I spent the first few days in this world becoming the shadow of a man who no longer existed.
The smartphone of the former Enri became my survival manual. I scrolled through his gallery, studied his few contacts, and checked his browser history, trying to feel the pulse of his life. In the photos from ten days ago, he looked… like nothing. An ordinary boy with tangled chestnut hair, a perpetually downcast gaze, and faded clothes. He had no friends. His call history consisted only of food delivery couriers and rare, cold calls from Aunt Lydia. He was the perfect candidate for disappearing, and I was grateful to him for this void. No one would come knocking on my door asking, "Hey, why have you changed?"
But there was one problem. The mirror.
The transmigration had done something inexplicable to me. I hadn't just occupied this body—I had reshaped it. My hair, which used to be an ordinary light brown, now flowed over my shoulders like liquid arctic silver. My skin had become so pale it seemed lit from within, and my eyes… they held a frozen, glacial blue light. I was too beautiful. In a world where Alphas were used to taking whatever they liked, such an appearance for a Beta was a death sentence.
So, I began to build my prison.
I found an old, suffocating wig—a legacy of the previous owner, who apparently also tried to hide from the world. I bought glasses with thick lenses that distorted the shape of my eyes, making them smaller and duller. Pulling on an oversized, faded hoodie, I froze before the mirror. A "gray mouse" looked back at me. Ugly, unnoticed, pathetic.
"Perfect," I whispered. "Now I am safe."
But I was wrong. Even under this layer of synthetics and plastic, my new body radiated a strange energy. My posture, my stride, the way I held my head—it all betrayed a man who had lived thirty years in struggle, not a twenty-year-old intimidated student.
My first day at the university was a trial for my nerves. The corridors of the medical institute were saturated with heavy, overpowering scents. I walked with my eyes on the floor, trying not to breathe deeply. Alphas passed by—tall, confident predators who exuded physical threat. In my past world, such people ran corporations; here, they ruled life itself.
At the turn to the lecture hall, I failed to dodge. A tall Alpha with a sports club emblem on his jacket slammed into my shoulder. The blow wasn't strong, but my new, fragile body flew against the wall like a rag doll. A sharp pain pierced my shoulder.
"Watch where you're going, trash," he tossed over his shoulder, not even slowing down.
A flame ignited inside me. That same rage I had bottled up for years in my past life—when my father threw me to the floor, when bosses mocked my slowness. I wanted to lung at his throat, to tell him everything I thought about his "dominance" and worthlessness. My tongue, sharpened by endless internal monologues, was already poised to release its venom.
"A pig in an expensive jacket," flashed through my mind.
But I remained silent. I only clenched my fists tighter, feeling my physical impotence. There was no strength in this body. My arms were thin, and my bones were fragile. If I opened my mouth, he would crush me with one hand, and no one would stand up for "some Beta."
"I'm sorry," I muttered hollowly, not raising my head.
This submission left a bitter taste in my mouth. I hated it. I hated the need to pretend to be weak, hated this world where your scent determined your right to respect.
Lunch in the cafeteria became the climax of the day. I sat at the furthest table, buried in an anatomy textbook. Latin was my only solace—a dead language for a man who felt like a living corpse. But the silence didn't last long.
"Hey, look, it's that weird Beta from group 2-B," a sharp, high-pitched voice rang out.
I felt the scent—sickly sweet, like rotting peaches. Omegas. Three guys and a girl, the faculty elite, who always moved in a pack. They approached my table, and I felt their disdain. To them, I was a lower creature—a Beta who didn't even have the potential to be someone's partner.
"You're sitting in our spot," the girl said, looking disgustedly at my worn-out backpack. "There are no nameplates here," I replied, not looking up from the book. My voice was calm, but a trace of steel slipped through.
This infuriated them. How dared this gray lump of dirt talk back to them? One of the male Omegas, standing closest, took his cup of iced tea.
"Oops, I think I tripped," he sang out.
The cold, sticky liquid poured directly onto my head. The tea soaked my wig, flowed down my neck, and drenched the pages of my textbook. Laughter. The entire hall went silent for a second, then exploded in mocking derision.
I slowly closed the book. Drops of tea hit the table with a rhythmic sound: drip, drip, drip. Something snapped inside me. That hope for a quiet life I cherished every morning shattered into pieces.
"I hope," I said, slowly standing up and finally looking directly at them through the blurred lenses of my glasses, "that someday your intelligence becomes as noticeable as your lack of manners."
Their faces went blank with shock. I didn't wait for an answer. Turning around, I walked quickly toward the exit. The skin under my wig began to itch—an allergy to sweat and sugar was making itself known. I needed to wash this off immediately.
I burst into the Beta restroom. Fortunately, it was empty. I rushed to a stall, locked the door, and leaned my forehead against it. My heart was pounding. I felt crushed. Why, even in another world, with another face, do I remain a target?
"I hate this..." I exhaled, barely holding back tears.
I went out to the sinks. My hands were shaking. I ripped off that cursed, wet wig and threw it into the corner. I tore off the glasses that only got in the way. I turned on the cold water and began to wash my face greedily, trying to wash away not just the tea, but the very sensation of humiliation.
My silver hair spilled over my shoulders, glowing under the fluorescent lights. Without the glasses, my face looked too open, too vulnerable. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw not a student, but a wounded soul in the body of an angel. My eyes, red from salt and anger, seemed like two bright sparks on a porcelain face.
At that moment, I heard a sound. The click of a door.
I was sure I had locked it, but the old lock had apparently failed to engage fully—the latch simply hadn't clicked into the groove. The door slowly creaked open.
I froze, not even having time to reach for my glasses. A girl stood in the doorway. Small, with soft brown hair and huge, hazel eyes. She smelled of lilies of the valley—the thin, clean scent of an Omega. She had clearly walked in here by mistake or was just looking for a quiet place to fix her makeup.
She took a step inside and froze. Her gaze locked onto me.
I stood by the sink, half-exposed in my true form: wet silver strands clinging to the pale skin of my neck, eyes glowing with a cold flame, and drops of water tracing my cheekbones. In that moment, I was not a Beta. I looked like a legend, like a forbidden fruit that should not exist.
"Oh..." was all she could breathe out. Her pupils dilated, and a deep flush crept over her face.
I stared at her, paralyzed by fear and rage. My camouflage, my safety, my "fragile hope" for a new life—all of it had just collapsed because of one unlocked door.
"You... who are you?" she whispered, unable to look away.