The shrill buzz of an alarm clock cut through the rain-heavy morning like a blade.Roy Cray jolted upright, heart hammering, the sheets twisted around his legs like binding ropes.
"Shit—" he rasped, slamming a hand onto the alarm's off switch. His fingers fumbled and missed, knocking a half-empty glass of water onto the floor. It shattered with a pitiful clink.
He stared blankly at the broken glass for a moment longer than necessary.Late. He was late.
Roy swung his legs off the side of the bed and hissed when his foot landed squarely in the cold puddle. A trail of wet footprints marked his hurried path to the closet, where a rumpled gray suit hung like a forgotten ghost.
Half-dressed, he stumbled toward the kitchen. The dim little apartment creaked under the storm's pressure outside. Wind moaned against the windows, rattling the cheap blinds.
Roy yanked open a cabinet, praying for a miracle.
The coffee tin sat mocking him—empty.
"Perfect," he muttered, throwing it into the trash with a clatter that echoed too loudly in the cramped space.
No time to panic. No time to even breathe.
He snatched his wallet and keys from the counter and shouldered into his thin rain jacket, pulling the hood up over messy brown hair.
The apartment door slammed behind him with a final thud, the kind that sounded too much like goodbye.
Outside, the world was a washed-out watercolor.
Rain hammered the cracked sidewalks, pooling in dark hollows. The sky hung low and swollen, the kind of gray that pressed against your bones.
Roy jogged toward the bus stop, sneakers slapping against wet concrete.
Ahead, a bus churned away in a roar of diesel fumes and mist—his bus.Already gone.
He stood there, breathing hard, watching its red taillights smear across the rain like blood.
"Just great," he muttered, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. Water seeped through the fabric in minutes, chilling him to the skin.
No choice now. He'd have to cut through the alley—save ten minutes, maybe.He turned into the narrow side street without thinking, head bowed against the rain.
The alley smelled of wet stone, rusted metal, and something sour, like rotting leaves.Somewhere deeper inside, a trash can clattered over, unseen.
Roy didn't look back.
The world felt strange.
Shadows seemed thicker here, pooling unnaturally in corners where the faint morning light should have reached.
His steps slowed unconsciously.
A flicker of movement in the periphery—Nothing.
Just the rain playing tricks on him.Right?
He shook his head, pressed forward, heartbeat a steady thump against his ribs.
Almost out. Almost through.
The street ahead glistened, cars and people blurred behind a thin veil of rain.A flash of yellow caught the corner of his eye—a speeding delivery van, barreling too fast down the slippery road.
He stepped off the curb without thinking.
A horn blasted.
Brakes screamed against water-slick asphalt.
Roy turned his head, just in time to see blinding headlights fill the world.
Everything slowed.
He had time to register the pure fear that ran through his mind.
Time to think—this isn't how it's supposed to end.
Time to raise a hand, pointless, stupid.
Then—impact.
White noise swallowed him whole.
The world ripped away like torn paper.
And Roy Cray was no more.
...
...
The memory of headlights still burned behind his closed eyes.
Roy gasped, air tearing into lungs too small, too raw. His body arched instinctively against cold silk sheets, heart hammering, every nerve ending shrieking in protest.
He wasn't dead.
But he wasn't Roy Cray anymore either.
The bed beneath him was monstrously large, canopied in heavy crimson fabric that spilled down like the folds of a theater curtain. The air smelled different—fresh but heavy, perfumed faintly with something floral and expensive.
Breath ragged, Roy sat up—or tried to. His arms, thin and trembling, barely obeyed him.
The world tilted nauseatingly. He gritted his teeth and pushed harder, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.
His bare feet touched polished wood—no broken glass, no puddles of rainwater, just smooth, clean luxury.
Everything around him was wrong.
The room stretched wide and high, its walls paneled with dark oak, gilded frames holding paintings of grim-looking men and women staring down at him with eternal disapproval. A fire crackled low in an ornate marble hearth. Gold-threaded drapes masked tall windows, but the morning light still bled through, casting sharp bars of white across the thick carpet.
This wasn't his apartment.
This wasn't his city.
This wasn't even his world.
Roy's breathing hitched. His pulse roared in his ears.
He stumbled across the room, legs wobbling like a newborn deer. An enormous vanity mirror loomed near the windows, its surface dusty but still clear enough.
He caught sight of himself—and froze.
Staring back at him was a child no older than six.
Messy black hair framed a sharp, pale face. His eyes, wide and silver-gray, were intense in a way that made his stomach twist.
Not Roy's warm brown.
Not Roy's face.
Somehow, impossibly, he looked both delicate and cold—like a statue a master sculptor might have abandoned for being too perfect, too unnatural.
Roy lifted a trembling hand.
The boy in the mirror mimicked him.
He leaned closer, studying the sharpness of the jawline, the thinness of the mouth, the glint of defiance hidden deep within those noble features.
There was something hauntingly familiar about it.
Before panic could fully bloom, a voice drifted through the thick oak doors, muffled but distinct:
"Prepare Young Master Hayato for breakfast."
Roy's breath caught in his throat.
Hayato.
Hayato Elyster.
The name slid through his mind like a blade through silk.
Recognition exploded like wildfire.
The novel.
The villain.
The second-rate noble with a sneer always plastered across his face, fated to be humiliated, betrayed, and discarded.
A tidal wave of cold washed over him. His legs buckled, and he caught himself against the vanity's edge, wood digging sharply into his palms.
It wasn't just that he had a new face.
He was inside the story.
Inside the life of someone doomed.