Chapter 6: This Ain't Sunshine and Rainbows
The face staring back at him wasn't Jimmy Bellic's.
Ashen hair, fine and flawless, fell in soft waves over a forehead smooth as porcelain. Crimson red eyes glistened like polished rubies, crystalline flecks dancing in the light from the chandelier. The jawline was sharp, aristocratic, the lips too perfectly shaped — not cracked or chewed down by cigarettes, but as if sculpted by some artist obsessed with symmetry. His skin was pale, unblemished, the kind of complexion that belonged to a noble locked away from the filth of the streets.
It was a face designed to make hearts skip. A face women in perfume ads would throw themselves at. A face so handsome it wasn't fair.
And it was his.
Jimmy lifted his hand, rough instinct in every movement, and the reflection did the same with the grace of a prince. He curled his fingers into a fist; the mirror did too, the knuckles fine and pale, not scarred from street brawls or cracked from brass knuckles. He bared his teeth — perfect teeth — and scowled at the stranger in the glass.
He whispered, gravel low in his throat, "...You've gotta be shittin' me."
He tore his gaze from the mirror, stumbling back a few steps. His boots clicked against marble so polished it threw back shards of light. Above him, a chandelier dripped gold and crystal, refracting the sunlight pouring through tall windows hidden behind velvet curtains. The whole room glowed with an elegance that should've been beautiful, but to him, it was suffocating.
Roses — fat, red, perfect — spilled from vases on every surface. The smell was thick, cloying, sweeter than sugar, choking him. It wasn't the perfume of women on the streets, cheap and sharp. No — this was crafted sweetness, cultivated. And it stuck in his lungs like syrup.
Jimmy turned in place, taking it all in. Marble columns lined the walls, carved with spiraling detail. A bed bigger than any apartment he'd ever rented sat in the center, its canopy stitched with golden thread. Tables polished to mirrors, wardrobes carved from dark wood, every piece too fine to touch.
It was the kind of room a king's spoiled son would live in.
Jimmy Bellic, orphan of the streets, adopted mobster, survivor of gunfights and alley wars, didn't belong here.
He tugged at the vest clinging to his chest. Fine silk. Tailored to perfection. His shirt was crisp white, unwrinkled, smooth under his fingers. Even the gloves on his hands fit perfectly, as if sewn just for him.
"This ain't right," he muttered. His voice sounded different — lower, smoother, with an edge of nobility he didn't recognize. It unsettled him more than the roses.
He yanked at the vest like he could tear it off, but the fabric barely wrinkled under his grip. Too fine, too perfect. Even his clothes mocked him.
He stumbled toward the window, shoving the heavy curtains aside. Sunlight hit him full force, making the crimson of his new eyes flash in the glass.
Outside — a garden. No, not a garden. A masterpiece.
Hedges trimmed into spirals and squares, fountains gushing crystal arcs of water, flowers blooming in perfect symmetry. Birds danced overhead, too bright, too clean, their chirps like a soundtrack. Not a car. Not a siren. Not a bum screaming at pigeons.
It was paradise.
Jimmy's jaw worked. He pressed a hand to the glass, feeling the warmth of the sun.
"This… sure as hell ain't Brooklyn."
He turned back to the mirror. The stranger still stared at him.
Up close again, the reflection mocked him. That face — ashen hair shimmering like silver spun into threads, crimson eyes burning with crystal light — it wasn't Jimmy Bellic. It was someone else. Someone so handsome it hurt to look at him.
Jimmy sneered. "What the hell am I supposed to do with this face? Seduce people to death?"
His voice cracked on a bitter laugh. He slammed his palm against the mirror. The noble reflection slammed his palm too, perfect and unflinching.
"Who the hell are you supposed to be?" Jimmy growled. "'Cause you ain't me."
Silence. Only roses. Only perfection.
He staggered back to the bed and dropped onto it, head in his hands.
Okay. Think.
Last thing he remembered: the rooftop, the gunfire, the blood pooling under his boots. Bodies everywhere, his lungs burning, his chest bleeding out. His final words — a wish, muttered to a god he never believed in: If there's a next life, let it be peaceful. Sunshine. Rainbows.
Then that thing in the void. Red eyes. Black wings. Half-god, half-devil. Mocking him, twisting his words. "Wish granted," it had said.
Now here he was. Alive, but not. Whole, but not.
And in the body of a stranger too handsome to be real.
Jimmy rubbed his temples. "This is a dream. It's gotta be. Some fever dream before the lights go out."
But the silk under his hands was too real. The smell of roses too strong. The marble floor too cold under his boots.
Not a dream.
He stood, pacing the room. Every detail itched at him. The gold-leaf ceiling. The velvet curtains. The endless roses. The clothes, the gloves, the boots, all too fine.
And the face. That damn face in the mirror, ashen and crimson, carved from fantasy.
It gnawed at him, familiar in a way he couldn't place. Like déjà vu. He'd seen this before. Somewhere.
He frowned, rubbing his jaw. "Where the hell…?"
His eyes fell on the roses. The color. The arrangement. The way they overflowed every vase, too perfect, too romantic, too theatrical.
Something clicked in the back of his skull.
Roses.
Roses.
Eternal Roses.
The thought slammed into him.
"No…" he whispered. His throat went dry.
It couldn't be. No.
But the details lined up too well. The decadence. The aristocratic room. The ashen hair. The crimson eyes.
Memories rushed in unbidden — nights alone in the safehouse, blood on his clothes, whiskey in his hand, and that damn otome game glowing on the screen. Eternal Roses: The Bonds of Ten Hearts.
The one game that kept him sane, that kept him from drowning in the loneliness after his brothers died. He'd played it until the characters felt real, until their tragedies echoed his own. He knew every route, every villainess, every love interest.
And one of them had this face.
Rudeus Blackheart.
The hidden character. The doomed love interest. The one nobody reached without tearing through hell itself.
Jimmy stumbled back from the mirror, shaking his head. "No. No, no, no. This ain't funny."
But the reflection didn't lie. Ashen hair. Crimson crystal eyes. The aristocrat too beautiful for reality.
It was Rudeus.
It was him.
Jimmy's laugh was raw, bitter, cracked down the middle. He grabbed the edge of the table, knuckles white.
"Outta all the bastards in that game…" he rasped. "Outta all ten pretty boys they could've stuck me as… I get this one? The tragic sonuvabitch with death flags stapled to his ass?!"
He kicked the table, sending a vase crashing to the floor. Roses scattered, petals bleeding across the marble like wounds. The scent only grew stronger, choking him.
He paced, ranting, half-crazed. "I asked for sunshine and rainbows, not a one-way ticket into a goddamn dating sim! You hear me, birdman? Screw you! You put me in a harem game?"
His voice cracked on a laugh again, jagged and painful. "What am I supposed to do, bat my crystal eyes at girls and hope nobody stabs me?"
He stopped, chest heaving. His reflection stared back, calm, perfect, aristocratic. A face built for tragedy.
Jimmy dragged both hands down his face. "...Goddammit."
He dropped back onto the bed, staring at the chandelier's sparkle. The roses' scent clung to him, suffocating.
Finally, he muttered, low, bitter, resigned:
"…I'm in the goddamn game."