"Oink!"
That was the first thing I heard.
Not birds. Not wind.
Pigs.
I opened my eyes to a sky that smelled aggressively rural and found myself sprawled behind what was very clearly a pig farm. Mud clung to my sleeves. My boots were caked in something I refused to examine closely. More importantly—these were not my clothes. The clothes I was wearing were straight out of an '80s detective movie. Charcoal frock coat, wing-collared shirt and the distinct aura of "man who can't find a lost sheep."
I sat up slowly.
"This is a dream," I informed the nearest pig.
It blinked at me.
My phone vibrated in my overcoat.
I stared at it. It was not my phone. It looked like mine, technically—but cheaper. Dimmer. Like it had gone through economic decline.
There was no signal. No apps. Just a black screen with a single line of white text:
"You're outside main scenario area.
Please return to avoid being recasted."
I stared at it for a long moment.
"What does that even mean?" I muttered.
The pig, again, did not elaborate.
I stumbled toward the front of the farm in search of actual humans. A farmer eyed me suspiciously when I asked if there was a hospital nearby. When I mentioned "phone signal," three men exchanged glances like I had just confessed to conversing with ghosts.
"City folk," one of them muttered.
I decided very quickly that mentioning technology was not going to improve my social standing.
The only carriage heading toward town was loaded with pigs.
Naturally, I got on it.
The ride was… aromatic.
One particularly large pig sat beside me like we were colleagues commuting to work. Every time I glanced at it, it snorted with unsettling judgment.
"Don't look at me like that," I whispered. "This wasn't my plan."
The countryside rolled by in long stretches of dirt road and open fields. No cars. No telegraph wires. Certainly no cell towers. Judging by the architecture in the distance and the absence of anything remotely modern, I was nowhere near the twenty-first century.
Which raised several concerns.
As the carriage rattled forward, memories began surfacing.
Not mine.
Detective Adrian Holt.
A man with sharp eyes and sharper pride. Born into modest means. Brilliant, stubborn, and perpetually at war with society's invisible ceilings. He had wanted to join the official police force—dreamed of it—but pedigree mattered more than talent. Doors closed before he could even knock.
So he carved his own path.
Private investigator.
Unofficial. Unwelcome. Unstoppable.
Investigating crimes wasn't just work for him—it was fever. Obsession. The only thing that quieted the injustice simmering in his chest.
The last thing I remembered of him—
Of me—
Was Adrian retreating to the countryside. Giving up. Society had won. Again.
And then—
Pig.
Mud.
"Recasted."
I pressed my palms against my temples.
What happened to Kieran and the others?Had someone drugged me back at the mansion? But the mud was real. The smell was offensively real. The breeze was cold against my skin. Dreams didn't have this much texture.
The carriage rolled into the city—busy streets, horses pulling carts, vendors shouting, smoke rising from chimneys. The pigs were unloaded with alarming enthusiasm.
I climbed down, legs slightly numb, and headed towards the only place that felt familiar.
Home.
Clara's home.
Clara Whitecombe… She had been Adrian's childhood friend—the only constant after his parents' death hollowed out his world. In truth, they had both been hollowed out early. She had been left with nothing but a scrawny little brother and two empty jars in the kitchen that never seemed to stay full no matter how hard she worked. Hunger had been their first shared language. Not just for food—but for something larger. For change. For dignity. For a world that didn't kneel automatically to noble titles.
They had once dreamed of joining the police force together, believing in justice with the naivety of children, only to learn it was little more than an arm of royal convenience. So they adapted. Adrian became a detective—unofficial, unendorsed, but stubbornly principled. Clara became a journalist, her pen sharper than most constables' batons. Neither of them ruled society, but neither bowed to it either. And standing there in Adrian's body, I understood something unsettling—she wasn't just part of his past. She was the backbone of it.
I walked slowly through the narrow street, heart hammering harder with each step. When I reached the modest townhouse, I hesitated only a second before knocking.
The door flew open.
"Adrian!"
Clara Whitemore nearly collided with me before I could step back. Her hands fisted into my coat as if she were afraid I might dissolve into smoke.
"Where have you been all these days?" she breathed, voice trembling despite her attempt at composure.
"No letter, no word—do you know how worried I was?"
I froze—just for half a second too long.
This wasn't my life.
But it was hers.
"I—" I forced my voice to settle into Adrian's cadence.
Calm.
Grounded.
"I'm fine."
Her eyes scanned me immediately, practical even through relief. She checked my sleeves, brushed dust from my shoulders, turned me slightly as though expecting to find blood soaking through the fabric.
"You've lost weight," she muttered. "And this coat—were you sleeping in a stable?"
"Close," I said before I could stop myself.
She paused.
I cleared my throat. "Long story."
She removed my overcoat with efficient familiarity and stepped aside. "Come in. Sit. I'll make tea. And then you will tell me everything."
The warmth of the house wrapped around me. The scent of paper and ink. Books stacked with disciplined care. Notes pinned precisely along the wall. This was Adrian's world—order carved out of chaos.
"Clara," I said gently, smoothing the edges of my tone, "could you bring me the ledger I asked about last month?
She paused at the doorway, brows knitting together. "You've barely sat down."
"I know. It's just—while it's fresh."
A beat passed before she nodded. "I'll bring it. But we need to talk about everything that happened."
When she disappeared into the adjoining room, the air finally left my lungs. Her relief had been overwhelming. To be welcomed like that—claimed like that—by someone who loved Adrian so fiercely… it felt like trespassing in a sacred place.
When she disappeared into the adjoining room, I finally exhaled.
I flexed my fingers slowly.
Then, took out the phone from my overcoat. It no more read the text. It now read
> **Assignment:** Stop the murder from happening
> **Target:** ???
> **Reward:** 100 Skill Points.
New body. Old life. Unclear instructions.
If I was inside Adrian Holt's body, then I needed to know what he had been chasing before he vanished.
Fragments surfaced.
Wellesley Manor.
Watching from beyond iron gates. Bribing servants with information instead of coin. Late-night notes scrawled in margins. A name circled twice.
Then—
Nothing.
A clean, deliberate gap.
I drank the tea she left for me in steady gulps, barely tasting it, then changed into a fresh coat and gloves. I picked the detective badge up from the counter—just where Adrian had left it before giving up everything. I bolted out, adjusting my hat, for I knew if answers were anywhere, they were there.
Wellesley Manor stood tall and unapologetic, its iron gates gleaming like a challenge.
I lowered my head slightly as I approached, blending into the movement of merchants and visitors.
And then I saw him.
Edward.
Our trek guide.
Except he no longer looked like someone leading hikers through uneven paths. He wore tailored fabrics, polished boots, and the easy posture of someone accustomed to being admitted without question.
He spoke briefly with the guards.
They let him in immediately.
The maids opened the doors before he even reached them.
Expected.
Recognized.
My pulse sharpened.
"What are you doing here?" I muttered under my breath.
I waited just long enough for a delivery cart stacked with crates to roll through the gate. Using the distraction, I slipped in behind it.
At the entrance, I knocked lightly to avoid suspicion.
A maid opened the door, her expression shifting from polite to puzzled in an instant.
"Yes?"
I stepped inside before she could decide to object.
"I'm expected," I said calmly.
She did not look convinced.
I paid no further heed to her confusion and moved toward the staircase, following the faint echo of Edward's footsteps against marble.
"Sir—!" she called after me.
Another maid hurried forward, attempting to block my path.
"Inform the Lady," she snapped to the other, who immediately rushed deeper into the manor to fetch someone of authority.
Not good.
Very not good.
I took the stairs quickly but without running. Running would imply guilt.
There were only a handful of rooms upstairs reserved for private meetings of importance.
Edward could only be heading to one.
The last door at the end of the corridor.
I reached the landing just as he slipped inside.
The door closed with quiet finality.
Behind me, hurried footsteps echoed upward.
I stopped before the door, staring at the polished wood.
My last chance.
I didn't know the connection between Adrian Holt and Wellesley Manor.
I didn't know why I was here—or what "recasted" truly meant.
But I knew one thing with absolute certainty.
If I walked away now—
I might never find out what is really going on.