It was painfully silence.
A silence heavy, like wet velvet draped over the soul.
He opened his eyes, slowly, carefully, as if peeling apart layers of something foreign. The ceiling above him bled soft silver, moonlight slicing through ornate carvings. A chandelier dangled quietly, swaying without wind. The air smelled... stale.
'Where am I?'
He tried to sit up. His limbs moved like glass puppets. Fragile, stiff and unfamiliar. His breath hitched.
Breath?
He paused. Waited. No thrum of panic. No rush of heat. His chest did not rise. His heart did not beat.
Something cold moved beneath his skin. Like ice, flowing through veins that remembered how to be warm.
He stared at his hands. It was pale, thin and elegant. Long fingers. Perfectly cut nails. A sheen like porcelain.
'This isn't my body'
And yet, it moved when he asked it to. The sensation was as if he is the new owner.
Then, a knock came from behind.
It was gentle.
The door creaked open and a girl stepped in, lowering her head immediately. Her voice was a whisper, soft as snowfall.
"Master... you're awake?"
He blinked at her.
She was young. Sixteen? Seventeen? Auburn curls pinned neatly. A navy-blue uniform. Apron crisp. But her face—her eyes—were hollowed with worry.
"Lily."
He said, the name slipping from his mouth like instinct. It tasted familiar.
'Do I remember her because of this body?'
Her eyes welled with relief.
"Thank the blood... I thought..."
"How long was I unconscious?"
"Uhmm.. A week. After the convulsions, after you stopped eating. Lord and Lady said to leave it to the healers but... they gave up. They thought..."
"I might die?"
She flinched.
"Please, don't say it like that, Master Floyd. You... are alive after all."
"Indeed, but I can't do anything with this frail body."
Lily backed away respectfully. He moved toward the mirror on the far wall.
What stared back was...
Not quite beautiful. No, that would be too soft a word.
The face was refined. Gaunt in an elegant way. Crimson eyes. Hair like onyx water. Skin pale enough to show the blue beneath. There was a fragility to it, but also precision. A blade disguised as glass.
A vampire.
He didn't need anyone to tell him. He could feel it in the thirst. In the silence of his chest. In the instinct to pull shadows around him even in light.
He closed his eyes and let the memories come. They were fractured. Faded. But they told him enough.
The previous owner, Floyd Monteri, had not died in battle. Not in glory. But due to malnutrition. He was severely traumatized from his last assassination attempt that he though everyone is gonna kill him.
In the end, stopped eating and died from hunger.
How poetic.
How pathetic.
'I'm not him.'
"Master...?"
He glanced at Lily. Her eyes were wide, but not fearful. He can not understand this girl even though she has been by his side since childhood.
'If it was previous me, I would have completely trusted her.'
"I'll be in the dining hall. Prepare something. I want to meet them."
"Them?"
He didn't respond.
The hallways were velvet and marble, dimly lit by flickering sconces. He passed portraits, faces with cold eyes, postures of disdain, noble bloodlines dripping with centuries of arrogance. The Monteri estate. He remembered the name now.
Second son. A coward shrimp.
By the time he reached the grand dining room, his steps had steadied. No more awkwardness. No more uncertainty.
He was cold and silent waling with full confidence.
The doors swung open with a dull creak.
Six heads turned.
At the end of the long, candlelit table sat a tall, regal man with silver eyes. His father. Beside him, a woman with lips like razors and a gaze that could flay. His mother. Across from them, two siblings. An older brother, armored in pride. A younger sister, wrapped in innocence and silence.
None of them spoke.
None of them breathed.
Their eyes were wide and frozen.
He stepped forward slowly, each movement deliberate. There was no rush.
He stopped at his chair.
He smiled—just barely.
"I'm hungry."