The first thing he noticed was the silence.
Not the comfortable kind, but the heavy, suffocating silence that settles after a storm. His head pounded as if someone had driven nails into his skull. A bitter taste of alcohol lingered on his tongue, and when he shifted in his chair, empty bottles clinked against one another on the floor.
"…What the hell?" he muttered.
The office around him looked expensive—too expensive. Dark oak shelves lined the walls, stacked with files and leather-bound ledgers. A massive Blackwell & Co. crest gleamed on the far wall, polished to perfection. This wasn't his apartment. This wasn't even his life.
He staggered to his feet and caught sight of a reflection in the tinted window. A man stared back at him—a man with sharp cheekbones, weary eyes, and a suit wrinkled from days of neglect. The face wasn't his, but the name rose in his mind before he could stop it.
Lucian Blackwell.
The name triggered something. Flashes. Scenes. Laughter, jeers, a woman's cold rejection echoing in a glittering ballroom. Whiskey pouring into crystal glasses, papers left unsigned, meetings where his presence was nothing but a joke.
Lucian clutched his temples, choking on the flood of memories that weren't his. He knew this story. No—he had read this story.
The villain. The disgrace of the Blackwell family. The man who had thrown away everything for Seraphina Crowell, and lost.
"…No way," he whispered, breath uneven.
He stumbled back into the chair, forcing himself to breathe as reality pressed down on him. The details were hazy, but one thing was clear: this wasn't the beginning of the novel. This was after it had already ended. The villain had lost everything but the hollow shell of his title—Director of Blackwell & Co.—a position granted by blood, not respect.
Outside the office, muffled voices carried through the half-open door.
"Think he'll even show up for the meeting?"
"Doesn't matter. The Director's a puppet anyway."
"He's only here because of Mr. Edward."
Their laughter stung, though it wasn't truly his wound. Not yet.
Lucian sat there, silent, his reflection staring back from the dark glass. His heart pounded too fast, his mind racing between disbelief and denial.
This couldn't be real. It shouldn't be real. And yet… it was.
For a long moment, he pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to block it all out. When he lowered them, the files on his desk came into focus: contracts unsigned, reports overdue, entire divisions waiting on his approval.
The former Lucian Blackwell had abandoned it all.
A shaky laugh escaped his lips—half disbelief, half hysteria. "…What a mess."
He didn't know what tomorrow would bring. He didn't know if he even wanted to accept this body, this name, this ruined story.
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This is a re-upload, i couldn't participate for WSA2025 in the first one(╥﹏╥).