If you got hit by a truck, what do you think would happen?
Wouldn't you feel excruciating pain?
Like all the bones in your body were being turned into party confetti?
He certainly thought so — at least during the half-second he had to process the oncoming grill of a delivery truck, his lunch box still in hand.
But no pain came. No desperate final thoughts. No slow-motion screaming.
Just blackness.
A deep, enveloping dark that swallowed every sensation, like being unplugged from reality mid-sneeze.
And then… light.
Lyle's eyes blinked open.
A ceiling came into view — painted with gold-leaf floral patterns, lined with ornate beams and a chandelier that definitely wasn't regulation fluorescent lighting.
For a moment, he assumed he'd survived and landed in the private suite of a very fancy hospital.
But the silence threw him off.
No monitors, no IV drip, no nasal cannula assaulting his nostrils.
Just the quiet rustle of sheets and the faint scent of… lavender?
He shifted slightly.
The bed beneath him was soft — obscenely soft.
This wasn't hospital-grade mattress foam. This was the kind of luxurious bedding rich nobles probably used to debate taxes in their sleep.
The sheets were white and silky, practically glowing under the morning sun filtering through tall windows.
"This... is not New York," Lyle muttered aloud, voice hoarse but working.
He sat up and looked down at himself.
The covers framed his body neatly, like some kind of shoujo anime protagonist awakening after a magical transformation.
He half-expected sparkles to appear.
Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, his feet touched cold marble tiles, veined in pale blue.
The pattern was elegant and foreign, far removed from the scuffed flooring of his old apartment.
His gut told him what had happened, but he still needed proof.
Standing, he immediately noticed something off — his legs felt longer. His center of gravity had shifted.
Had he grown taller?
Lyle stumbled over to a full-length mirror carved with roses and vines. What he saw nearly made him fall backward into the silk-sheet abyss.
A stranger stared back at him.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Smooth, porcelain-like skin. Ice-blue eyes that shimmered with a noble glow.
And the hair — long, golden, tied neatly into a ponytail that would've gotten him fired in three American workplaces for being "too stylish."
He was hot.
No — unfairly beautiful.
A real "cover of a fantasy romance novel" type.
Lyle touched his cheek. The reflection copied him, confirming this wasn't some portrait or hallucination.
"...I could be a model," he whispered. "A freaking premium-tier, elf-slaying, jawline-for-days model."
His hands twitched.
Without thinking, he began styling the golden hair into different looks.
Low ponytail? Suave.
Half-up samurai bun? Mysterious.
Windswept loose? Absolute heartthrob.
He could only braid it since this hair was even longer than that of his sister…
He was halfway through attempting a braided crown when the door creaked open behind him.
A maid entered.
Not a casual, cart-pushing hotel maid. No, this woman was dressed in a black and white uniform straight out of a Victorian fantasy.
Apron, puffy sleeves, and a choker.
Her silver hair was pulled into a tight bun, and her sharp, violet eyes locked onto Lyle with the intensity of someone who'd just stepped in something unpleasant.
She paused in the doorway.
And the disgust radiating from her expression could've melted steel.
It wasn't overt — no sneer or dramatic gasp — but her gaze screamed "I'd rather be scrubbing chamber pots than dealing with you."
Lyle's instinct kicked in. Something was clearly wrong.
This body… this identity he now inhabited… had history.
Awkward history.
The maid bowed deeply — almost too deeply, like someone doing the bare minimum of respect in fear of being fired.
"Good morning, Young Master Arkwright," she said in a flat, robotic tone. "Shall I assist you in dressing today?"
Lyle froze.
His brain scrambled for the right answer, stalling behind the question like a Windows XP error.
Dress him? Like, undress and then redress him?
He stared at her, blinking.
Was this… was this the kind of reincarnation where the MC's too pathetic to get a girlfriend, so the maids are basically glorified fanservice?
That couldn't be right. Right?
The maid remained motionless, eyes still cold.
She was clearly waiting. And judging.
Internally sweating, Lyle coughed into his hand. "That… won't be necessary."
Her brow twitched. "Pardon, Young Master?"
"I said I'll dress myself," he replied, clearing his throat. "No need to trouble yourself. You can go."
She blinked slowly.
For the first time, her expression changed — subtle confusion, then calculation.
It was clear that whatever she expected from him… this wasn't it.
"Are you feeling unwell?" she asked. "You usually insist that I personally assist you with—"
"I'm perfectly fine," Lyle said, interrupting her. "Actually, I'm feeling… refreshed. Mentally reborn, even."
The maid tilted her head. Her tone remained professional, but he could tell she was making mental notes.
"…As you wish, Young Master. Should you need anything, please ring the bell."
She turned on her heel and exited the room, the door clicking softly behind her.
The moment she left, Lyle exhaled so hard he nearly deflated.
"Okay. Okay, let's piece this together," he said aloud, pacing.
He'd been hit by a truck.
Now he was in the body of someone named Arkwright… was this the dude's first name or his last name — who, judging by the maid's look of revulsion, had the personality of an entitled dumpster fire.
Rich, pampered, probably hated by the staff.
And now, the new and improved version of him was stuck cleaning up the PR mess.
He glanced at the mirror again. "Damn. At least I'm good-looking while doing it."
Then, as if on cue, something beeped in his head.
A soft chime echoed through his skull, and a glowing blue screen materialized in front of him.
[Welcome, Host, to the SUPREME MAID SYSTEM!]
[Your charm has increased by +1 for not drooling over your staff.]
[Reward: Fresh Linen Undergarments (Rare) added to inventory.]
Lyle stared blankly at the screen. "Excuse me?"
[Mission: Recruit Elite Combat Maids into your household!]
[The stronger (and hotter) they are, the greater your rewards!]
[Warning: Attempting to date without adequate relationship points may result in mop-based injury.]
[Good luck, Master Arkwright~ ❤️]
He slapped the side of his head.
"Nope. I'm hallucinating. This is a fever dream. I'm in a coma and my brain is trying to cope by inventing tsundere maids and RPG mechanics."
But the screen didn't go away.