I'm Cale. A respectable gentleman—hardworking, refined, and unreasonably charming. I have a soft spot for helping others, especially women. Chivalry isn't dead, despite what the cynics say.
But people? People are petty. Curious. Bored. And when people are bored, they create stories. They twist your kindness into something scandalous and sell it as entertainment. That's exactly what they did to me. Their whispers grew claws, and soon I had a nickname carved into public rumor:
"The Nightman."
Sounds mysterious, right?
But don't be fooled. It wasn't some cool vigilante name. It was their not-so-subtle way of calling me a playboy. Apparently, helping a few women in distress, serenading a few more, and cooking a mean risotto qualifies me as a walking scandal. They had no clue how hard it was to win hearts these days. You needed flair, patience, talent. Singing, dancing, cooking, even gambling—it was an art. An exhausting one.
At first, I tried to explain myself. Laughed it off. Pretended it didn't sting.
Eventually, I stopped pretending.
These people didn't buy me dinner. They didn't fund my weekends or warm my bed. Their opinions? Irrelevant. So, I made peace with the label. Let them talk. I had better things to do—like reaching my 100th conquest.
Yes, that's right. A century of charm. A personal milestone.
"Tonight," I whispered, checking my reflection in the rearview mirror, "I become a legend."
The streetlights flickered above as the car sped through the city—blurring gold and silver past the windows. The night was clear, stars sharp against the velvet sky. Everything felt right. Perfect.
Until it wasn't.
A scream. A horn. A sickening crack.
"Hey! Driver! What the hell—?! Why now?!" I yelled, slamming into the seat in front of me as the world jerked sideways.
My skull cracked against the window. Glass shattered. Metal screamed.
"My girl's waiting, you maniac!" I barked, trying to stay upright. "Somebody help me—!"
But no one came.
Pain lanced through me—searing and violent. My chest heaved. My legs felt like lead. Darkness bloomed in the edges of my vision like ink in water.
"Dammit... I'm slipping... I— I can't pass out now... Once I wake up, I'm smashing that guy's face in..."
The pain throbbed. I felt my heartbeat in my ears.
Then, silence.
Gradually, the agony began to dull. My breathing evened. I floated between pain and stillness, tethered to consciousness by sheer stubbornness.
"…Wake up, idiot. Don't make your girls cry," I muttered. "You're fine. You've had worse hangovers. Just open your eyes."
But nothing moved.
I couldn't even twitch my fingers.
Time passed—hours or seconds, I couldn't tell—until finally, like a curtain lifting, my eyes fluttered open.
Voices. Panic. Too many people talking at once.
"His Highness, the Second Prince, has regained consciousness!"
"The prince is awake!"
"Inform His Majesty immediately!"
Wait—what?
The light above me wasn't fluorescent. It wasn't even electric. It came from a grand crystal chandelier hanging like a frozen firework from the ceiling—massive, intricate, glittering with candlelight that danced on polished marble floors.
I blinked against it. The walls were deep mahogany, carved with sweeping floral patterns and trimmed with gilded edges. Curtains—heavy and wine-red—draped the towering windows, drawn back to reveal a sky darker than ink.
Where the hell am I?
"Shut up," I croaked. My throat was parched. The voice that came out of me was deeper than mine—richer, more commanding.
And yet, it worked.
Everyone stilled.
The sudden silence was disorienting. My heart pounded like a war drum, echoing louder than the voices had. My gaze swept the room—ornate columns, velvet-upholstered chairs, a wardrobe that looked carved straight from a tree blessed by ancient gods. Even the rug beneath my bed was too fine—embroidered with golden thread.
This wasn't a hospital. This wasn't even the 21st century.
Then a hand touched my forehead—soft, trembling—and a woman's voice whispered:
"Christopher..."
I froze.
That name—not mine, and yet… somehow familiar. A ripple passed through me.
I turned my head with effort and forced my eyes open.
The bed was massive. Canopied. The sheets beneath me were silk, smooth as water. I slowly sat up, legs dangling off the side, and looked around again—this time not in shock, but in dread.
I knew this scene. Not from memory.
From fiction.
This place... these clothes... this name...
No. No, no, no.
I staggered to my feet, clutching the carved bedpost. My legs felt foreign, too long, too steady. My body moved with practiced grace—one I hadn't earned. I made my way toward a grand, full-length mirror in the corner of the room.
And then—I saw him.
A man stood in the mirror. No, not a man—a prince. Platinum-blonde hair. Eyes like glacial oceans. High cheekbones, broad shoulders, a body sculpted like a painting come to life.
I barely recognized myself.
That wasn't me.
"Who the hell is this?" I rasped.
I slapped my face. Hard.
Pain.
But I didn't wake up.
I slapped again.
Nothing changed.
Panic surged in my throat like bile.
And then the pain came.
Not from the slap—deeper. Sharper. Like hot needles threading through every nerve in my skull. I fell to my knees with a gasp, knocking over a golden chalice on the nearby dresser. It shattered on the marble floor.
I didn't care.
My vision blurred. My fingers clawed at the rug. The chandelier above twisted and spun. Images seared across my mind—fragments of memories that weren't mine.
A boy. Raised in a palace of shadows. A kingdom built on blood and ambition. His father—stern, unyielding. His mother—absent.
And her.
A black-haired girl with soft eyes and a fragile hope she tried to hide. She loved him—deeply, fiercely.
But he didn't love her.
Not really.
She was a tool. A piece in a game he didn't even want to play—but one he was forced into.
The names echoed:
Christopher. Wellesley.
Wait.
Those names.
That book.
A girl had given it to me once—some novel she adored. I skimmed it to impress her. Didn't care for the plot. Too dramatic. Too tragic.
But now...
I was in it.
I wasn't Cale anymore.
I was Christopher.
The infamous second prince.
The villain.
And the worst part?
The story had only just begun.