You didn't return to your apartment.
You didn't go back to the university.
You didn't even check the obituary page for your reputation.
Instead, you chose silence.
You stood before a cracked mirror in a hotel that used to smell like rust and remorse and whispered the name that wasn't yours—Caelum Dross. Born of ash and cold iron. A name no one could trace. Not even the devil.
You wore it like armor.
The new body came with the pact: stronger posture, sharper tongue, eyes that could bend truths. You no longer lied—you simply rewrote what others believed. A whisper became fact. A glance became guilt. You walked into rooms and left changed realities in your wake.
And they never saw it coming.
Your first conquest: a councilman who had laughed at your idealism years ago. You showed up at his charity gala dressed in black silk, smiled without warmth, and offered a suggestion: a new policy "he'd always supported." He agreed, unaware it wasn't his idea. That law—meant to protect the vulnerable—now gave you access to city vaults, records, networks.
The second: a journalist who once tore your reputation apart. You offered her an anonymous tip—just enough truth wrapped in bait. She ran it. It crumbled a senator's career. She never knew you'd forged the entire trail.
Each move was precise.
Quiet.
Vengeful.
And the devil whispered in your dreams:
"Make them adore the hand that razes. Let love become your sword."
You smiled in your sleep.
The traitor—the one who ruined everything—is rising. Climbing. Giving speeches full of borrowed ideals. But they don't know Caelum Dross.
Not yet.
You'll introduce yourself in fire.