Alex stood in front of the full-length mirror in what had to be the most ridiculously opulent dressing chamber he'd ever seen.
Black marble floors veined with silver. Wardrobe doors carved with writhing serpents that almost seemed to move in the candlelight. A chandelier dripping with obsidian crystals that caught every flicker and threw it back like tiny knives.
And the mirror itself—tall enough to show his full six-foot-three frame, framed in dark iron shaped like thorns.
He stared at the stranger looking back.
Vesper Blackthorn had the kind of face that made poets write tragedies and assassins sharpen blades. High cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. Jawline that could've been chiseled by a vengeful god. Hair the color of spilled ink, falling in loose waves past his shoulders—longer than Alex had ever worn it in his life. Eyes the deep, unnatural crimson of fresh blood under moonlight. Not glowing, exactly. Just… wrong. Like they remembered every sin the body had ever committed.
He tilted his head.
The reflection tilted back, smirking without permission.
"Jesus," Alex muttered. "I look like if Dracula and a K-pop idol had a hate-child raised by edge-lords."
«Accurate assessment,» the system chimed. «Charisma: 92. Intimidation: 88. Fuckability: 95. Murderability: 99. You're basically walking war crime fanfiction.»
Alex ran a hand through the hair. It felt silkier than it had any right to. He flexed his shoulders—muscle shifted under pale skin like coiled steel. No dad bod here. No gamer slouch. This body had been forged in duels, dark rituals, and probably a few too many torture chamber cardio sessions.
He turned sideways, checking the profile.
"Okay, I'll admit it. The villain drip is immaculate."
He opened the wardrobe.
Row after row of black velvet, midnight leather, crimson silk. Capes—actual capes—with silver embroidery that looked like bleeding constellations. Boots that laced up to mid-thigh. Gloves with metal knuckles shaped like claws.
He pulled out the first outfit that didn't make him feel like he was cosplaying an anime final boss: fitted black trousers, a dark gray shirt with subtle silver threading, and a long coat that fell to his calves. No cape. He wasn't ready for cape life yet.
As he dressed, memories trickled in—not his, but Vesper's. Flashes like bad film reels.
A throne room. A woman in white screaming as shadows tore through her guards. Blood on marble. Laughter—his laughter—cold and satisfied.
Another flash: a bedroom not unlike this one. A different woman, blonde, naked, wrists bound with black silk. Her eyes wide with terror and something darker. Vesper's hand around her throat. Not squeezing. Just… holding. Possessing.
Alex's stomach twisted.
He finished buttoning the coat and met his own eyes in the mirror again.
"This guy was a monster," he whispered.
«Past tense is optimistic,» the system replied. «Present tense is more accurate. You're wearing his skin, host. His sins are your starter pack.»
Alex exhaled through his nose.
"I'm not him."
«Yet.»
A knock at the outer door—sharper this time. Not Liora.
Alex straightened his collar. "Enter."
The door opened to reveal a man who looked like he'd been carved from granite and bad decisions.
Tall—almost as tall as Alex—broad-shouldered, bald, with a jagged scar running from temple to jaw. Dressed in black plate armor etched with faint purple runes. A massive two-handed sword strapped across his back. The pommel was shaped like a screaming skull.
"Lord Blackthorn," the man rumbled. Voice like gravel in a blender. "The council convenes in one hour. They grow… impatient."
Alex searched Vesper's memories.
Garrick. Captain of the Blackthorn Guard. Loyal—mostly because Vesper had once saved him from a public execution by framing someone else. The kind of loyalty bought in blood and blackmail.
"Impatient about what?" Alex asked, keeping his tone cool. Vesper's voice came naturally now—low, smooth, edged with menace.
Garrick's eyes narrowed. "The border skirmishes. The hero's party was sighted near Eldrath Pass two days ago. Rumors say the saintess herself leads them. The council wants your orders. Burn the villages ahead of them? Poison the wells? Or do we finally meet them in open battle?"
Alex felt a cold finger trace his spine.
The hero. The actual protagonist of the original novel. Golden-boy chosen one, pure-hearted, destined to topple tyrants like Vesper.
And now he was coming here. With friends. With a saintess who, in the book, had personally gelded Vesper in front of the entire capital before the beheading.
Fantastic.
Alex turned away from the mirror, forcing a slow, predatory smile. "Tell the council I'll attend. And Garrick?"
The big man paused at the door.
"Double the watch on the inner keep tonight. I don't trust anyone right now."
Garrick gave a curt nod and left.
The moment the door closed, Alex sagged against the wardrobe.
«Seventy-two-hour survival timer just dropped to sixty-eight hours,» the system noted cheerfully. «Hero party inbound. Assassins in your own household. Poisoned tea still sitting on the table like a loaded gun. Truly living the dream, host.»
Alex dragged a hand down his face.
He needed information. Allies. A plan that didn't end with him castrated on a public stage.
And maybe—maybe—he needed to figure out how much of Vesper's cruelty was still wired into this body. Because the way his pulse had jumped at the memory of that bound woman… that hadn't felt entirely like disgust.
He walked back to the bedside table.
The poisoned tea was still there, steam long gone, surface cold.
He picked up the cup again.
Stared into the dark liquid.
Then, very deliberately, he poured it onto the floor.
It hissed faintly as it hit the marble, tiny wisps of purple smoke curling up before vanishing.
«Smart,» the system said. «But boring. You could've at least made her drink it.»
Alex ignored it.
He crossed to the window and pushed the heavy curtains aside.
Below stretched the Blackthorn Citadel: jagged spires piercing a bruised sky, courtyards filled with training soldiers in black armor, banners snapping in the wind like torn wings. Beyond the walls, dark forests rolled toward distant mountains where lightning flickered without thunder.
Somewhere out there, the hero was marching.
Somewhere in here, people were plotting his death.
And somewhere inside his own skull, a sarcastic system was probably taking bets on how long he'd last.
Alex leaned his forehead against the cool glass.
"Alright," he breathed. "Round one. Let's not die on day one."
He turned back to the room.
First step: find out who else wanted him dead.
Second step: turn at least one of them into an asset.
Third step: maybe—maybe—start building something that wasn't just a villain's funeral pyre.
He glanced at the spilled tea staining the floor like spilled secrets.
A slow grin spread across his face. Not Vesper's grin. His own.
Because if he was stuck in this body, in this world, playing the villain…
He was damn well going to play it better than the original ever did.
The system pinged softly.
«+20 Evil Points for dramatic internal monologue. Keep telling yourself you're different, host. It's adorable.»
Alex laughed under his breath.
Yeah.
This was going to be interesting.