When Noel opened his eyes, he expected the familiar, disappointing sights of his one-room apartment: the blinking router light, the half-eaten bag of chips, the ceiling fan that squeaked every third rotation like a needy ghost.
Instead, he saw:
A ceiling carved with intricate, gilded vines.
A chandelier whose dripping crystals were worth more than his entire life,twice over.
And a man.
A man so devastatingly handsome it felt like a personal affront. He had sharp, cold silver eyes and jet-black hair that shifted softly in a nonexistent breeze. He was leaning over Noel, his expression a masterpiece of aristocratic impatience.
"…Noah. Why are you lying on the floor?"
"Huh? Noah? " Noel's brain, still glitching, could only fixate on the impossible face above him. He'd never seen a person look so… finished. Like a statue carved by gods who were showing off.
"Are you listening?" The man's voice was a low baritone, heavy and cold as a morning frost, each word laced with unmistakable impatience.
Noel blinked, and the world snapped into a different kind of focus. The man was dressed in what could only be described as peak historical drama couture—a fitted jacket, a pristine cravat, trousers that looked painted on. He radiated the kind of noble aura that probably made commoners spontaneously curtsy.
Wait.
Wait.
WAIT?!
Noel's gaze dropped to his own body. Small, milky-white hands. A crisp white shirt under a black vest. Tailored trousers. Shiny, elegant shoes.
He scrambled to his feet with a graceless energy and bolted to a large, ornate mirror across the room, his breath coming in sharp, panicked huffs.
The reflection was a stranger. Delicate features framed by soft, slightly wavy brown hair. Big, bewildered emerald eyes. Rosy lips and skin so fair it seemed to glow from within. He looked like a living porcelain doll, something precious and ethereal.
"Who… is this?" he whispered to the pretty stranger in the glass.
He leaned in, then closer still, until his nose almost touched the cool surface. Hesitantly, he reached up and squished his own cheek.
"It's… soft?" he muttered, incredulous. "Who moisturizes like this?!"
This face was illegal. This was a face you kept in climate-controlled environments, shielded from harsh words, minor inconveniences, and certainly from part-time jobs.
A hysterical laugh bubbled in his throat. "Hah… did I fall asleep reading one of Lily's novels again? This is a weirdly detailed dream…"
He was still prodding his cheekbone, wondering if it would bruise, when that low, frost-rimmed voice rumbled directly behind him.
"Are you quite finished assessing your own face?"
Noel jolted, nearly cracking his forehead on the mirror. He whirled around.
The man was still there, arms crossed over his broad chest, silver eyes now narrowed in a potent cocktail of suspicion and profound irritation. Five seconds of thick, silent staring stretched between them.
And then, the reality hit him like a stone.
This wasn't a dream.
The comforting, messy world of his old life evaporated. The sensory overload was too rich, too crisp—the chill in the air, the scent of old books and polished wood, the oppressive weight of the man's gaze. This was real.
A wild, giddy hope ignited in his chest.
Am I transmigrated? Is this what they call isekai? Did some cosmic entity finally take pity on a poor soul like me and gave me a new life?
Does this mean no more of that boring and underpaid part time job? No more expired coffee?
Did I get cool magic? A system? A protagonist's halo?
He could almost see it: him, with this beautiful new vessel, wielding epic powers, charming the nobility, living a life of adventure and aesthetic! A blush of pure excitement painted his cheeks.
The handsome man—who was watching him with the detached curiosity one might give a malfunctioning clock—seemed unimpressed by his internal celebration.
"…Explain," the man demanded, his voice dropping into a territory that was quietly dangerous. "Why were you collapsed on the floor? And why are you now behaving as if you've been replaced by a feral woodland creature?"
Noel snapped to attention, his back straight as a rod. "I—the floor! It was… the floor and me had a disagreement. "
The man's eyebrow twitched. It was a minute movement, but it spoke volumes of impending doom.
Smooth, Noel. Brilliant. Your first act in this new world as a transmigrator: Idiotic.
The man took a single step forward, closing the distance until Noel could smell him—like cold rain on damp and cool rainforest and something faintly, elegously herbal. Why did he have to smell expensive, too?
Noel retreated until the wall met his back, cutting off his escape.
"You collapsed," the man stated, as if recounting a mildly inconvenient fact. "I sent for a physician. You woke up before he arrived."
"Oh. That's… kind of you?"
"It wasn't kindness," the man corrected, his tone flat. "You are my butler. If you die, I'll have to train a new one."
Noel's hopeful grin died a swift death.
" So this was the reason. So much for his godly face and gentlemanly aura. "
He swallowed, attempting a graceful, professional recovery. He offered a shallow, practiced bow—a move cobbled together from period dramas and anime. "My apologies Mr.... um... can I have your name, sir? "
The air chilled several degrees.
"What kind of servant forgets his own master's name?" The question was soft, lethally so.
" I beg your pardon. " Noel tried, his smile straining. " I have quite the forgetful memories, sir."
The man studied him for a long, silent moment, his silver eyes missing nothing. "Adrian de Valtivore," he said finally. "First son of the Valtivore Duchy."
Valtivore.
The name landed in Noel's mind not with a click, but with the sickening, final thud of a tombstone.
Memories of his younger sister's obsessive phase flooded back. A ridiculous romance novel his sister self-published called . "The Crimson Rose of Valtivore."
A reverse-harem romance featuring four obscenely handsome, notoriously possessive brothers and the poor heroine who navigated their toxic adoration. A literary gem for fifteen-year-olds with a taste for dramatic red flags.
"…Noah," Adrian called, his voice slicing through the mounting panic. "Why do you look like you've seen a ghost?"
Noah?
Noah.
Noah!!!!
The pieces locked together with horrifying clarity.
He hadn't just transmigrated into a random pretty body. He'd been dumped into the skin of Noah Morland—the dutiful, secretly omega butler with a tragic, unrequited crush on the first young master. The butler whose sole narrative purpose was to meet a grisly, off-page end in Chapter Seventeen for accidentally witnessing male leads and female leads intimate moment.
The color drained from Noel's face so fast he felt lightheaded. His knees buckled. He gripped the mirror frame, his knuckles white.
So much for the OP aura. So much for the protagonist's journey. Turns out he's not the main character—but the canon fodder! The dramatically murdered background decoration!
A cold, sharp resolve began to crystallize through the panic.
No. Absolutely not. I didn't survive customer service for years just to be stabbed for plot convenience by my own sister's imaginary boyfriends.
He took a deep, shaky breath, his mind racing at warp speed.
Survival Plan, Act I:
1. Do NOT die. (Priority: avoid chapter seventeen or anything that resembles seventeen)
2. Avoid all four Valtivore brothers, especially during their "romantic" pursuits. (They're walking hazard zones)
3. Evade Chapter Seventeen's timeline entirely. (The key to continued breathing)
4. Stay invisible, indispensable, and very, very far from the female lead. (The golden rule)
He turned, a new, desperate determination squaring his shoulders, only to walk directly into Adrian's chest. A strong, steadying hand shot out, gripping his waist.
"Steady," Adrian ordered, his voice closer now, a rumble Noel could feel. "You are still pale. You have morning duties to attend to."
"Y-yes, of course, the duties—" Noel stammered, his train of thought derailing at the contact. That hand on his waist—the same hand that would, in a future his sister penned, likely hold the knife or give the order that ended Noah Morland's story.
With a speed born of pure survival instinct, Noel yelped and twisted away, practically teleporting to the opposite corner of the room. He pressed himself against the wall like it was his only friend.
"Duties!" he echoed, voice an octave too high. "Right! What… what are they again?"
Adrian's hand remained suspended in the air for a second before slowly lowering. His silver eyes had gone from irritated to sharply, intensely observant. He looked from his empty hand to Noel's terrified face.
"You forget my name. You forget your purpose. You now leap at a touch," he summarized, his voice dangerously calm. "Noah. What. Happened."
It wasn't a question. It was an interrogation.
Noel's mind blanked. Technically, he'd hit his head on the entire concept of existence. Did that count?
He forced another bow, deeper this time, hiding his frantic eyes. " I'm sorry,my Lord I_ I simply require... a reminder? He peeked up, hoping his smile didn't look as unhinged as it felt.
Adrian de Valtivore stared at him. It was a long, calculating stare that seemed to dissect every flutter of Noel's eyelashes, every rapid beat of his heart visible in his pale throat.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy.
Finally, Adrian spoke, his tone deceptively smooth. "Very well. We will… revisit your duties. In detail."
He took a slow, deliberate step forward.
Noel, still glued to the wall, felt a scream build in his throat. This wasn't the thrilling protagonist's era he'd imagined.
This was a gilded cage. And the most dangerous predator in the manor was now looking at his new, doomed butler as if he were the most fascinating puzzle in the world.
Game over had never looked so beautiful, or so terrifying.