Uniform Stealing Board

Agent Zoya’s mission was clear, but nothing about it would be simple.
To reach Zita—hidden away behind the iron gates and concrete walls of Bexhill Prison—she would have to step into a world built to keep people out as much as in.
She would make contact.
She always did.
But she would not slip in wearing a guard’s uniform, nor lurk among the prisoners as one of them.
No—this infiltration required something far more intricate.
Bexhill held education days, a bland name for a rare window of vulnerability.
Books, not batons.
Lesson plans instead of lockdowns.
And it was on one of these days that Zoya would walk straight through the front entrance… unseen, unquestioned.
Not as a student.
Far from it.
She would arrive as the scheduled private tutor, welcomed, expected, and cleared in advance:
Miss Miranda Stephenson.
And the real Miranda Stephenson?
She would never make it to the prison gates.
She wouldn’t even make it out the front door.
Because by then, the real Miranda would be in her own bed, chloroformed and very secure—
and Zoya would be wearing her life and her tailored clothes

The recently escaped Agent Zoya had finally found refuge—
a thin, fragile sliver of safety carved out of chaos.
It would not last. She knew that.
But for now, it was enough to breathe, to think, to plan.
Because they were coming.
The men who had built the prison that had tried to break her.
The hunters who had pulled her from the world and locked her away.
They wanted the document, the one she had hidden where no one would think to look.
And they would not stop until they had it.

Five years inside a cage had changed her.
It had stripped away any trace of the woman she had once been
She had survived by becoming something feral, a creature made of hard steel and predatory instinct.
But survival now meant something different.

She needed to appear human again
She needed to look civilized, very feminine and generally forgettable within a crowd
She needed to look like any other woman

That was why she’d stopped them on the road, wearing a stolen police uniform beneath a sky heavy with cloud and rain.
The Carrington’s never stood a chance.
They obeyed, the revolver gave them no choice
She had them take her to their home.

To their beautiful house.
Their elegant furniture.
Their curated lives.
The wife’s clothes

Claire Carrington had once been the kind of woman who wore cruelty like perfume, arrogant, dismissive, delighting in her own superiority.
A woman who believed the world existed to serve her whims.
Now she served Zoya’s.

Through violence and necessity.
Her wardrobes, overflowing with silk, nylon and cashmere.
Her dresser drawers filled satin, silk and cotton undergarments.........nylons for her legs
So much........
Her jewellery and cosmetics,
Her identity as a woman, and just what Zoya was looking for

Zoya stood in Claire’s bedroom, the afternoon light soft against her face.
She applied makeup with a precision she hadn’t needed in years,
relearning the art of softness, the illusion of ease.

She chose a fitted blouse, pale and understated,
a skirt that framed her figure, luscious black tights and high heeled shoes

Later, a coat that spoke of money, grace, belonging.

In the mirror, her transformation unfolded before her, a woman emerging from the wreckage of captivity.
Claire Carrington lay bound and silent.
Gagged and bound in her own bedroom, helpless and powerless to stop the intrusion into her life......
Forced to watch the theft of her image, her wardrobe, her world.

Her eyes burned with indignant fury, but there was nothing she could do.
No screaming.
No bargaining.
No stopping what was already in motion.

Zoya adjusted the borrowed earrings, delicate pearls that caught the light.
She looked once more at her reflection and saw no trace of the prisoner, only the parody and image of the woman bound on her bed

She would be gone soon.
Out into the world, unseen, unrecognized, moving through high streets and train stations like she belonged there.
She would return later.
She just needed time to contact her handler, to stay alive long enough to finish what she’d begun.
With one last glance at the helpless woman on the bed
Zoya stepped into Claire Carrington’s life

That's awesome! Your story is visualized through AI.

Mrs. Carrington features in the next installment

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