ᴱˣᶜᵘˢᵉ ᴹᵉ? - ᵀᴼᵀᶜᶠˣᴹᴬᴸᴱʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

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M/N's eyelids felt like lead weights, each lash a tiny, agonizing anchor pulling him down into a murky abyss. Each flutter of his eyelids was a Herculean effort against an unseen force, a heavy blanket of unconsciousness that clung to him with stubborn persistence. A dull, insistent throbbing pulsed behind his eyes, a relentless drum solo orchestrated by a particularly sadistic band of tiny, mallet-wielding goblins inside his skull. What in the ever-loving hell was happening to him? One moment, he had been outside, the crisp, unforgiving bite of the night air a familiar adversary against his thin jacket, a sharp, bracing contrast to his small apartment's humid, stale air. He remembered the biting wind, the faint scent of damp earth, the silvery glow of the moon. Was it nighttime? Or was it day? M/n couldn't remember. His senses slowly, agonizingly, began to register his surroundings. Not outside. The air was thick, almost velvety, carrying a scent he couldn't quite place at first. It wasn't the damp earth and fading leaves of the garden he vaguely remembered being in. This was... sweeter. Floral. Lavender? His nose crinkled slightly, a small, involuntary movement. His home smelled faintly of damp wood and the quiet desperation of survival, a familiar scent that was practically a second skin. This was a stark, baffling contrast, a perfumed assault on his senses. It felt wrong, alien.

And he was on a bed. Not just any bed. A bed that defied gravity with its plushness, a cloud-like expanse that swallowed him whole, a luxurious trap. His mattress was a battlefield of lumps and springs, a testament to years of weary nights spent trying to make sense of this new world, a topography of discomfort he knew intimately. This was a throne, a king-sized testament to wealth and comfort that was, with absolute certainty, 100% not his. The sheets were impossibly soft, the pillows plump and yielding, a stark, almost offensive contrast to the rough, worn cotton of his bedding.

Okay, deep breaths. Deep breaths. Don't freak out. Don't freak out. M/N's inner monologue, usually a sarcastic, cynical companion, a voice that offered a dark humor in the face of adversity, was verging on outright panic. It felt less like a voice and more like a frantic, squeaking mouse trapped in a cage. Where am I? How did I get here? Did I get kidnapped? Is this some weird thing? Is this payback for something the original owner of this body did? His mind, usually a well-oiled machine of problem-solving (mostly for navigating the labyrinthine plot of 'trash of the count's family', predicting character actions and potential pitfalls), was currently sputtering and stalling like a rusty engine, throwing sparks and making alarming noises. The familiar comfort of knowing the general trajectory of events in this world, the fragile sense of control he had gained by having read the novel, had been violently stripped away, leaving him adrift in a sea of uncertainty.

Then, the real, gut-wrenching fear hit him, a cold, sharp wave that washed over him, leaving him breathless. Chloe. His sister. His ten-year-old anchor in this bizarre reality. Was she alright? He had left her alone. A ten-year-old. Alone. In this world. The thought sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated terror through him, a physical ache in his chest that felt like a fist clenching around his heart, squeezing the very life out of him. Had she woken up and found him gone? Was she scared? Had someone... found her? Had someone taken advantage of his absence? The possibilities, each one more horrifying than the last, clawed at his throat, threatening to choke him, to steal the very air from his lungs. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird, desperate to escape its cage, to fly back to her, to make sure she was safe.

A small groan escaped M/N's lips, a pathetic sound that felt entirely inadequate to express the maelstrom of fear and confusion swirling inside him. He tried to move, his limbs feeling heavy and sluggish, as if weighed down by invisible chains forged from exhaustion and uncertainty. His muscles ached with a deep, bone-weary fatigue, a testament to whatever strange ordeal he had just endured.