The first thing I noticed when consciousness returned wasn't the throbbing in my head or the strange weight of unfamiliar limbs. It was the ceiling.
Where my apartment's water-stained plaster should have been, an elaborate fresco stretched above me instead. Golden vines twisted between painted clouds, and cherubs with rosy cheeks peered down through ornate molding that probably cost more than my entire yearly salary back in my old life. The kind of opulent artistry you'd only find in the most ridiculous fantasy settings.
I blinked hard, expecting the vision to dissolve. It didn't.
The sheets beneath me whispered like silk against skin that felt both foreign and familiar. Everything was wrong in the most luxurious way possible. My hands moved without my conscious command, fingers trailing across fabric so fine it seemed to melt at my touch. Even the air tasted different here—crisp and clean, carrying hints of expensive cologne and fresh roses from what must have been an elaborate garden somewhere beyond these walls.
That's when I caught sight of the mirror.
A full-length silver glass stood beside an ornate mahogany dresser, its surface polished to perfection. The face staring back at me made my blood freeze in my veins.
Sharp crimson eyes that seemed to burn with their own inner fire gazed back with predatory intelligence. Sleek black hair fell in perfect waves, framing aristocratic features that belonged on a marble statue rather than a living person. High cheekbones, a straight nose, and lips that curved naturally into what could only be described as a dangerous smile.
This wasn't my face. This wasn't my body.
But I knew exactly whose it was.
"Duke Alaric von Dreiss," I whispered, and even my voice had changed. Where once I'd spoken in ordinary, unremarkable tones, now each word carried the refined accent of nobility, smooth as aged wine and twice as intoxicating.
The name tasted like poison on my tongue.
I'd spent countless hours staring at this exact face on my computer screen, watching as he schemed and plotted his way through "Hearts of the Academy," the otome game that had consumed far too many of my evenings. Alaric wasn't the kind love interest that players swooned over. He wasn't the gentle scholar or the protective knight or even the mysterious dark horse who won hearts through quiet devotion.
He was the obstacle. The villain. The beautifully crafted antagonist whose sole purpose was to make the heroine's life miserable before meeting his inevitable doom.
My hands shook as memories that weren't mine began surfacing. Private tutors drilling etiquette into a young boy's head. The weight of family expectations crushing down like stones. The gradual realization that no matter how perfect he tried to be, he would never measure up to the golden child everyone truly wanted.
Those weren't my memories, but they felt real enough to make my chest tighten with phantom pain.
In every route of the game, Alaric's fate had been sealed from the beginning. The Ice Prince route saw him publicly humiliated at the Midsummer Ball before being stripped of his title and executed for treason. The Knight Commander's path led to exile and a swift assassination in some foreign land. Even in the Scholar's route, supposedly the most merciful option, he lived only to wander the world as a broken man, his family name destroyed and his future reduced to ash.
The heroine's choices determined everything, but they all led to the same destination for Duke Alaric von Dreiss: destruction.
I pushed myself up from the impossibly soft mattress, my new body moving with a grace I'd never possessed in my previous life. Each step across the marble floor felt like walking through a dream, or perhaps a nightmare. Through tall windows draped in midnight blue velvet, I could see manicured gardens stretching toward a horizon painted gold by the setting sun.
This world was breathtakingly beautiful. It was also a death trap with my face on it.
But as I stared at my reflection again, something shifted inside me. The fear didn't disappear entirely, but it transformed into something sharper, more useful. The game had operated on the assumption that Alaric would never see his downfall coming. He was written to be arrogant, blind to consequence, stumbling toward his fate with the confidence of someone who believed the world owed him everything.
The game's creators had never imagined a scenario where the villain knew the script.
I traced one finger along the mirror's silver frame, watching as Alaric's face copied the motion with perfect synchronization. If I was going to live in this body, in this world, I needed to understand the rules that governed it. More importantly, I needed to learn how to break them.
The heroine would arrive at the Academy in less than two years, according to the game's timeline. She'd be fifteen, wide-eyed and innocent, ready to capture hearts and change destinies with her pure intentions and unwavering kindness. The love interests would fall for her one by one, each finding something in her gentle nature that called to their wounded souls.
And Alaric would stand in her way, as he was always meant to do.
But this time would be different. This time, the villain understood exactly what game was being played, and more importantly, he knew how every match was supposed to end.
I smiled at my reflection, and for the first time, that wicked curve of lips felt like it truly belonged to me.
If this world insisted on casting me as the villain, then I would embrace the role completely. But I would rewrite the ending to suit my own purposes. The heroine might hold the routes to everyone else's heart, but I held something far more valuable.
I held knowledge of the future.
And in a game where information was power, that made me the most dangerous player on the board.
Let the story begin again. This time, the villain would survive.