Silence.
No storm. No thunder. No TV. No couch. No walls.
Just... nothing.
Derek's eyes fluttered open slowly. He blinked a few times, disoriented. The first thing he noticed was the light—bright and golden, almost blinding. It wasn't artificial like his apartment ceiling light or the flicker of a screen. It was natural. Harsh. Sunlight.
He groaned, pushing himself upright—but his arms didn't respond the way they should have. Something felt off. His balance was wrong. His muscles moved differently. He was too low to the ground. His hands—where were his hands?
He looked down.
Black paws.
His brain froze.
They were paws. Large, feline paws with claws that retracted slightly as he flexed them.
"What the hell…" he whispered—but it wasn't his voice. It was deep. Gravelly. Regal, almost, with a biting edge beneath every syllable. It made his skin crawl, except—he didn't have skin anymore. It was fur. Short, thick, and dark.
He staggered to his feet—paws—whatever—and felt the weight of something swaying behind him. A tail. He spun in a circle, panicked, trying to catch sight of himself, but the more he moved, the more things didn't make sense.
His limbs were longer, sleeker. His body moved with a low, predatory grace that didn't belong to him. He stumbled over a rock and fell forward, catching himself with a paw.
Breathing hard now, Derek crawled—no, walked—on all fours toward a shallow pool of water glinting in the sun.
He stared down at the reflection.
The face that looked back was not his.
A lion. Slender, menacing. Emerald green eyes that burned with bitter intellect. A ragged black mane framed a proud, angular face, and a scar—thin, cruel—cut across his left eye.
Derek reeled back, nearly falling into the water. "No. No no no no—this is—this can't be real!"
The wind carried scents he couldn't name but instinctively recognized. Dry earth. Wildebeest. Blood. Heat. His ears twitched, moving independently, picking up tiny sounds in the distance—birds calling, insects humming, a faint rumble of hooves.
His heart thudded in his chest.
He wasn't dreaming.
He was Scar.
From The Lion King.
"How the hell did I get here?" he whispered, trying to calm his breathing. His voice came out smooth, cold, and full of venom he hadn't meant to put there. Even his words sounded sinister. It was like the body was infecting his mind, his voice, his very thoughts.
Then he heard it.
"Simba!!"
The name boomed across the canyon behind him.
Derek froze.
That voice.
It echoed in his bones. Familiar. Deep. Powerful.
"Simba!"
Mufasa.
The memory crashed over him like a wave.
The Lion King. The gorge. The stampede. The betrayal.
His blood ran cold.
He was Scar… at that moment.
The moment before Mufasa died.
He turned slowly toward the sound, heart racing.
And he realized with gut-wrenching clarity:
He wasn't just in the movie.
He was in the scene—and he was the villain.