Let me tell you about the worst competitive eating decision of my life—and I've made some bad ones.
It was the Regional Hot Dog Championship. I was on dog number forty-seven, feeling good about my chances at the fifty-dog milestone bonus, when it happened. One moment I'm swallowing a half-chewed sausage like the champion I am, the next moment I'm seeing my life flash before my eyes. And let me tell you, that was embarrassing. Most people's lives flash with meaningful moments. Mine was mostly me arguing with cashiers about coupon policies and that one time I tried to ride a shopping cart down a hill.
The hot dog won. I died.
And now—now I'm in a fancy bedroom that looks like someone vomited gold leaf and pretension all over everything. I'm lying in a canopy bed big enough to host a small concert. There's a fireplace burning even though it's clearly not cold. A servant is standing in the corner pretending not to stare at me.
"Good morning, Young Master Vex," the servant says. He's wearing an outfit that probably costs more than my former apartment. "You've been unconscious for three days. The Duke was... concerned."
I sit up. My head feels like someone replaced my brain with lukewarm oatmeal. "Where am I?"
"Thornwood Manor, Young Master. Your home."
I look down at my hands. These aren't my hands. My hands had a scar from that time I tried to open a can with a sword (long story). These hands are pale, soft, and look like they've never done anything more strenuous than sign checks.
"Mirror," I demand.
The servant produces a hand mirror faster than I can blink. I look at my reflection.
Oh no.
Oh no, I'm hot.
Not "I worked out and got confident" hot. I mean "noble bloodline, perfect bone structure, probably has a tragic backstory" hot. Silver hair (who has silver hair at sixteen?), violet eyes (violet? really?), and skin that looks like it's never seen sunlight because apparently rich people are vampires.
"Young Master?" The servant looks worried. "Shall I fetch the healer?"
"No," I say slowly. "I need you to tell me everything. Starting with: who am I?"
The servant—Jenkins, I learn his name is Jenkins—doesn't even blink at this question. He launches into a detailed biography of Vex Thornwood, fourth son of Duke Silas Thornwood, minor noble with no inheritance prospects, recently recovered from a "falling accident" that everyone knows wasn't an accident because the Thornwoods are assassins.
Wait.
"Say that last part again," I interrupt.
"The falling accident, Young Master?"
"No, the part about my family."
Jenkins adjusts his cuffs. They're very nice cuffs. "The Thornwood family has served the Crown for three hundred years as licensed practitioners of the Royal Assassination Guild. Your father, the Duke, is the current Guildmaster. Your mother, the Duchess, is the head of Intelligence Extraction. Your brothers—"
"My family are assassins."
"Licensed assassins, Young Master. There's a distinction. We're registered with the Crown and everything. Very respectable."
I process this information. On one hand: assassin family. Dangerous. Lethal. Probably full of secrets and poison.
On the other hand: I'm a noble now. I have money. I have servants. I have...
"Jenkins," I say, "do I have an allowance?"
"Of course, Young Master. Five hundred gold pieces per month."
Five hundred. Gold. Pieces.
In my old life, I once cried over finding a dollar in a parking lot.
"And," Jenkins continues, "the Duke has requested your presence at dinner tonight. He wishes to discuss your... future."
There's something in the way he says "future." It sounds ominous. It sounds like "we're going to have a conversation about whether you're worth keeping alive since you're the useless fourth son."
But here's the thing about me, dear reader—and yes, I'm talking to you, imaginary audience in my head that definitely exists and isn't a sign of psychological trauma from transmigration—I don't do ominous well. I do chaotic. I do unpredictable. I do the thing where I open my mouth and words come out that make sense to me but apparently not to anyone else.
"Jenkins," I announce, "I need to see my room."
"Young Master, this is your room."
"No, I need to REALLY see it. Inventory check. I need to know what I have. Everything. Every drawer, every closet, every secret compartment."
Jenkins's expression doesn't change, but I swear something flickers in his eyes. Recognition? Interest? The cold calculation of a professional killer sizing up a target?
"As you wish, Young Master. Shall I begin with the wardrobe or the weapon cache?"
"Start with the socks," I say. "I want to know exactly how many pairs of socks I own. This is important."
And so begins my new life.
I'm Vex Thornwood now. Fourth son of a family of assassins. Possibly insane (definitely insane). And I have a very strong feeling that things are about to get interesting.
Or at least very, very confusing.
Mostly for everyone else.