Rain hammered Tokyo like it had a personal grudge.
Kenji Takahashi hunched lower over his scooter’s handlebars, the cheap poncho flapping uselessly against his back.
Water streamed down his neck, soaked his socks, and made the bento bag slap wetly against his thigh.
Just one more drop-off.
Some salaryman who couldn’t walk fifty meters himself.
The traffic light ahead glowed green through the blur.
Then headlights.
A horn blared—way too close.
Metal screamed.
The world flipped.
Truck-kun, you piece of—
Darkness.
Silk.
That was the first thing that registered.
Cool, slippery silk against skin that felt…
too small.
Lucien Nightshade’s eyes snapped open.
A vaulted ceiling swam above him, all gold leaf and fat cherubs.
The air smelled of lavender, old wood, and something faintly metallic—like the aftermath of a storm trapped indoors.
His heart slammed against ribs that definitely weren’t his original ones.
He sat up too fast.
The room tilted.
Hands—pale, soft, child hands—grabbed the sheets.
“What the hell…?”
Memories slammed in.
Not his.
Duke Nightshade’s estate.
The villainess family from that trashy otome game novel he’d binged in middle school.
Elara the scheming eldest daughter.
And him—Lucien.
The nasty little gremlin brother who grew up to poison princes and get executed in the most pathetic way possible.
His stomach flipped.
I’m the final boss’s evil little brother.
Great.
Just great.
A floorboard creaked.
The heavy door swung open before he could even swear properly.
A maid in starched black-and-white slipped inside, tray balanced perfectly.
She curtsied low, eyes on the carpet.
“Young Master Lucien.
You’ve slept quite late.
The Duke and Duchess are at breakfast with Lady Elara.
Shall I… tell them you’ll join?”
Lucien stared.
His voice came out higher, smoother, annoyingly refined.
“Yeah.
I’ll… I’ll be down.”
The maid blinked once—surprise flickering across her face—then bowed and left.
He swung his legs over the bed.
Bare feet hit cold marble.
Everything felt wrong.
Too delicate.
Too expensive.
He wobbled to the full-length mirror and froze.
Jet-black hair.
Sharp emerald eyes already too cunning for a kid’s face.
Porcelain skin with one thin scar on the left wrist—from the original Lucien’s tantrum phase, probably.
The kind of kid who looked angelic right up until he opened his mouth and ruined someone’s life.
Lucien poked his own cheek.
Real.
Too real.
“Okay,” he whispered.
“Deep breaths.
Don’t be the little shit.
Don’t bully the heroine.
Don’t poison anyone.
Just… survive.
Maybe unfuck the plot a little.”
Another knock—sharper this time.
“Young Master?
The Duchess insists.”
“Coming!” He yanked on a robe that probably cost more than his old scooter and followed the maid through hallways lined with glowering ancestral portraits.
Every single one looked disappointed already.
The dining hall smelled of warm pastries, fresh berries, and tension.
A long mahogany table.
Massive chandelier.
At the head sat Duke Reginald—silver-haired, emerald-eyed, face carved from granite.
Duchess Isolde beside him, beautiful in that terrifying, calculated way.
And Elara.
Sixteen, black hair pinned elegantly, one eyebrow already arched like a loaded weapon.
Lucien’s steps faltered for half a second.
The original Lucien would’ve sneered.
Maybe thrown something.
Instead he gave a small, careful smile.
“Sorry I’m late.
Wasn’t… feeling great.”
Silence dropped like a guillotine.
The Duke’s knife paused mid-cut.
Duchess Isolde’s teacup hovered.
Elara’s fingers tightened on her fork just enough to make the silver creak.
Too different.
Shit.
Lucien slid into the tiny chair clearly meant for the family’s afterthought.
Servants swooped in with food.
He picked up his fork, then set it down again.
Might as well rip the bandage off.
“I had a weird dream,” he said.
“Really weird.
Like… another life.
Where I wasn’t… this.”
The words landed heavy.
Elara leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
“Another life?
How dramatic.
Did you hit your head again, little brother?” Her voice dripped honeyed venom, but there was something else underneath—curiosity, maybe.
She tapped one perfectly manicured nail against the table once.
Twice.
The Duke studied him.
Short, blunt.
“Explain.”
Lucien’s pulse roared in his ears.
Fear, excitement, nausea—all at once.
“It was… different.
I wasn’t a Nightshade.
Just some guy delivering food in the rain.
Then a—” He cut himself off, realizing how insane that sounded.
“Never mind.
Probably nothing.”
Duchess Isolde’s lips thinned.
“You do seem different this morning, Lucien.”
Elara let out a soft laugh that didn’t reach her eyes.
“If this is another attempt to avoid lessons, it’s pathetic.
Though I’ll admit, it’s more creative than your usual tantrums.”
Lucien met her gaze.
For the first time, the fear sharpened into something else—determination, maybe.
“I’m serious.
I don’t want to be… like before.”
The Duke’s expression didn’t change, but his grip on the knife tightened.
Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed.
Footsteps hurried past.
Life in the estate kept moving, indifferent to the bomb he’d just dropped at the breakfast table.
Elara tilted her head, studying him like a new puzzle.
“Well.
This should be interesting.”
Lucien swallowed hard, the taste of expensive jam suddenly bitter on his tongue.
Yeah.
This is definitely not going to be easy.