Darkness.
It pressed against him like a sea without depth, without horizon. A silence so vast it seemed to swallow thought itself. Then came the pressure—cold, suffocating, as if chains of unseen iron wound themselves around his chest and throat, dragging him down into the abyss.
Whispers rose.
They seeped from the dark, innumerable, like the rustle of leaves in a graveyard wind. Hundreds—no, thousands—spoke together, their words dissolving before they could be understood. Yet among the formless murmurs, one name cut through again and again, heavy as fate:
"Adrian… Adrian Blackthorn…"
Shiro's eyes snapped open.
He drew in a ragged breath, lungs burning as though he had surfaced from drowning. His vision blurred before settling into dim golden light. A ceiling loomed overhead—painted with roses entwined with thorns, their faded crimson edges illuminated by the soft flicker of candle flames.
This was no hospital ward, no Tokyo apartment.
The air carried the sharp tang of melted wax and the dry perfume of old velvet. He lay upon a bed too large for him, its canopy heavy with embroidered curtains that hung like shadows. The sheets beneath his hands were thick, smooth, and chilled, as though unused.
Pushing himself upright, he found his body light, almost alien. His fingers—slender, refined—did not belong to him. His heart quickened, each beat echoing too loudly in this silent chamber.
He staggered toward the full-length mirror standing near the corner. The silver frame was wrought into twisting thorns, its surface slightly warped by age.
And there, reflected in the dim candlelight, was not Shiro Shimizu.
The face was young—eighteen, at most—with features carved in noble precision. Chestnut hair framed a pale face, and gray eyes stared back with a cold intensity, too sharp to be his own. His build was lean, his frame both fragile and elegant, a figure more suited to court than to city streets.
Shiro lifted his hand. The reflection did the same. His throat tightened.
"This… isn't me," he whispered. His voice was higher, smoother, carrying a faint resonance that sent a shiver down his spine.
The silence answered.
Knock.
The sound rang sharp against the chamber's wooden door.
"Yes?" he stammered.
The door creaked open, and a young maid stepped inside, carrying a silver tray. Steam curled faintly from the porcelain cup it held. She moved with grace, yet her gaze did not linger on him, as though afraid to look directly.
"Young Master Adrian," she murmured, bowing her head. "Praise be to the Sun God—you have awakened. The master and mistress will rejoice."
The name struck him with invisible force. Adrian. Adrian Blackthorn.
Shiro's lips parted, but no words came. He forced a nod, grasping at composure. "I… I'm well enough."
The maid set the tray upon a desk near the window. Her hands trembled faintly as she adjusted the cup. Though her expression remained disciplined, Shiro caught the flicker of unease in her eyes. Not just worry—fear.
She bowed once more and withdrew, closing the door behind her.
Shiro sank into the chair at the desk, his hands gripping its arms as if to anchor himself. His thoughts reeled.
Not a dream. Not a vision. The book, the sigil of chains, the suffocating darkness—they had pulled him here, into another body. Into the heir of the Blackthorn family.
He tugged at the collar of the linen shirt clinging to his chest. There, faint and almost invisible beneath the skin, was a mark: a coiling chain, circling endlessly, like a serpent devouring its own tail.
The moment his fingers brushed it, a chill seeped through his veins. He jerked his hand back. The mark faded as though it had never been there.
Before he could steady his breath, footsteps echoed from beyond the door. These were heavier, deliberate, carrying weight and authority.
The door swung open.
A tall man entered, his presence filling the chamber. He wore a black coat traced with silver, his boots polished, his bearing unbending. Though his hair was streaked with gray, his eyes shone with sharp steel.
"Adrian," he said, his voice deep, steady.
Fragments stirred at the edge of Shiro's mind, like half-remembered dreams. The name carried with it flashes of unfamiliar memories: candlelit halls, stern lessons, cold gazes.
This was Lord Blackthorn. Adrian's father.
"You worried us," the man continued, stepping closer.
Shiro's mouth moved before he could stop himself. "Forgive me… Father."
The word tasted foreign, yet it came naturally, drawn from the body itself.
Lord Blackthorn studied him, his gaze weighing more than his words. Then, at last, he exhaled. "No need for apologies. You are awake now—that is all that matters."
He placed a hand upon Shiro's shoulder. The weight was firm, grounding. "Do not trouble yourself with duties. Regain your strength first."
Shiro lowered his eyes and nodded quickly. His pulse thundered in his ears.
Lord Blackthorn lingered a moment longer, then turned and left, his footsteps echoing down the corridor until they faded into silence.
Shiro sat motionless, listening to the emptiness left behind.
"This is real," he whispered. His reflection in the mirror stared back at him with accusing eyes. "I… became him."
The words had scarcely left his lips when the room changed.
The air thickened. The candle flames shivered, bending though no breeze stirred. The porcelain cup upon the desk rattled faintly, its surface rippling as though touched by invisible fingers.
Shiro froze.
A whisper slid through the chamber, cold as breath against his ear:
"Chains bind you, heir of thorns…"
His head whipped toward the voice, but the room was empty. Only the portraits on the walls stared back at him—men and women of Blackthorn blood, their painted eyes deep, solemn, and unfathomable.
The whisper faded, yet the echo of it lingered in his bones. He pressed a trembling hand to his chest, over the fading mark of the chain.
Adrian Blackthorn's curse had not died with him.
And now, it had chosen him.