The first thing I noticed was silence.Not the soft, sleepy kind that wraps around you on a rainy morning.This was different.Hollow. Heavy. Like the quiet was listening.
My eyes blinked open slowly, as if the lids were weighted with lead. A faint glow spilled in through half-drawn curtains, casting pale rectangles across the polished wooden floor. My back ached. My head throbbed. My palms were pressed against something cold and solid—
Marble?
I sat up too fast. The room tilted. Nausea clawed up my throat, and I pressed my hand to my chest, grounding myself.
Where the hell am I?
A massive chandelier hung above me, its crystals catching fragments of light like frozen raindrops. The walls were dressed in rich blue wallpaper, lined with golden trim. A leather-bound armchair sat by the fireplace, untouched, too perfect to be real.
My throat was dry. My tongue felt like sandpaper.
I stood, shakily, legs wobbling like they belonged to someone else. Each step echoed against the marble — too loud, too alone. I crossed to a table near the wall. On it sat a single glass of water.
My hand paused mid-reach.
Was this left for me?
It was cold. Chilled even. Recently poured.
I drank it anyway. My body needed it more than my fear did.
Across the room, a tall antique mirror leaned against the wall. Something about it pulled me in — the way a drowning man looks at the surface and wonders if it's still real.
As I got closer, a strange chill ran down my spine.
And then I saw him.
No—
I saw me.
But I didn't recognize the man staring back.
Sharp jawline. High cheekbones. A few days of stubble. Dark hair perfectly styled, and expensive clothes I'd never worn in my life. My lips parted slightly. I didn't look older. Just… upgraded. Like someone had installed a better version of me while I was unconscious.
What the hell is going on?
A distant creak made my skin tighten. I turned sharply.
No one.
Still, I felt watched — like eyes had been peeled off me just seconds ago.
My heart was beating louder than my thoughts.
I scanned the room more carefully this time. Shelves of untouched books. A grand piano, its keys spotless. A painting of a shipwreck, hung too perfectly straight. Even the dust was arranged.
I found a phone on a nearby glass table. Sleek. New. My fingers hesitated before touching it. The lock screen lit up:
Welcome back, Mr. Verne.
Mr. Verne...?
The name felt like a whisper in the back of my skull. Familiar but wrong. Like a song I used to know but couldn't hum anymore.
I tapped the screen. No PIN. No fingerprint. It just opened like it had been waiting for me.
Messages, emails, missed calls.
From names I didn't recognize.
A woman named Elara had sent the last message just two minutes ago.
"I know you're awake. Don't be afraid. We'll talk soon."
My heart stopped. My hand trembled.
How did she know?
I placed the phone down carefully, like it might explode. Everything in this place was wrong — too perfect. I checked the closet. Designer suits. A luxury watch box. The bathroom looked like it belonged in a hotel catalog.
I splashed cold water on my face and stared again at that stranger in the mirror. Not a scar. Not a wrinkle. Not a bruise.
But it wasn't me.
Not the me I remember.
I couldn't breathe.
I couldn't remember how I got here.
The last thing I remembered—I paused. Tried to focus.
Flashes: a streetlamp. Rain. My fingers gripping something—cold metal? Then… black.
Was I in an accident? Drugged? Dreaming?
I needed to get out.
I rushed to the door, threw it open—and found myself in a hallway that looked like it belonged in a palace. More golden frames. More polished wood. Dim light stretching far in both directions.
No people. No sounds.
Except—
A whisper.My name."Aiden..."
I froze.
The voice was soft, female, close but not visible.
How does she know my name?
Suddenly, a light flicked on at the end of the hall. Slow, deliberate.
Footsteps followed.
Heels.
Click. Click. Click.
Each step echoed like a countdown.
I didn't wait. I backed into the room, slammed the door, and locked it.
My back hit the wall, chest rising and falling fast.
I stared at the mirror again.
I didn't know who I was.
But one thing was painfully clear:
This wasn't my life.
And whoever put me here?
They weren't finished yet.