The smell.
That was the first thing to fade. The sharp, stinging scent of antiseptic that had haunted him for nineteen years was gone.
Then, the pain followed. The crushing weight on his chest, the fire in his bones, the struggle to draw a single breath—it all dissolved into nothingness.
Is this death? Elian thought, his consciousness drifting in a warm, white void. It's not as scary as I thought.
"You struggled well, child."
The voice didn't come from a person; it came from the light itself.
It sounded like ancient bells ringing in a deep valley.
"You had every reason to curse the world," the voice echoed softly.
"Pain was your only companion. Loneliness was your only friend. Yet, your soul remains unstained by hatred. Why?"
Elian felt his spirit smile. It wasn't a bitter smile, but a tired one.
"Hating takes too much energy," he whispered into the void. "I was too busy trying to breathe. I just... I just wanted to know what it feels like to run. To eat without throwing up. To be... free."
A gentle warmth wrapped around him, like a mother's embrace.
"Then go," the voice commanded, gentle yet powerful. "The life you return to is broken, but you will make it whole. The eyes that saw only darkness will now hold the light of the stars."
"Haaah!"
Elian gasped, his eyes snapping open.
He shot up in bed, his hands instinctively clutching his chest, waiting for the familiar coughing fit. He waited for the agony. He waited for the weakness to pull him back down.
But nothing happened.
His heart beat steadily against his ribs—strong, rhythmic, powerful. Thump. Thump. Thump.
"I'm... breathing?"
He took a deep breath. Then another. The air didn't smell like medicine. It smelled of expensive vanilla candles and crisp silk.
Bewildered, Elian looked around.
This wasn't his cramped hospital room. This was a palace. Sunlight poured through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating a room bigger than his entire house. The bed beneath him was massive, covered in black velvet sheets.
Confusion swirled in his mind. He threw the covers off and swung his legs over the edge.
His feet touched the cold marble floor. He stood up—and didn't collapse.
"I can stand," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I'm not in pain."
Tears pricked his eyes, but before he could celebrate, he caught a glimpse of movement in the large mirror across the room.
He froze.
The scream died in his throat.
Reflected in the mirror was not a sick, pale boy. It was a stranger.
A stranger wearing neon green silk pajamas. A stranger whose face was plastered with thick, white foundation, black eyeshadow that looked like raccoon circles, and blood-red lipstick smeared on his lips.
He looked like a gothic clown who had lost a fight with a paint factory.
"What on earth..." Elian muttered, touching his face. The thick makeup felt gross under his fingers.
He looked around the room frantically. On the sleek black nightstand, there was a digital clock and a framed photo. He picked up the photo. It was the same clown-faced boy, clinging onto a handsome man who looked clearly annoyed.
Wait.
Neon clothes. Heavy makeup. Obsessed with a handsome man.
A cold shiver ran down his spine. The realization hit him harder than the cancer ever did.
"Elian Sterling."
The name tasted like poison on his tongue.
"I'm inside 'The CEO's Love'? That stupid novel I read last week?"
He grabbed his hair in panic. "Of all the people, why did I have to be the cannon fodder?
The sub-villain who dies in Chapter 50 because he was too stupid to leave the main couple alone?"
He started pacing around the room, his mind racing.
"Okay, calm down. Breathe. You died once; you are not doing it again."
He needed to think. He needed to see what he was working with.
Elian rushed to the bathroom attached to the room. He turned on the gold-plated faucet and splashed cold water on his face. He grabbed a towel and scrubbed. He scrubbed hard, desperate to erase the mask of the villain.
Gray and red water swirled down the drain.
Finally, when his skin felt raw and clean, he lifted his head to look at the mirror again.
The breath left his lungs.
The clown was gone.
Staring back at him was a face carved by angels. Milky white skin that looked soft enough to bruise with a touch. Delicate, sharp features. A small, dark beauty mark sat right under his left eye, like a permanent teardrop, and another one rested enticingly beneath his lower lip.
But the eyes...
He blinked, feeling the irritation of colored contact lenses. He carefully pinched them out and dropped them into the sink.
Violet.
Deep, glowing, mystical violet. Like two galaxies trapped in irises.
Elian leaned closer to the mirror, mesmerized. "The novel said Elian hid his eyes because people called them creepy. Creepy? They are... magical."
He touched his reflection, a newfound determination settling in his chest.
"Listen to me, Elian Sterling," he told the boy in the mirror. "We are not going to die. We are not going to chase the hero. And we are definitely not wearing neon green ever again."
He walked back into the room, found a leather-bound diary on the desk, and grabbed a pen. His hand trembled slightly as he wrote down his new constitution.
The Survival Rules:
Clean the mess (Face, Clothes, Reputation).
Avoid the Male Lead (Gabriel) like the plague.
Stay invisible.
Do NOT, under any circumstances, cross paths with the Blackwood Twins.
He stared at the last rule. The Twins. The true villains of this world. The monsters who were supposed to kill him in the original story.
"I'll just live quietly in my condo,"
Elian reassured himself, closing the diary.
"I'll cook, I'll paint, and I'll stay away from trouble. Easy."
He smiled, innocent and hopeful.
He had no idea that trouble—in the form of two identical, possessive devils—was already waiting for him.