The first thing I noticed was the cold. Not just the kind that nipped at your fingers—it crawled into your chest, making every breath feel heavy. I opened my eyes.
Sunlight was spilling in through wooden shutters, slicing the floor into stripes. I should have recognized the room. But I didn't. Nothing was familiar.
I moved my hands—and froze. Too small. Too soft. Too… delicate. My reflection in the mirror across the room made my stomach twist. The face staring back wasn't mine. Black hair, pale skin, eyes that looked sharp and careful. I pressed my hand to my chest. My heartbeat pounded, but it didn't feel like mine.
"Ah… you're awake."
The voice was gentle but tense. A woman stepped into the room, bowing slightly. "Young Master… it's good you've returned."
"Returned?" My voice sounded soft, foreign.
She hesitated, uneasy. "After… the incident," she said, glancing away.
Incident. My stomach tightened. Something had gone wrong. And somehow, I was here. In this body. Alive.
I stumbled to the window and looked down. The courtyard was tidy, beautiful even, but it felt… wrong. Too perfect. Too still. Like a painting hiding its cracks.
Then it hit me—a flash of red, a scream, a dagger in my hand. Someone had died. And I… I was tangled up in it.
Another knock. The woman's voice called again. "Young Master… your father wants to see you."
I closed my eyes. Father. Death. This body. A murder I didn't commit—or maybe I had?
When I opened them again, I saw my reflection, and for the first time, it felt like a challenge. If I wanted to survive, I had to understand this life, this death… and the killer hiding in plain sight.
I forced myself to my feet. The robes were unfamiliar, stiff and heavy, and I stumbled slightly before regaining my balance. The woman—my attendant, apparently—helped smooth my sleeves, her hands brushing mine. The contact sent a jolt through me.
"Be careful," she said quietly. "Not everyone here… they'll be watching. After the incident, suspicion… spreads fast."
I nodded, though I had no idea what she meant. "The incident?" I asked again, my voice trembling.
She hesitated, then said nothing. She only bowed again and left, closing the door softly behind her.
Alone, I moved toward the main hall. Each step made the wooden floors creak, echoing in the silence. Servants whispered in corners, casting hurried glances my way. Fathers, uncles, cousins—I didn't know whose eyes were trustworthy.
My father's study was at the far end of the hall. The doors were carved with dragons and phoenixes, symbols of power and fortune. I hesitated outside, my hand hovering over the latch. A part of me wanted to run, to hide in the quiet of the gardens. But another part… knew I couldn't.
I pushed the doors open.
My father was seated behind a large wooden desk, the sun casting half his face in shadow. His expression was unreadable, his eyes sharp. "You are awake," he said simply.
"I… I am," I managed. My voice sounded foreign, unsure.
He leaned back, steepling his fingers. "Good. There is much you must know. And little time."
"What… what happened?" I asked.
He studied me for a long moment, as if weighing my soul. "Someone has died," he said finally. "And you… you are now caught in it."
Caught. The word was like ice in my veins. I wanted to scream, to run, to wake up again. But I couldn't.
And somewhere in the shadows of the courtyard, behind painted screens and behind carefully forced smiles, I felt it—the eyes of a killer, watching me already.