle East just a second ago. The pain subsides.
