Noir's first thought as he opened his eyes was that something was terribly wrong. He swore he had died. He could still feel the phantom pain of the bullets tearing through his body, the warm blood pooling beneath him, and the coldness that slowly claimed him as his vision faded to black. He should have been dead. His last memory was of lying on the cold, wet ground, waiting for the end to come.
But here he was, alive.
Noir's pulse quickened, his mind racing as he tried to piece it together. How was he still breathing? He distinctly remembered the blood loss—the way his strength had ebbed away with every ragged breath. His body had gone cold, and everything had turned to darkness.
Had someone saved him? No. He dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it came. He'd been alone in that alley, bleeding out. No one cared enough to rescue a thief like him.
So how? How was he alive?
His confusion deepened as he became aware of something else—the softness beneath him. This wasn't the cold, unforgiving pavement he had collapsed on. Instead, he was lying on something warm, comfortable… too comfortable. His mind still buzzing, he shifted slightly, and that's when he felt it. The bed beneath him was soft—far too soft—and the weight of his body felt lighter, less burdened.
Blinking several times, he turned his head to look around. The ceiling above him was ornate, painted with intricate patterns of gold and silver. Light streamed in through heavy velvet curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. The sheets were smooth, almost luxurious, beneath his fingertips. Everything about this place screamed wealth and nobility—two things Noir had never known.
…..
Panic began to rise in his chest as he pushed himself up, his arms trembling slightly. His body felt wrong—too light, too agile. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, letting his feet touch the soft rug below. As he stood, his legs wobbled slightly, unsteady from the unfamiliarity. Something was very, very wrong.
He turned his head, scanning the room. It was lavishly decorated—velvet curtains, tapestries with intricate designs, gold filigree adorning the walls, and the unmistakable scent of lavender and fine oils hung in the air. This wasn't a place Noir would ever have found himself, not even on his best day. It was too perfect, too… noble.
His eyes fell on a large mirror standing against the far wall. His heart quickened as he took a step toward it, driven by the unsettling need to see what had changed. The moment his reflection came into view, he froze.
The face staring back at him was not his.
Gone was the weathered skin, the deep-set eyes, and the hardened expression that had been his for the better part of his life. In its place stood a boy—a young man, no older than seventeen, with pale, almost translucent skin. His hair was a mess of silver and black, tousled as if he had just woken from a restless sleep, and his eyes… his eyes were the most startling. They weren't the deep crimson he was used to seeing in mirrors or reflected off car windows. Instead, they were a lighter, fiery orange, glowing faintly in the dim light of the room.
He raised a trembling hand to his face, fingers brushing over his smooth, unscarred skin. The boy in the mirror mimicked the movement, confirming what he already feared. This wasn't a dream. This wasn't some feverish hallucination brought on by blood loss. This was real.
And this wasn't his body.
…..
Noir took a step back from the mirror, his mind racing. His reflection continued to stare at him, eyes wide with confusion and disbelief. This was not the face of a man who had spent years on the streets, dodging cops and outsmarting crooks. This was the face of someone else. Someone who had never known hardship, who had never felt the cold sting of betrayal.
The panic that had been simmering beneath the surface threatened to boil over. He needed answers—now. He glanced around the room again, searching for anything that might explain what had happened to him. There, on a nearby chair, was a set of clothes neatly folded. He didn't recognize the style, but the intricate embroidery and fine materials told him these were the clothes of a noble.
As he dressed, the sensation of unfamiliarity grew. This body wasn't his. The muscles were leaner, the skin smoother, and everything about it felt… wrong. His senses, though, were sharper. He could hear the faint creak of wood from somewhere outside the room and the distant clinking of metal from what he assumed was the kitchen. He could smell the fresh aroma of baked bread and the faint scent of lavender that seemed to cling to the air. It was overwhelming.
Noir took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus. Panicking wouldn't solve anything. He had to think. He had to adapt, just like he always did.
…..
Before he could gather his thoughts any further, the door to the room creaked open, and a young woman in a maid's uniform entered. Her eyes widened slightly when she saw him standing there, already dressed.
"Master Eryk, you're awake!" she exclaimed, her voice a mix of surprise and relief.
Master… Eryk? Noir's mind stumbled over the unfamiliar name. Eryk. That must be who this body belonged to. He forced a neutral expression onto his face, trying to process this new piece of information without giving away his confusion.
"Uh, yes," Noir—now Eryk—replied, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears. It was softer, smoother, without the rough edge he was used to. "I'm awake."
The maid seemed to relax slightly, though there was still an underlying nervousness in her posture. "Your father has been expecting you. He's in his study. I was told to escort you there once you were ready."
Noir gave a slow nod, still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that he was now someone else—someone with a family, apparently. He wasn't sure what this "father" expected of him, but for now, he had no choice but to play along.
…..
He followed the maid out of the room, his mind racing as they walked down a long, ornate hallway. The walls were lined with paintings of regal-looking individuals—ancestors, perhaps—and the air was filled with the scent of wealth and privilege. Every step he took only solidified the fact that this was nothing like the life he had known.
As they approached a large wooden door at the end of the hallway, the maid stopped and knocked softly. A deep voice from within called out, "Enter."
The door swung open, revealing a grand study lined with bookshelves and heavy curtains that blocked out most of the sunlight. Sitting behind a large desk was an older man, tall and imposing, with streaks of gray in his dark hair and lines of worry etched into his face. He looked up as Noir entered, his gaze sharp and assessing.
"Eryk," the man said, his voice filled with a mixture of relief and expectation. "It's good to see you up. We need to talk."
Noir said nothing, trying to gauge the situation. The man—Lord Lavelle, he assumed—didn't seem like the type to waste time on pleasantries. There was a weight to his words, a sense of urgency that made Noir's instincts flare.
Lord Lavelle stood, motioning for Noir to sit in one of the leather chairs in front of the desk. "There's much to discuss," he began, his tone grave. "Our family… we've fallen on hard times."
Noir's mind raced as he listened, piecing together the story. The Lavelle family had once been one of the most powerful noble houses in the kingdom, respected and feared by many. But years of political betrayal and financial ruin had left them a shadow of their former selves. And now, it seemed, the weight of the family's legacy had fallen on Eryk's—his—shoulders.
"We need you, Eryk," Lord Lavelle continued, his eyes locking onto Noir's. "You must help restore our family's honor. It's time for you to step up."
Noir nodded slowly, his thoughts still a whirlwind. He didn't know the first thing about being a noble, let alone how to restore a family's honor. But there was something else, something that gnawed at the edges of his consciousness. As Lord Lavelle spoke, Noir felt a strange sensation building in his chest. It was subtle at first, a warmth that pulsed faintly in the background. But as he focused on it, the sensation grew stronger, spreading through his body like a low hum of energy.
Magic.
The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. This body—Eryk's body—was filled with magic. He didn't understand how it worked or why he could feel it now, but there was no denying the power that simmered just beneath the surface. It was wild, untamed, and entirely unlike anything Noir had ever experienced.
…..
Lord Lavelle continued speaking, unaware of the turmoil inside Noir's mind. "We'll need to attend the upcoming gathering of nobles. It's our chance to make alliances, to strengthen our position. You must be prepared."
Noir barely heard the words. His focus was on the unfamiliar power coursing through him, the magic that seemed to pulse with every beat of his heart. He didn't know
what it meant, but one thing was clear: this new life was far more complicated than he could have ever imagined.
As the conversation ended, Noir left the study, his mind racing with questions. He didn't know how he had ended up in this world, or why he had been given this second chance. But one thing was certain—he wasn't going to waste it.
He would play the game. He would learn the rules. And he would control his fate once again.