The reflection in the glass stared back at me—a boy who seemed to be sculpted from untouched marble, his brilliant turquoise eyes gleaming like shards of a frozen sea caught beneath the sun. His raven-black hair tumbled in unruly strands, spilling over a forehead that felt too high, too foreign, each wayward lock a stark contrast against his pale complexion.
The boy's lips were pressed into a thin line, betraying none of the turmoil that churned beneath the surface, his expression a carefully crafted mask concealing the storm that threatened to break free.
Arthur Ashbourne.
That was the name carved into the marrow of this fragile body, stitched into its very bones and woven into its blood. But it was not mine, not truly. The name sat in my chest like a stone—heavy, unyielding and foreign. I could feel it in the way my heart resisted its rhythm, like a key forced into the wrong lock. My fingers curled against the polished mahogany edge of my seat, the faint tremor in them a quiet betrayal of the storm raging beneath my calm facade.
Beyond the window, the heavens mourned. The rain lashed against the glass in relentless waves, the sky a restless expanse of shifting gray, heavy with the sorrow of the storm. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through the iron frame of the train, mingling with the rhythmic clatter of wheels against the tracks. Rivers of water traced erratic paths down the glass, blurring the countryside into smudges of green and brown, fleeting and indistinct, as if even the world itself was dissolving into something unrecognizable.
Across from me sat a man whose very presence seemed to shape the air around him, molding it into something sharper, heavier—an invisible force pressing down on everything and everyone within its reach.
Earl Frederick Ashbourne—my father, or so the fragmented tapestry of memories, stitched hastily into my mind, insisted.
He was everything his title demanded and more—a living portrait of aristocratic perfection. His posture was immaculate, his back straight and unyielding, as though the weight of generations rested comfortably on his shoulders. A porcelain cup of steaming coffee rested delicately between his long, gloved fingers, the thin gold rim gleaming under the dim light of the compartment's brass fixtures.
His tailored suit, dark as the storm outside, was pristine—every button gleaming, every crease meticulously pressed. The faint sheen of polished leather peeked from beneath the hem of his trousers, the only softness in his ensemble was the faint gleam of a pocket watch chain, glinting subtly against his vest. His face was carved from the same mold as the statues that adorned the halls of power—sharp, symmetrical, and devoid of warmth. Not cruel. Just… empty. Detached.
The soft clink of porcelain meeting saucer punctuated the stillness of the private train compartment, mingling with the relentless patter of rain against the windows and the steady, unbroken hum of iron wheels gliding over tracks. The soft hiss of the gas lamp overhead cast a pale, steady glow across the compartment, its light brushing against the polished mahogany panels as shadows clung to the corners—silent and watchful, as though the very air throbbed with something unseen.
His hand turned the pages of the morning paper with mechanical precision, each crisp fold and subtle flick a symphony of discipline and control.
To an outsider, it would have seemed like a picture of serene, aristocratic grace—a father and son sharing a quiet moment within the polished elegance of their world.
But I—Kim Sungwon—knew the truth behind the picture-perfect facade.
The coffee he held was no simple indulgence. I could feel it like a phantom ache, an echo in the back of my mind—faint, but insistent. A whisper from the foreign memories that had been grafted onto my consciousness, a dark secret hiding in plain sight. That dark liquid was laced with poison—not enough to kill, but enough to carve slow, invisible paths of destruction through the body of anyone foolish enough to drink it.
But for him, though, it was nothing more than a routine, a ritual, an exercise in control.
Earl Frederick Ashbourne didn't drink coffee because he enjoyed the taste. He drank it because every bitter sip was a declaration—a challenge hurled at death itself. Over the years, his body had been tempered like steel, forged in the fires of countless toxins until poison was nothing more than another flavor on his tongue. His life was a symphony of dangerous precision, every habit a weapon, every breath a calculated move on an invisible chessboard where failure was synonymous with death.
I tore my gaze away from him, unable to bear the oppressive weight of his indifference any longer, and turned back to the window.
The glass was cool against my fingertips, a fragile barrier between me and the world beyond—a world drowning beneath the storm. Rain streaked down in relentless rivulets, merging, separating, only to collide again. Thunder growled overhead, distant yet ever-present, as lightning carved jagged scars across the heavens before vanishing into the abyss.
It was the same that day too—when I opened my eyes and found myself here.
The first thing I saw was the ceiling—high, impossibly grand, its surface adorned with intricate molding that traced elegant, almost hypnotic patterns. A chandelier loomed above, its golden frame catching the dim light, sending fractured reflections scattering across the room in a silent, spectral dance.
The air was thick with the scent of burning wood, the heat of the fireplace pressing against the cold dampness that clung to my skin. The quiet crackle of flames was the only sound, a steady rhythm in the stillness, like a pulse in the void.
I lay beneath heavy sheets, their weight pressing down as if anchoring me to this foreign reality. The fabric was unlike anything I had ever known—rich, luxurious, a stark contrast to the damp, blood-stained clothing I last remembered.
I turned my head and then I saw it.
The mirror.
That was when I saw him.
Not a stranger. Not someone else.
It was me.
A boy stared back at me from across the room, his reflection framed by the ornate gold of the mirror's edge.
Pale skin, unblemished by time. Dark hair, tousled in soft, unruly strands. Eyes sharp, yet burdened with a weariness no child should bear.
A child.
The realization unfurled within me, slow and insidious, sinking its claws into the marrow of my bones.
"I… am a child?"
The words left my lips as a whisper, hollow and uncertain. They rang false, as if spoken by someone else entirely. My voice—softer, lighter, untouched by the weight of years—betrayed me.
"I-It can't be... this must be a dream..."
But the weight of the sheets pressing against my skin, the muted scent of burning wood, the distant patter of rain against the windowpane—all of it was too vivid, too tangible, too real.
This was not a dream.
The truth coiled around my ribs like a serpent, tightening with a cold, deliberate patience. Each breath was a struggle, a battle against the invisible weight pressing down on my chest. When I finally forced myself upright, my movements were sluggish, strained, as though I were a marionette struggling against tangled strings. My limbs—light, frail, unsteady—trembled with every effort.
They didn't feel like mine. Because they weren't.
"Urghhh—!"
The sound tore from my throat, hoarse and broken, as a searing tide of unfamiliar memories surged through me—alien thoughts, foreign images, the essence of a life not my own invading my consciousness without warning.
The names I had never spoken, places I had never seen and emotions that didn't belong to me.
They came in waves, unrelenting, crashing over me with the violence of a storm at sea.
None of it made sense. None of it felt real. And yet, the pain was undeniable.
Not of the flesh, but of something far deeper—something rooted in the very marrow of my being. It was as if my soul had been torn from its natural vessel and forcefully stitched into the fragile frame of another, and in the silence that followed the storm of memory, I could feel every thread of that unnatural union.
"Did I transmigrate into someone else…?"
The question left my lips in a whisper, shaky and absurd, yet it was the only explanation that hovered near reason. The absurdity of the idea did little to quiet the pounding in my skull.
"But... how is this even possible…?"
I tried to breathe, to steady myself, but my thoughts had already begun to spiral.
The last memory clawed its way up from the depths of my mind—jagged, disjointed, drenched in cold wind and betrayal.
I had been standing at the edge of a building, the city sprawled beneath me like a graveyard of ghosts. The wind howled, tearing at my coat, sharp with rain and silence. And then—I fell.
But I hadn't fallen alone.
He fell with me. Not by choice, but because in that final moment, his body refused to obey him. His limbs moved against his will, drawn by mine, and so he tumbled after me—dragged into the void by a fate neither of us could escape.
A man cloaked in shadow, yet his presence was unmistakable. My co-detective. An old friend from university days, a shadow that had followed me through the years, through cases and corpses, through laughter and lies. The same man who had shot me in the arm.
He had never missed a target in his life.
And yet—he missed.
The bullet grazed flesh, not bone. A warning. A message. Before I could ask why, before I could demand the truth from his lips—we fell.
His face was hidden beneath a dark hood, but I remembered what lay beneath.
A scar. Diagonal, running across his cheek. An old wound, half-faded, but still stubborn enough to cut through memory. It carved through his otherwise unreadable expression like a fracture in porcelain.
And on his wrist—the mark I would never forget.
A serpent, coiled tightly around a dagger.
The emblem of the Baemhoe—a criminal syndicate, cold-blooded and far-reaching, coiled deep within the city's underbelly like decay festering beneath a polished facade.
The same organization my father had once served.
"Did I die… chasing them?"
The thought settled like ice in my gut.
There was no time to answer. No time to mourn or rage or piece the puzzle together. Before grief could claim me, before horror could take hold, I was already being swallowed by this world—dragged into its depths by indifferent hands.
This place did not care who I had been. It offered no welcome, no explanation, no moment of stillness in which I could catch my breath.
And all I could do... was endure.