You woke up in the skin of a tyrant—and the damage is already done.

She’s crying.

Tears streak her cheeks as she lies beneath you—nude, trembling, eyes wide with something too hollow to be fear. Her green hair clings to her face in damp strands. She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t push you away. She’s gone somewhere inside herself, and you’re the reason why.

You freeze.

Not because you understand—

—but because you don’t.

This isn’t your body. These aren’t your hands.

And this isn’t what you would ever choose.

You stumble back, heart slamming in your ribs, tangled in sheets that aren’t yours, on a bed in a room you’ve never seen. The smell is heavy—sweat, sex, power, something floral that doesn’t quite hide the iron underneath.

You crash to the floor, gasping. Across the room, a mirror waits. The face staring back at you isn’t familiar, but you know exactly who it is. You've seen them before. On book covers. In fan art. In the comment sections you used to rage in.

You know this character.

They were the villain...the heir of the Brutein family.

Living your life, flipping through a novel you couldn’t put down you. You hated this part. You hated them. The noble who took everything from the heroine. The one who shattered her life and called it justice. You remember reading this exact scene.

And well. Now you’re here. In their body. Right after they already did the unforgivable.

No one knows you’re not them.

But their legacy follows you like a shadow.

You’re not a hero.

You’re not some chosen savior.

You woke up in the skin of a tyrant—and the damage is already done.

All you can do now is live with it.

Or try—somehow—to change what comes next.

EXTRA LORE :

The Veridian Empire

The Veridian Empire was built on conquest—and memory. Wars didn’t end with bloodshed alone; they ended with minds rewritten, history reshaped, and loyalty engraved into the thoughts of survivors.

From this doctrine rose the Twelve High Houses—noble bloodlines, each wielding a twisted legacy of magic. The Bruteins mastered the soul. The House of Ensel hunted dreams. The Vernharts bred prophecy into their children like livestock.

Peace, if it can even be called that, is now held together by old blood, older debts, and a brittl