The days that followed were a blur of confusion and apprehension. The shock of my transmigration, the fragmented memories, and the unsettling revelation about Cassiopeia's true nature had left me in a constant state of unease.
I tried to act normal, to maintain a semblance of normalcy in this new life, but the suspicion gnawed at me, a constant shadow that lurked at the edges of my consciousness.
Every interaction with Cassiopeia was tainted with a sense of unease. Her gentle smile, her reassuring words, her touch – all felt calculated, manipulative. Like a predator masking itself in a guise of harmless beauty.
I spent my days confined to this small, cramped apartment. Our home, with its bare walls and worn furniture, seemed to reflect the bleakness of our situation. But even in this desolate environment, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss.
Cassiopeia was always there, a constant presence, hovering around me like a watchful guardian. But beneath her seeming kindness, I sensed a darkness, a calculating intelligence that whispered of hidden agendas.
She would tell me stories of our past, of our struggles and hardships. She would recount memories of our mother, her voice filled with a bittersweet nostalgia. And she would speak of our future, of the dreams she held for us, dreams that seemed too good to be true.
But I couldn't help but feel a sense of disquiet. I knew that beneath the surface, there was something else, a secret that Cassiopeia was keeping from me.
One afternoon, Cassiopeia brought me a bowl of steaming broth. I took a tentative sip, the savory flavor a comforting reminder of my previous life.
"You need to eat," she said, her voice soft. "You've been sick for so long. You need to regain your strength."
I watched her as she sat across from me, her gaze unwavering. "Thank you," I mumbled, taking another sip of the broth.
"You're welcome," she said, her smile warm and genuine.
But I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. Her eyes, usually so bright and radiant, seemed to hold a glint of something else, a hint of something… calculating.
I had to know. I had to learn the truth. I had to discover the side of her that I didn't know.
I spent the next few days trying to maintain a safe distance from Cassiopeia. My every instinct screamed at me to be cautious, to keep her at arm's length.
She was the villainess from the novel, the one who had brought about the downfall of the protagonist. She was dangerous, cunning, and ruthless. I had to be careful, to protect myself from her influence.
I avoided eye contact, my responses curt and brief. I kept my distance, retreating into myself, creating a wall of silence and indifference.
Cassiopeia seemed to sense my growing distance, her warm, welcoming demeanor replaced by a subtle shift in her behavior. Her smiles became less frequent, her gaze less intense. She would still try to engage with me, to draw me into conversations, but her efforts felt strained, forced.
I could see the confusion in her eyes, the flicker of hurt that crossed her face. But I couldn't bring myself to show any compassion. I couldn't let her know that I had seen the darkness lurking beneath her surface.
One afternoon, I was sitting at the kitchen table, sketching in my notebook. It was a habit I had developed in my previous life, a way to escape the monotony of my job. I had always found solace in drawing, in creating worlds of my own.
Cassiopeia walked into the room, carrying a plate of freshly baked cookies. The aroma of cinnamon and sugar filled the air, a sweet, comforting scent that for a moment, transported me back to my childhood.
"I thought you might like these," she said, her voice a gentle murmur. "They're your favorite."
I glanced up at her, her face bathed in the warm glow of the afternoon sun. Her eyes, usually so dazzling, were now clouded with a hint of sadness.
"Thank you," I mumbled, not meeting her gaze.
She placed the plate on the table, her fingers brushing against mine. The touch sent a jolt of electricity through me, a strange mixture of apprehension and longing.
"I'm glad you're feeling better," she said, her voice softening. "You've been so quiet lately."
I forced a smile, trying to mask the turmoil within me. "I'm just tired," I said, trying to keep my voice calm.
She nodded, her expression unreadable.
"It's been a long time since you've been sick," she said, her voice low. "I miss having you around."
I looked down at my notebook, my heart hammering against my ribs. Her words, laced with a gentle sadness, sent a shiver down my spine.
I couldn't let her know that I knew her future, that I knew she was the villainess from the novel. It was too dangerous.
But I also couldn't help but feel a sense of compassion. She was my sister, even if she was the most dangerous person in the world.
And as I watched her walk out of the room, her golden eyes lingering on me, I knew that I had to make a decision. I had to choose between my safety and my conscience.
Days bled into weeks, each one a repetition of the last. I kept my distance from Cassiopeia, carefully avoiding any close interactions. The constant apprehension gnawed at me, a persistent reminder of the hidden darkness that lurked beneath her seemingly innocent facade.
The silence between us became a heavy presence, an unspoken barrier that seemed to grow stronger with each passing day. We would share meals in a quietude broken only by the clatter of cutlery and the clinking of glasses. I would catch her watching me from across the room, her golden eyes flickering with a mixture of sadness and something else, something I couldn't quite decipher.
My suspicion didn't diminish. In fact, it grew stronger with each passing day, fueled by the chilling memories of the novel and the constant fear of the danger she represented.
I started to avoid our shared living space, spending most of my time in my room, sketching in my notebook or staring out the window at the bustling city below. I needed to stay vigilant, to be prepared for anything.
One evening, I was sitting at my desk, sketching a portrait of a woman I had seen at the market that morning. Her face was etched with worry and a hint of weariness, her eyes carrying the weight of a thousand burdens. I was trying to capture the raw emotion that I had witnessed in her expression, the unspoken story that her eyes seemed to tell.
The door to my room creaked open, and Cassiopeia entered, her shadow falling across the page. I flinched, startled by her sudden presence.
"Kian," she said, her voice soft and tentative. "I was looking for you. I wanted to talk."
I glanced up at her, my heart skipping a beat. The air between us crackled with unspoken tension, a charged silence that was almost unbearable.
"I'm busy," I mumbled, my voice barely audible.
"Kian," she said again, her voice now tinged with a hint of frustration. "Please. I need to talk to you."
Her eyes held a plea, a desperate hope that I would relent. But I couldn't bring myself to meet her gaze. I couldn't bring myself to risk revealing my knowledge, my fears.
"It's not a good time," I said, my voice cold. "Leave me alone."
Her shoulders slumped slightly, her gaze dropping.
"I'm sorry, Kian," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "I just… I want you to know that I'm here for you."
She turned and walked out of the room, leaving me alone with my fear and my suspicions.
I watched her go, a knot of tension tightening in my chest. My heart ached for her, for the girl I had once thought of as my sister. But the truth was too painful to ignore, too dangerous to deny.
She was the villainess from the novel, and I couldn't afford to let my guard down.