He moved down the hall, testing every closed door until he finally found a bathroom.
As he rummaged through the cabinets, his blood-stained hands left crimson smears across the pristine white surfaces. He didn't care; he couldn't afford to.
On the top shelf, he found a first-aid kit and snatched it down.
He moved with clinical urgency, selecting his tools: gauze pads, bandages, painkillers, hydrogen peroxide, and sterile gloves.
After peeling off his blood-soaked T-shirt, he pressed a clean gauze pad firmly against the jagged wound in his abdomen.
Gritting his teeth to suppress a hiss of pain, he turned on the faucet. He scrubbed his hands, snapped on the gloves, and doused a fresh pad in hydrogen peroxide.
The sting was electric, but he didn't flinch.
The injury was deep—the kind that demanded stitches. But with no suture kit in sight, he had to improvise.
He reached for the sterile adhesive strips, closing the gap of the wound as tightly as possible.
He layered on the gauze and wrapped the bandage around his torso—tight enough to hold, but loose enough to breathe.
When he finished, he shoved the bloody remnants aside. The bleeding had stopped. No swelling. Secure.
He tossed the gloves into the bin and finally looked in the mirror.
His face was ghostly pale, his lips parched—yet his expression remained eerily blank. His blood-red eyes were calm, far too calm for a man in his position.
His messy, shoulder-length hair colour was a teal, shot through with streaks of crimson on the left side.
"Hah… these eyes," he sighed. The vertical pupils within those vivid crimson irises were predatory, alien.
"I really have become Aren Rayne…"
He stared mockingly at his reflection for a heartbeat before washing the grime from his face. He downed the painkiller in one gulp, then left the bathroom to find clothing.
He slipped into a bedroom—likely an adult's—and grabbed a T-shirt and a jacket. They hung loosely on his frame, the fabric swallowing his lean build, but they would do.
Silence greeted him back in the hall.
He moved toward the living room, where two massive pillars framed a high-ceilinged space.
The furniture was rustic, giving the room the feel of a grand mansion crossed with a secluded forest lodge.
Through the windows, the dense wall of trees confirmed his suspicion: he was isolated.
He made a break for the kitchen, aiming for the back door, when his boot caught on something. He stumbled.
"A teddy bear?"
He frowned, looking down at the discarded toy. But before he could stand, the world went still.
Beneath the rhythmic lashing of rain against the glass, he heard it—faint, rhythmic, professional footsteps.
They're here. Damn it—I stayed too long.
He dove behind the couch just as the front door burst open with a deafening crash. Ten figures stormed in, clad in black combat camouflage and masks.
Their weapons hummed with a futuristic glow—tech far beyond standard issue.
On their shoulders, two overlapping squares with L-shaped markings caught the light.
Avalon Guardians.
I might be able to handle them, Aren thought, his mind racing. At least they're not from Aegis.
In the world of the novel, the Guardians maintained civilian order. Aegis were the ones who hunted Nyx, involved in crime. If the Guardians were here, they didn't know his true nature yet.
"Search everywhere! Check for survivors!" a deep voice barked.
"Sir, everyone here is dead," a soldier reported.
Aren peeked over the edge of the couch. Several soldiers stood over a man slumped on the cushions.
He hadn't noticed him in the dark earlier. The man's teal hair was matted with gore; his throat had been opened, his face a mask of frozen terror.
When Aren saw the man's eyes—ruby red, identical to his own—his heart skipped a beat.
That's his father. That's Aren's father.
In the original story, Aren's sister hated him for those eyes. Now he knew why.
"Commander! There's someone still alive!"
The relief in the soldier's voice was a death knell for Aren.
The commander crouched over another body. While their focus shifted, Aren began to crawl toward the kitchen, his movements silent as a shadow.
"Take Madam Eli Bryne back to the base," the commander ordered. "Once she's stable, we interrogate her."
"Madam Eli Bryne? Who is she?" a junior soldier whispered.
Before the answer could come, the woman—Eli—gasped, her eyes snapping open.
"Commander—she's awake!"
The woman looked at the masked soldiers, her eyes wide with a trauma that went deeper than physical pain. She lunged, grabbing the commander's arm with frantic strength.
"Monster! That monster did this! He's going to kill us all!"
The room went cold.
"A monster?" the commander muttered. "There were no reports of—"
The woman didn't hear him. Her gaze locked onto the kitchen doorway. She pointed a trembling, accusing finger.
"There! The monster is there!"
Aren, gripping a knife he'd grabbed from the counter, froze. He turned his head slowly—and his crimson eyes met the commander's gaze.