Cold.
It wasn't the creeping chill of a winter morning, nor the damp cold of a rain soaked coat. It was a sharp, metallic freeze that radiated from the center of his spine, spreading outward like frozen ivy seizing his nervous system.
Kang Moo-hyuk gasped, his lungs inflating with a sudden, violent rattle.
His eyes snapped open.
He was staring directly at the grain of a polished wooden desk. His cheek was pressed against a stack of cold, scattered papers. Drool, or perhaps ink, had pooled near his mouth.
Where...?
He tried to push himself up, to lift his torso off the desk.
"Gah!"
A jolt of searing, white hot agony shot through his back, paralyzing him instantly. It felt as though his vertebrae had been fused together by a red hot iron rod. He collapsed back onto the wood, his breath coming in ragged, shallow wheezes.
My back. Something is wrong with my back.
Moo-hyuk gritted his teeth and moved his hand, reaching behind him with trembling fingers. He expected to feel a bruise, maybe a twisted muscle from sleeping in a bad position.
Instead, his fingertips brushed against something cold. Something leather wrapped. Something that protruded about five inches from between his shoulder blades.
A hilt.
A knife handle.
Moo-hyuk froze. His brain, usually quick to conjure a lie or a scheme, stalled completely. He traced the object again. Yes. There was no mistaking it. An ornate, heavy dagger was buried deep in his spine, pinning him to... well, to his own body.
I've been stabbed. I'm stabbed in the back.
Panic exploded in his chest. He wasn't in Seoul. He wasn't in his apartment. He was in a dimly lit, Victorian style study that smelled of stale tobacco and copper.
He looked at his reflection in the brass inkwell on the desk. A stranger's face stared back pale, sharp featured, with dark circles under the eyes that spoke of sleepless nights.
Arthur Ravencroft.
The name surfaced in his mind like a corpse floating to the top of a river. Along with the name came the memory of the last sensation this body had felt: The betrayal. The silent footstep behind him. The cold steel sliding between his ribs.
I transmigrated into a murder victim, Moo-hyuk realized, a hysterical laugh bubbling in his throat. And the murder weapon is still in me.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound of a heavy cane striking the door echoed through the room like gunshots.
"Mr. Ravencroft? It's Mrs. Hudson. The police are downstairs again. They say there's been a disturbance regarding your... occult noises."
Moo-hyuk's eyes widened. Police.
If they came in and saw him face down on the desk with a knife in his back, it wouldn't matter if he was alive. He would be classified as a victim, taken to a hospital (or a morgue), and the dagger would be removed.
And if the dagger was removed, he would bleed out. He could feel it instinctively. The steel was the only thing plugging the dam.
"Mr. Ravencroft? Are you decent? I'm opening the door!"
Nonononono.
Adrenaline is a powerful drug. Ignoring the screaming protest of his severed muscles, Moo-hyuk forced himself upright. He couldn't slouch. He couldn't lean back. If his back touched the chair, the hilt would press in deeper.
He had to sit with perfect, rigid posture.
He grabbed a heavy, velvet dressing gown draped over the side of the chair and threw it over his shoulders like a cape. The thick fabric settled over the protruding hilt, creating a slight, unnatural hump, but hiding the weapon from view.
The door handle turned.
Think, Moo-hyuk. You are the Great Detective. You are arrogant. You are eccentric.
The door creaked open. An elderly landlady peered in, followed by two uniformed constables who looked annoyed.
They saw Arthur Ravencroft sitting behind his desk. He was stiff as a board, his back perfectly straight, his expression a mask of frozen disdain.
"Mrs. Hudson," Moo-hyuk said. His voice was steady, though sweat was already beading at his hairline. "I have told you repeatedly. I am not to be disturbed during my... meditation."
The landlady blinked. "Meditation? But sir, you look... incredibly pale. And why are you sitting like that?"
Moo-hyuk didn't move a muscle. He couldn't.
"Like what?" he asked, his voice dripping with forced condescension.
"Like... a statue, sir. You haven't blinked."
Damn it.
Moo-hyuk forced his eyelids to close and open. The pain in his back throbbed in sync with his heartbeat. He needed them to leave. Now.
"I am practicing an ancient technique from the Southern Continent," Moo-hyuk lied, the words flowing out automatically. "Absolute spinal alignment to enhance cerebral blood flow. It requires total stillness. Any interruption could... sever my train of thought. Permanently."
A translucent gray window flickered into existence in the corner of his vision.
[System Initialization...]
[Anomaly Detected: Fatal Physical Trauma (Spinal Severance).]
[Status: Living Corpse.]
[Trait Activated: The Authority of Lies.]
[Lie Detected: "I am practicing a spinal alignment technique."]
[convincing Target...]
One of the constables stepped forward, squinting. "With all due respect, Mr. Ravencroft, we heard a scream. A loud one. About ten minutes ago."
That must have been the moment Arthur died.
Moo-hyuk smirked, though it looked more like a grimace of pain. "A scream? Ah, yes. That was me."
The constable reached for his baton. "You were screaming in pain?"
"In frustration!" Moo-hyuk snapped, slamming his hand on the desk (and immediately regretting the vibration that traveled up his arm to his spine). "I realized I had made a calculation error. It was a scream of intellectual agony, Constable. Surely you've felt it when failing to tie your shoelaces?"
The constable flushed red. "Now see here—"
"I am fine," Moo-hyuk interrupted, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. He leaned forward slightly, hiding the wince that threatened to break his face. "Now, unless you have a warrant or a cup of tea, get out. My spine requires silence."
The landlady looked at the constable. The constable looked at Arthur, who sat with the posture of a god or a man impaled on a stick.
[Target Convinced.]
[Lie Accepted.]
[Effect: Spinal Stabilization.]
Suddenly, the excruciating heat in his back cooled. The pain didn't disappear, but it dulled to a numb throb. It was as if his body had accepted the lie: There is no knife. This is just a posture exercise.
"Fine," the constable grunted, adjusting his helmet. "But keep it down. Next time, we're taking you to the asylum."
The door clicked shut.
Moo-hyuk waited for the footsteps to fade. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.
"Hah... hah..."
He didn't collaps, he couldn't collapse because of the knife, but his head dropped into his hands.
"I have a knife in my back," he whispered to the empty room, the absurdity of the situation finally hitting him. "I am literally backstabbed and I have to solve my own murder before I can pull it out."
He glanced at the system window that was still hovering.
[Current Mission: Identify your killer.]
[Hint: The killer is still in the building.]
Moo-hyuk's blood ran cold. He slowly turned his head toward the wardrobe in the corner of the room. The door was slightly ajar.
He wasn't alone.
With a trembling hand, he picked up the brass letter opener from the desk. It was a pathetic weapon compared to the dagger in his spine, but it was all he had.
"Alright," he muttered, channeling the arrogance of the man whose skin he wore. "Let's see who tried to kill me."