The first thing Damian noticed was the cold weight of the floor beneath him. His chest rose in shallow, uncertain breaths as he blinked against the dim morning light creeping through thin curtains. The air smelled faintly of dust, faint paper, and something metallic — like old ink.
He tried to move, only to find the body reluctant, foreign. His limbs felt heavier than they should, his muscles sluggish in ways that were almost painful. Panic gnawed at him as he flexed his fingers… and then froze. His left hand was gone.
A wave of nausea hit him. Memories flickered unbidden: amputated due to corruption, the pain, the void energy. His stomach churned. "No… this isn't real," he whispered, voice hoarse and trembling. "This can't be…"
Shakily, he pulled himself to his feet, staggering toward the room. His eyes roamed over the apartment — not the sterile room of a hospital, not the cramped bedroom he had lived in as Ethan Vale, but something entirely different. A small desk cluttered with papers and ink-stained notebooks. Stacks of books on mana theory, arcane diagrams, and what looked like mental exercises. A chair slightly out of place, as if someone had been sitting there recently.
Every detail was foreign and yet familiar. The way the sunlight caught the edge of a metallic object on the desk, glinting faintly like a shard of shattered glass… He stumbled toward it, heart pounding.
He caught his reflection in a small broken mirror leaning against the bookshelf. Black hair fell in uneven strands over his forehead. Blue eyes stared back at him — not Ethan's gentle brown, not the tired eyes of a nineteen-year-old trapped in depression. These were Damian Lockley's eyes. The weight of that identity pressed down on him.
"No… no, this isn't me," he whispered again, backing away, tripping over a chair. He sank to the floor, head in his hands. His mind raced, spinning between fragments of memories: the life of Ethan Vale, lonely and meaningless, punctuated only by the brief joy of a game that had consumed his nights. And then — flashes of Damian Lockley: the cold precision, the loneliness, the despair before the suicide.
He wanted to reject it. Wanted to scream that this was impossible. "I'm not him. I can't be him. This… this isn't real," he muttered over and over. His breathing was ragged, panic clawing at the edges of his mind.
Hours passed. Maybe minutes. Time blurred in the small, suffocating room. He examined the desk again — the books, the scattered pages. A notebook labeled Principles of Mentalism caught his eye. He hesitated, fingers hovering over it. Something in the title — in the precise, orderly handwriting — struck a chord deep in his memory.
Ethan Vale's life, so short, so dull… ended by a truck. And then the life of Damian Lockley, up to the moment of his suicide. The realization pressed down on him like a vice. He remembered it all. The despair, the choices, the final act. And now, somehow, he was awake in this body, in this world.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to deny it still. Yet the evidence was everywhere: the hand missing, the reflection, the room, the memories that weren't his. His heart ached at the enormity of it. This wasn't a dream. This wasn't a hallucination. He had transmigrated.
A trembling hand reached for the mirror again, brushing the glass. His eyes studied the face staring back, black hair falling over sharp features, blue eyes bright and alive — yet haunted, like someone else's life had been stitched into his.
"I… I'm in the novel," he whispered finally, voice breaking. "I… I'm Damian Lockley. But… I'm not the Damian who…" His throat tightened. "…gave up."
The thought both terrified and steadied him. If this was the story he had read, if this was the timeline where the real Damian had ended his life… then there was a chance — maybe the only chance — to change it.
He rose slowly, muscles still weak, and moved to the bathroom. The cold tiles under his feet grounded him, forcing his racing mind to focus. He stared at himself in the larger mirror above the sink, studying every detail. Black hair, blue eyes, lean yet strong frame, the subtle curve of his jaw. Even the missing hand didn't feel entirely foreign anymore — it was a reminder, a scar of a body he now inhabited.
His fingers traced the edge of the sink, water running over his face as he tried to wash away the lingering panic. He closed his eyes, breathing slowly. One step at a time. One thought at a time. The denial was fading, but acceptance wasn't easy. It was a slow climb, a mental conditioning he would have to endure.
He looked back at the desk on his way out. The notebooks, the scattered papers, the faint glimmer of a shard of glass caught in the sunlight — everything pointed to one truth he could no longer deny. He was in the world of the novel he had read, in the body of its doomed antagonist, carrying all of Damian Lockley's memories.
Sitting down, he opened a book on the Principle of Mentalism. Fingers brushing the pages, he whispered to himself, "Then… I'll learn. I'll survive. I'll change the story."
The room was silent, except for the faint rustle of papers and his own heartbeat. Outside, the city stirred in its usual rhythm, unaware of the boy who now held the fate of a story in his hands.
And for the first time, Damian Lockley — or rather, the boy who had once been Ethan Vale — felt the weight of possibility.