"Doctor, how is he?" a soft, feminine voice asked, edged with quiet urgency.
It belonged to a woman in her mid-thirties, whose very presence drew the eye and held it. Her long, jet-black hair cascaded in silken waves all the way down her back, flowing like a dark river of night. The inky strands shimmered faintly in the gentle light, offering a striking contrast to the ethereal pallor of her skin—so smooth and flawless it seemed almost unreal, as if untouched by the world's harsher elements. Her complexion carried the cold radiance of porcelain, gleaming with a quiet strength, as though even the sun had chosen to show her reverence by never laying a harsh hand upon her.
Ice-blue eyes, vibrant and clear, sat beneath dark lashes and shimmered with a depth that reflected both intelligence and intensity. There was a kind of storm in them, the kind that could just as easily calm as it could destroy. They bore the expression of a woman who had known great pain, and had survived it. Her figure, full and beautifully proportioned, moved with a fluid elegance, the kind of unspoken grace born not from vanity, but from confidence. Each step she took, every gesture she made, carried with it the calm assurance of someone deeply aware of their presence and power.
Talia stood beside the bed with her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her fingers pale from the force of her own grip. She stared at the doctor expectantly, her chest tight with the kind of tension that had become all too familiar over the last week. A week since she had come home only to find her beloved nephew collapsed in a pool of blood, cold and motionless. She had not slept properly since, nor had she found peace, because even though the doctor had assured her several times that the damage hadn't been fatal, he was supposed to have woken up by now.
The delay was gnawing at her insides.
"He's fine," the doctor said finally, after completing his thorough examination of the unconscious boy laid carefully on the bed in front of him. His voice was calm, steady, but not without concern. "He should wake up today. If he doesn't, then it may be more serious than we initially thought."
Talia took a slow breath and nodded. She proceeded to ask the doctor a few more questions—clarifications, repetitions, anything to stall the silence that might return once he left. Eventually, though, she dismissed him, thanked him quietly, and resumed her position at the bedside. Hours passed, marked only by the subtle shifts of light as the day wore on. She remained seated, never straying too far from the boy who was everything she had left in the world.
Just as the shadows began to stretch longer across the room, Talia moved to stand. She was preparing to leave—just for a while, just long enough to stretch her legs—when she saw it.
A slight twitch.
Then another.
Alex stirred.
He let out a small groan, barely audible, but it was enough to send her rushing to his side. Her hands reached out instinctively, one slipping gently behind his back as he struggled to sit up.
"Careful," she said quickly, her voice a mixture of relief and concern. "It's better if you don't try to get up for a while."
"What happened?" Alex asked, his voice hoarse, weak, almost distant. He already knew, of course. He remembered everything. His attempt. The fall. The void. And then his other attempt. The blood. And once again, against all odds and desire—he had survived. He was still here.
"Don't give me that bullshit," Talia snapped, glaring at him. Her glare softened almost immediately as she pulled him into a tight embrace. "I don't know why you did what you did, but just know you're not alone. I'm here for you."
Alex froze in her arms. Something in her voice, the rawness of her emotion, made the moment surreal. What exactly was happening? This woman, this stranger who now held him so close, was speaking to him like he mattered. Like she genuinely cared.
"You—you know that you're the only one I have left. So—so w-why are you trying to leave me?" Talia's voice cracked, the words tumbling out as tears began to spill from her eyes.
Alex didn't even notice at first. It wasn't until he felt the dampness soaking into his clothes that the realization hit him.
Talia was crying.
For him.
Someone actually cared.
He stared blankly at the wall, silent, even as she sobbed softly into his shoulder. He didn't move, didn't know how. The idea that someone could cry for him—not in anger, not in pain, but in worry—was so alien it might as well have been fiction.
Eventually, after a few long, emotional minutes, Talia composed herself enough to leave him alone. She gave him one last glance before stepping out of the room, and Alex was left sitting upright in the bed, still in shock. He kept touching the damp patches on his clothes again and again, as if trying to confirm they were real. That the tears were real. That the emotion behind them wasn't imagined.
Hours passed.
When Alex finally found the strength to stand, he moved slowly, with deliberate caution. Once upright, he carefully removed his clothes and turned his gaze downward, taking in the full sight of his body.
It was… unfamiliar.
Although Alex had never been particularly overweight, he had always been far from muscular. His build had been average at best, lean, maybe even a little scrawny. Narrow shoulders. A body shaped by late-night snacks and long hours spent in front of a computer screen. He was used to feeling unimpressive in his own skin.
But the body he now saw was a completely different story.
His chest was sculpted and defined, each muscle standing out in crisp relief beneath smooth, unblemished skin. His abs were tight, perfectly shaped, the lines cutting down his torso in clear, deliberate patterns that spoke of intense training. This wasn't just an improvement. This was transformation. This was art.
It was beautiful. Almost unreal.
A few seconds later, still dazed, Alex stumbled into the bathroom. His legs moved beneath him without thought, his mind whirling. The cold tiles met his bare feet as he approached the mirror, his steps unsteady with disbelief.
He gripped the edge of the sink, steadied himself, and slowly raised his eyes.
What he saw staring back at him was even more jarring than the body.
A pale-faced boy no older than fifteen, gazed at him from the glass. His features were smooth and youthful, untouched by time or hardship. His skin was a flawless sheet of porcelain, almost ghostly in its glow. His hair, jet-black and slightly messy, fell in disheveled strands around his face, brushing against his neck like midnight shadows. But what arrested him most were the eyes.
Blue.
Bright, brilliant blue, almost glowing with an eerie intensity.
They were his… but sharper, clearer. Almost inhuman in their beauty.
"I really ended up somewhere else," Alex muttered under his breath, fingertips brushing across his cheek.
A dry, humorless laugh escaped him. Even when he had chosen to end it all, when he had wanted nothing more than oblivion—he was denied.
"Fuck me," he whispered.
After standing in stunned silence for a few moments longer, Alex shook his head and stepped into the shower. The water poured over his unfamiliar skin, hot and cleansing. He scrubbed himself slowly, as if trying to rid his mind of questions, and maybe, somewhere deep down, of guilt. When he stepped out, he dried off and opened a nearby wardrobe. Inside were garments unlike anything he was used to.
The clothes were strange; a strange mix of Victorian flair and modern flair. Buttoned tunics, long coats with fine embroidery, slim-fitting pants that hugged the legs just right, collars and cuffs that were just ornate enough to seem royal but still wearable.
It amused him at first. He wasn't sure if it was a costume or a fashion statement. But the real surprise came when he put them on.
They felt... good.
Better than what he usually wore. The clothes moved with him, fit perfectly, almost like they were tailored for his new frame. Somehow, this odd blend of eras suited him in a way nothing else ever had.
Fully dressed and unsure of what to do next, Alex returned to the bed and sat down slowly. Whoever this body belonged to, one thing was clear, they were important. The room, the clothes, the treatment, it all pointed to that.
So he waited.
Someone would come eventually.
And when they did... he'd get answers.