There was no tunnel. No light. No voice calling his name with tender authority.
There was only the sensation of falling without movement, as if the world had become a blank screen and someone had turned down the brightness until even his thoughts couldn't find their edges.
If Ling Liyu had been given the chance to complain, he would've complained. The universe had interrupted his life mid-sentence, and now it couldn't even bother to provide a decent transition.
He tried to open his eyes. Nothing happened.
He tried again, harder, and felt an ache bloom behind his forehead—deep, sour pressure, like a bruise that wrapped around his skull. His throat was dry in a way that felt wrong, as if he'd been swallowing dust for days. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
Sound arrived first, but not as words. A wash of noise, soft and layered, like hearing a conversation through a closed door.
A faint clink. Fabric rustling. Footsteps that weren't shoes on tile, but soles on wood.
Somewhere close, a breath hitched.
"He's… he's moving."
A young voice, thin with fear. Not modern. Not the clean, neutral tone of a business district where even panic came out in a polite email.
Another voice snapped, low and urgent. "Hush! If the steward hears you—"
A third voice, older, tired with the kind of exhaustion that never got overtime pay, murmured, "Quickly. Another cloth. Wipe his mouth."
Cloth touched his lips. Warm, damp. It smelled faintly medicinal, bitter underneath. Someone tilted his chin, and liquid pressed against his mouth.
He tried to swallow. His body fought it, then accepted, dragging the fluid down like a man swallowing a punishment.
The bitterness hit his tongue and sparked a reflexive grimace.
"He drank."
"Thank heavens."
"He'll live, right? He… he has to live. If Second Young Master—"
Second Young Master.
The phrase landed in his mind like a stone.
He wasn't anyone's young master. He was a tired designer who died under a streetlamp while a stranger drove away.
His heart kicked hard against his ribs. He forced his eyes again. Pain lanced through him, sharp and bright, but this time the darkness thinned.
Shapes bled in. Shadow. A ceiling that wasn't white drywall but something carved—wooden beams, dark and heavy. Hanging gauze. A canopy.
A canopy bed.
His breath caught. The air smelled wrong. Not disinfectant and coffee and city rain. It smelled like herbs, ink, wood, and something faintly animal—wax or tallow.
His eyes dragged to the side, slow and heavy.
A room. Large. Dimly lit by a lamp that threw warm light rather than LED white. Curtains hung thick, embroidered with patterns he couldn't name. A screen stood near the corner, painted with mountains and cranes, the kind of art he'd only ever seen behind museum glass or in dramas his mother watched while folding laundry.
Three figures hovered near his bed.
Two young maids in plain clothes, hair pinned up, faces pale as paper. An older woman with hands rough from work, holding a bowl and cloth.
All three stared at him like prey watching a predator wake.
The sight was so absurd his mind tried to reject it.
This is a set. This is a hallucination. This is my brain doing that thing where it invents an entire genre because it can't process reality.
He opened his mouth. The effort hurt. His voice came out cracked, almost soundless.
"W… where…"
The youngest maid flinched so hard she nearly dropped the cloth. Her eyes went wide, and she immediately lowered her head, forehead almost touching the bedframe.
"Second Young Master, please—please don't be angry. We didn't mean to wake you. We were only… only changing the cloth, that's all."
Angry?
Liyu's mind snagged on the word.
He tried again, voice a fraction stronger. "Where am I?"
The older woman's lips tightened. She didn't bow as low, but her shoulders hunched, as if expecting a strike. "Second Young Master is in your chambers, of course. You… you fell and struck your head. The physician said you must rest."
Fell and struck his head.
He remembered headlights. Impact. Pavement. Red taillights disappearing.
His chest tightened.
He lifted his hand—slow, as if moving through syrup. The sleeve that came into view wasn't a hospital gown. It was wide, long, pale fabric, embroidered at the cuff. His hand looked like his, but not quite. The skin was paler than he remembered, the fingers slenderer, the nails kept longer than any modern office would tolerate.
His heartbeat sounded loud in his ears.
He turned his head, and pain punished him immediately. He hissed, involuntarily.
The maids shrank back. One of them whispered, "Oh no… if he's in pain, he'll blame us…"
Blame you?
He wanted to laugh, but his throat hurt too much. He forced himself to breathe evenly, like he did when a client rejected weeks of work with a single vague adjective.
Okay. Breathe. Observe. Don't panic.
He scanned the room again, more carefully.
Everything was too detailed to be a dream. The wood grain. The imperfect flicker of the lamp. The faint crack in the lacquer of the screen. The woven texture of the bedding. His body felt heavy, real, sore in specific places that matched an injury.
And the fear in these women's eyes was not theatrical. It was practiced.
Something cold slid down his spine.
"Second Young Master," the older woman said cautiously, "do you… do you remember what happened? You were in the courtyard. You—"
She stopped, swallowed, and seemed to choose her words like stepping across ice. "You were shouting. The young master of the Hua family was there. Then you slipped on the stone steps. You struck your head. The master ordered you carried in at once."
Hua family.
A name surfaced in his mind—not from memory, but like something being poured into him from somewhere else. Images flashed: a young man in pale robes, face controlled, eyes bright with resentment. A voice reciting poetry while smiling. A crowd laughing politely.
Then another image—his own hand, this hand, shoving someone's shoulder. The sick satisfaction of power. Servants kneeling. Tears. A bowl of soup knocked over, splattering on someone's clothes. Laughter that didn't belong to him, yet came from his throat.
Liyu's stomach lurched.
His head throbbed harder, and with it came more fragments, disjointed and sharp. Not his memories. Someone else's.
A father's cold gaze. "Do you know what you've done?"
An older brother's face—handsome, scowling, a flicker of worry buried under anger. "You never learn."
A servant's voice pleading. "Second Young Master, please, not today—"
His breath came shallow.
The maids misread it as rage. They dropped to their knees almost in unison, heads bowed.
"Second Young Master, please spare us!"
"Please, we didn't do anything!"
Liyu stared at them. The scene made something twist in his chest.
In his old life, people were polite because they wanted something or because it was expected. No one knelt. No one begged for mercy because he asked a question.
This fear was… lived-in. It had grooves.
He swallowed, forcing the bitterness of medicine down. "Get up."
The maids froze. One lifted her head slightly, like a terrified animal testing whether a hand would strike.
"Get up," he repeated, more firmly. The motion made his head throb again, but he held his expression neutral.
Slowly, trembling, they rose to their feet. Not fully straight. Never fully straight.
The older woman watched him with cautious suspicion. "Second Young Master… you truly don't remember?"
He wanted to say, I remember dying. I remember a stranger driving away. I remember a life that belonged to me.
But what would that do here? Make them think he'd lost his mind? Give them reason to fear him more? Or worse—give someone in this house a reason to get rid of him quietly?
He took a breath and chose the safest answer.
"I remember… pain," he said hoarsely. "And noise."
It wasn't a lie.
The older woman nodded quickly, relieved to have an explanation that didn't involve spirits or madness. "The physician said your head was struck hard. It may take time. Second Young Master must rest."
Rest.
The word sounded like a joke.
His mind raced anyway. If this was real—if he had somehow… woken up in another body—then he needed information. Fast. Quietly.
He looked at the older woman. "What is your name?"
Her eyes widened. Asking a servant's name was either kindness or the start of cruelty. She seemed to brace herself.
"This old one is called Auntie Zhou," she said carefully.
"And them?" He nodded toward the two maids.
The older maid whispered, "This servant is Yun… Yun'er."
The younger swallowed. "This servant is Lan… Lanhua."
Liyu stored the names away. Names were anchors in unfamiliar space.
"Auntie Zhou," he said, as gently as his cracked throat allowed, "bring me water. Plain."
Her face flickered with confusion. "Plain… yes, yes. At once."
She hurried away. The maids stayed, hovering like they didn't know where to put their hands. Their eyes kept flicking to his sleeves, his expression, searching for warning signs.
Liyu stared at the canopy above him again.
He tried to reconstruct what he knew.
He was in "his chambers." Someone called him "Second Young Master." There was a "master" who ordered him carried in. There was a Hua family young master. There was a physician. There was a household with servants who were afraid of him.
And there were memories—cruel, bright flashes—that made his skin crawl.
He closed his eyes.
Okay. New rules.
Don't act like the person whose body this is. But also don't act too different too fast. People would notice. People would talk. And in a place like this, talk killed.
He opened his eyes again when he heard footsteps.
Auntie Zhou returned with a ceramic cup and a pot. She poured carefully, hands steady despite the tension in her shoulders.
Liyu took the cup with both hands because that felt… right. The cup was warm. The water tasted slightly metallic, like well water. No chlorine. No city filtration. No safety, really.
He drank slowly anyway. His throat thanked him.
Auntie Zhou watched him like she expected the cup to be thrown.
He set it down gently.
That small act seemed to confuse her more than any shouting would have. She blinked, then quickly lowered her head.
"Second Young Master," she ventured, "the master said… when you wake, you must be told. The minister—your father—will come to see you."
Minister.
Another word that hit like a bell.
His father was a minister.
Liyu's stomach tightened again, but this time it wasn't only shock. It was instinctive dread, pulled from the foreign memories that sat like splinters under his skin.
A man with sharp eyes and a voice that didn't rise because it didn't need to. A man who measured things. People. Words. Costs.
Minister of what?
He didn't ask. Not yet. He couldn't show too much ignorance too quickly.
He nodded once. "When."
Auntie Zhou hesitated. "Perhaps… tomorrow morning. The minister is at court."
At court.
So this wasn't just some rich family. This was a political house.
His head throbbed again. He pressed his fingers lightly to his temple, and a new image flashed: wide steps leading into a hall, officials in rows, ceremonial hats, the smell of incense and power.
He swallowed hard.
"Second Young Master," Yun'er whispered suddenly, "should we call Young Master…?"
Young Master.
Not father. Not minister. Another "young master." Someone else with authority in the household.
His older brother.
That scowling face from the memory fragments—anger, worry, something protective hidden like a knife.
Before Liyu could answer, the door outside his inner room slid open with a sharp sound.
Footsteps entered. Not hurried. Controlled.
The maids stiffened as if a string had been pulled tight down their spines. Yun'er and Lanhua dropped to their knees instantly, foreheads pressed to the floor.
Auntie Zhou bowed deep, hands clasped.
Liyu's body tensed on instinct, his borrowed heart remembering fear in a direction his mind hadn't chosen.
A man stepped past the screen into the lamplight.
He was young—early twenties, maybe—but carried himself like someone used to being obeyed. His robe was dark, embroidered subtly, expensive without screaming it. His hair was tied neatly, and his face… his face was striking in a way that made "handsome" feel too simple. Sharp brows. Straight nose. Lips that looked like they didn't smile often.
His eyes went straight to Liyu.
Not soft. Not relieved. Assessing, like he was checking whether a dangerous animal had woken calm or rabid.
"Ling Liyu," he said.
The way he said the name wasn't affectionate. It wasn't cruel either.
It sounded like someone calling a problem by its official title.
Liyu's throat tightened. He forced himself to meet the man's gaze.
This had to be Ling Moli.
The older brother. The tsundere guardian, in the story that hadn't been written yet. Right now, he wasn't soft. He was a wall.
Moli stepped closer, gaze flicking briefly over Liyu's bandaged head, the cup of water, the unthrown objects. His expression didn't change.
"You're awake," Moli said flatly.
Liyu's mind offered a sarcastic thought, uninvited: Congratulations. Gold star for observation.
He swallowed it down and nodded once.
Moli's eyes narrowed slightly, as if the nod itself was suspicious. "Do you remember anything?"
This was the moment.
If he pretended full memory, he'd be expected to act like the old Ling Liyu—cruel, arrogant, predictable. That would keep him safe in the short term because it matched expectations, but it would also lock him into a role he didn't want and couldn't stomach.
If he admitted total amnesia, he'd be vulnerable. People would test him. Enemies would use it. His father would measure him and find him… wrong.
He needed something in between. Something plausible.
Liyu looked down, letting his lashes hide his eyes for a heartbeat. "My head hurts," he said honestly. "I remember… falling. Noise. Then nothing."
Moli watched him for a long moment.
Then he clicked his tongue, annoyed. "Useless."
The words were harsh, but the way Moli's gaze flicked toward the servants—sharp, warning—made them flinch and go even stiller. It wasn't aimed at Liyu. It was aimed at the room.
Don't talk. Don't spread this. Don't make it worse.
Moli turned back to Liyu. "Father will come tomorrow. If you've lost your memories, you'd better find them again before he decides you're more trouble than you're worth."
A chill went through Liyu's ribs.
So the household's fear wasn't only of the old Ling Liyu. It was of the father's judgment.
Moli leaned closer. His voice dropped, lower, meant only for Liyu.
"Listen carefully," he said. "You've been lucky to survive your own stupidity."
His eyes flicked to the bandage. "If you wake up different, people will notice. They will poke you until you bleed."
Liyu's fingers curled slightly under the blanket.
Moli's mouth tightened as if he hated that he was about to say anything that sounded like advice.
"Say less," Moli continued. "Watch more. Eat. Rest. Don't go wandering. And don't—"
He stopped, jaw tightening. The next words came out like they had been dragged from him.
"Don't pick fights you can't win."
Then he straightened, and the softness vanished behind irritation again.
"I'll have the physician come again in the morning," Moli said loudly, for the servants to hear. "If Second Young Master's head is damaged, I don't want to hear any excuses when he causes trouble."
The maids bowed lower, practically folding themselves.
"Yes, Young Master."
Auntie Zhou murmured, "Understood."
Moli turned as if to leave, then paused. He looked back over his shoulder at Liyu.
For the briefest moment, something complicated flickered in his eyes—worry, maybe, or exhaustion, like someone who'd been cleaning up messes for too long.
Then it was gone.
"Tch," Moli said, and left as quickly as he'd come.
The door slid shut. The room exhaled, but no one dared move too much.
Liyu lay back against the pillows, heart beating too hard.
So it was real.
He was Ling Liyu now, second son of a minister, hated for cruelty, watched by a brother who acted like a blade, and judged by a father who sounded like he could end him without raising his voice.
Outside, the night was quiet. Somewhere in the household, a bell chimed softly, marking time in a system that didn't care about his confusion.
Liyu stared at the canopy above him and felt a strange, bitter calm settle in.
In his old life, the rules were invisible but relentless.
In this life, the rules were visible and deadly.
He closed his eyes, forcing his breathing to slow.
Tomorrow, his father would come.
And Ling Liyu—who had fallen once under a clean streetlamp—would have to learn how to stand in a world where even breathing wrong could be a crime.