He tried to catch some more sleep, but something wouldn't let him. After a while of battling with whatever was telling him to wake up, he saw it was hopeless and opened his eyes slowly. He expected to see the ceiling of his bedroom, but he was only met with pure darkness. But for some reason, he didn't feel alarmed, he just sat up and stretched the sleepiness away in bed.
He never remembered his bed feeling so comfortable to be in, he actually felt regretful leaving it—that was a first. He was about to pull the duvet off him when he suddenly paused his movements, his eyes trained on the duvet he was holding as he felt the fabric.
When did he get such expensive bedding? Bedding? When did he start thinking like all those uptown kids? He didn't realize it but the room he was in was as big as his family's entire four-bedroom apartment, if not bigger. It looked very old school, like the kind of interior décor you'd see in a Victorian-styled drama.
He slowly pulled the duvet off him and swung his legs off the bed and onto the floor, putting on the slippers placed there with practiced precision, like he had done the same action multiple times. It was unsettling. He got off the bed and walked forward to sense his new surroundings.
The chamber was grand in a way that made the silence feel heavier, as though sound itself was not welcome here. The whole scene before him resembled something straight out of a fairy tale.
Light filtered in through tall, arched windows framed by heavy velvet drapes in a deep plum hue. The fabric looked expensive even from a distance—thick, finely embroidered with a pale crest: a crowned stag, stitched in dull gold thread. A soft breeze stirred the edges, carrying the faint scent of old stone and lavender wax.
The floor was dark polished wood, mostly hidden beneath an enormous rug woven in floral and geometric patterns—reds, golds, and shadowy blues intertwined like ivy on marble. Every detail felt purposeful. There were no cluttered corners, no misplaced objects. It was like whoever stayed here had a case of severe OCD.
He turned back to where stood the four-poster bed, raised on a short platform and draped with gauzy white netting gathered back with satin ties. The bed looked elegant, the coverlet crisp and smooth, as though ironed by invisible hands. Its tall frame, carved from dark wood, bore symbols that might have meant something—if one had the knowledge to understand them.
A marble hearth lay opposite, its grate filled with gray ash and unburnt logs arranged with precise care. A slender poker leaned against the side of the stone, and above the mantel, a mirror sat in a heavy frame carved to resemble ivy and roses.
He walked over with a familiar gait towards a writing desk that stood near the window, neat as everything else—quills arranged by height, blank parchment stacked perfectly square. A tall-backed armchair, slightly worn only along the arms and seat, suggested someone had once spent long hours here, thinking or writing or watching the gardens below.
At the corner of the room were two doors respectively that probably led to the bathroom and closet—something he wasn't too interested in seeing even though he knew they were there. Why, though? Why wasn't he interested in checking them? Was it because he left it for the servants to tend to? Why the hell did he have that thought?!
He wasn't sure why he was having such foreign thoughts and doing foreign actions that felt so... familiar. Every weird thing he was seeing felt like it was a part of his daily life—even his body felt foreign.
My body?
He looked towards where the mirror was, his feet rooted for a moment. He then turned his body and walked towards it, his every step unsure, but he didn't stop until he was right in front of it. He was silent as he stared at his own reflection, his face not betraying anything at the moment.
He had pale blonde hair and crystal blue with a somewhat grey coating over his eyes, entirely different from his former raven black hair and emerald green eyes. His build was entirely the same though—even his height and weight were the same, he could feel it. His skin was paler than before, and his facial features were almost the same as his last but significantly sharper and more outstanding than they were.
He looked like the K-pop idol version of his past self but felt entirely different—like this body wasn't his. He felt something really ominous, his vision gradually darkening to nothing, and then something clicked in his head.
"Why can't I see anything!? ", It finally dawned on him as he noticed his lack of vision, instantly panicking and losing his balance, his hands reaching out on to hold the vanity to stabilize himself. His eyes darted around in this abysmally dark world.
"Where am I? Who am I? Who is Lucien?!"
As soon as he said those words, a loud buzzing rang in his brain, accompanied by the unbearable pain that followed. It was worse than the migraines he had experienced in the past. He put one hand on his head and the other on the vanity to support himself.
He gnashed his teeth before releasing a pained cry. His knees gave out, and he fell to the ground, both hands on his head as the pain didn't get better.
*Task No.1: No Use of Alien Language (Violated)
Task Duration: Indefinite.
Task Reward: Nil
Punishment: Mental Lash ; Duration: 60 seconds. Body Health: Nil. Mental Tenacity: Optimum
Exception: Nil*
The message popped up in his head, but he was in too much pain to focus on what it was. By the time the pain had stopped, he was already foaming at the mouth. His eyes rolled to the back of his head as he lay on the floor, unconscious.
++++
Two hours ago
Alrick still held on tightly to her collar, his arm still suspended in midair as he glared straight into her eyes. She just smiled and looked down at the arm holding onto her collar, the one in a fist suspended in midair, and then back into his eyes.
"Go ahead, do it. We both know it won't end up nicely."
Her words of provocation were really tempting him to, but he just dropped his arm and released her from his grip with a shove. She was right. It wouldn't end well for anyone he cared about.
"You're really smart, I like you a lot," she said coyly as she straightened her coat. "Too bad you're as stubborn as a mule. I would've recruited you."
"I don't want to work for the devil," he said through gritted teeth, but she just shrugged like it was expected.
"This devil didn't ask. You're much better on my operating table," she let out another one of her signature laughs like what she said was funny. He clenched his fist so hard that his nails dug through skin—not that he cared though.
"What are you doing to these people, huh?!" he yelled at her. She didn't care and just casually turned around, pointing at some capsules.
"I'll explain because I like you a lot. These are all people I have been watching for years now. Bottom feeders, wretches, survivors—all those that fit my taste. I collect them all and bring them here for my research. So it's not just your family and friends that are here, kid. You aren't that special. Not yet at least."
Her words really pricked the hearts of the two teenagers. Did she really see them all as waste?
"Are we so worthless in your eyes? Do we not have value? Is that why you're doing this?" Eleanor's voice cracked as she spoke.
Tracy just laughed and waved her hands, "You have no value to society, yes, but for me, you all are really valuable." Her words really knew the best way to apply salt to wounds. The two felt themselves tear up—was it self-pity?