Viktor woke with no grogginess. No stretching, no blinking, no moment of confusion. He simply sat upright sharp, immediate like a man jolted from a nightmare or snapped to attention by a gunshot. But there was no fear in his movement. Just purpose. Cold, instinctive purpose.
The room was dim, lit only by the pale haze bleeding through the blinds. The air was thick with that distinct teenage scent: laundry that hadn't been washed on time, old carpet soaked in years of spills and secrets, and a faint chemical trace of deodorant trying and failing to cover it all.
His legs swung out from under the blanket in a single motion. Light, unfamiliar limbs met the ground. The body was smaller than his own narrower shoulders, less mass but functional. Untrained. Neglected. He could feel the tension in the joints, the softness in the muscles, the lack of discipline in the posture. But that could be fixed. Everything could be fixed.
He stood and crossed the room with quiet steps, pausing in front of a mirror half-covered in fingerprints. What looked back at him wasn't what he expected at least not entirely. He knew the face, of course. Morty Smith: round cheeks, boyish jaw, perpetually tired eyes. But there was something else beneath it now. Something sharper. More still. The face was Morty's, yes but the gaze… the gaze didn't belong to anyone from this house.
The boy in the mirror had brown hair, slightly uneven from cheap cuts. His skin was pale, but not sickly. His nose was just a little crooked likely from an old break that never healed properly. The eyes, though dark, almost black held none of Morty's jittering anxiety. They were anchored. Cold. Watchful.
He leaned closer.
"Surprisingly handsome," he murmured, voice higher than his own but still composed. "For someone who walks through this world like a victim."
His lips curled upward not a smile, but something approximating one. The kind of expression you wear when you've been handed something weak, and already know how to make it strong.
The knock came as he was still studying himself.
"Morty! Breakfast ready!" Summer's voice called through the door, bored and half-irritated, like it was part of some tired routine.
Viktor didn't answer right away. He tilted his head slightly, analyzing her tone. Then he turned back to the mirror and straightened his collar from the night suit pointlessly, out of habit.
"I'll be down in a minute," he called back, mimicking Morty's voice with perfect rhythm. Not forced. Not performed. Just assumed. Like slipping on someone else's coat and finding the fit to be exact.
He waited until her footsteps padded away, then moved to the closet. Opening it revealed a sorry collection of same clothes: Yellow shirts and blue jeans..... That it. This kind of wardrobe is probably chosen by a boy whose life had never made room for pride.
He selected the most tolerable option(More like his only option)
a plain yellow shirt and a pair of blue jeans. Nothing more. The fabric was cheap, the fit unremarkable, but it would pass for now.
As he dressed, his mind was already cataloging what needed to be corrected. Hair too soft, too directionless. He'd need products. Clothes uninspired. He'd need tailoring. Shoes nonexistent. The pair in the corner were battered beyond hope. He'd need replacements. A watch wouldn't hurt either black or silver , seamless,slim. Nothing flashy, just something precise.
He filed it all away. Not for now. That would come later, once he had the lay of the land. Once he understood the currency of this new life. Not dollars or credits or favors. The real currency information, power, leverage.
Dressed and calm, he glanced one last time at the mirror. Morty looked back, expression blank. Ordinary.
But underneath that reflection, Viktor was already calculating.
And Morty was already becoming obsolete.
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