The cry struck like a thunderclap—silent to the ears, yet deafening to the soul.
[Whispersense] triggered.
Deception detected.
Source: Unknown.
Sylarion shot upright in bed, heart slamming once—then settling into a steady rhythm.
Silence. No voice. No movement. Nothing disturbed the room's heavy stillness.
And yet… something had lied.
Not within these walls. Maybe not even on this floor. But nearby.
He stayed still, eyes tracing the shadow-draped ceiling, letting the echo of the scream fade from his nerves. It wasn't real. Not a ghost. Not some wraith keening in the dark. It had been the system—an alarm pulse detonated by dishonesty.
His hand moved slowly, fingers grasping the edge of the blanket, peeling it back with quiet resolve.
No use panicking. Walls don't confess.
The bed retained its warmth. The air beyond was chilled. Somewhere outside, truth had been twisted.
And the system had screamed.
A long exhale passed through Sylarion's nose as he leaned back and muttered under his breath, "Noted. Lying bastard, wherever you are."
He swung his legs off the bed.
Time to face the day.
Sylarion padded across the cold floor, muscles moving with instinctual precision, though each motion still felt like rediscovery in this new-old body. His joints ached with unfamiliar familiarity. He grumbled something about needing slippers, but the room didn't care.
The bathroom door hissed open. Motion sensors responded to his presence with a soft click. Chrome, marble, and smart glass glowed under ambient lighting—it felt like brushing his teeth aboard a vampire's luxury spacecraft.
He stared at his reflection as the sonic brush hummed to life in his hand. Pale—but not sickly. Eyes sharp for someone who had just awakened. And yes—the six-pack was still there.
"Thanks, genetics," he muttered.
No response from Virela. Good. He wasn't in the mood for a morning debate with his potentially unhinged AI daughter.
By the time the brushing, showering, and toweling off were done, his thoughts had already arranged themselves into priorities:
Power.
Family.
Information.
Everything else was background noise.
His gaze drifted toward the closet. The one that led into an entirely different world buried beneath his room.
Tempting.
But not yet.
First, he had to blend in. Appear normal. Look the part of an elite-born heir recovering from a brush with death. If anyone looked closely, they'd find nothing out of place.
He stepped back into the bedroom, towel draped across his shoulders, eyes scanning corners with a habit born from caution.
Just as he dabbed the final droplets from his jawline, the AI's voice chimed in—smooth, pleasant, clinical:
"Father, are you ready for your morning breakfast? I've arranged a selection of clothes in the closet to suit your preferences."
"Preferences?" he echoed, raising an eyebrow.
He approached the closet and gave it a light push. The sliding doors whispered open to reveal a scene straight out of a gothic fashion drama: rows of black, darker black, and subtle flourishes of blood-red and silver. High-collared coats. Embroidered vests. Gloves. Even the "casual" wear looked suited for a vampire's funeral gala.
[System: Your wardrobe has two moods—'I grieve' and 'I plot your death.']
Sylarion smirked. "Nice to know I had such dramatic flair."
The system didn't miss a beat:
[Correction: You still do. Must be a genius thing.]
He shook his head with a chuckle. "Guess it runs deep."
Black reminded him of too many things. Cold hospital nights. Silent ceilings. A body that had been slowly betraying him. He'd hated black. But he didn't complain.
This wasn't about fashion. It was about survival. About playing a role. As far as the world knew, he was still Sylarion Drekkh. Nothing had changed. And he had no intention of giving them a reason to look twice.
"When's breakfast?" he asked.
Virela responded instantly, voice drifting from the closet wall:
"At nine, in the Grand Sunroom. Your seat is reserved, as always."
His eyes flicked to the mirror. The reflection that met him was refined, elegant… not quite him. Not yet.
But close enough.
He sighed and surveyed the racks once more. "Black, black, black… oh, look, dark black."
Eventually, he settled on a tailored black suit with crimson accents. Sharp. Fitted. A bit theatrical for his taste, but undeniably powerful. The high collar and polished boots made him look like someone who had opinions about opera and politics.
As he adjusted his cuffs, the system chirped again:
[System: Wow. You almost look competent. The original Sylarion would've approved. Almost.]
He arched a brow. "Is that your way of saying I look good?"
[System: No. That was me lowering the bar just enough for you to trip over it.]
He rolled his eyes but didn't argue. Truth was, he did look the part. Like a prince from a colder, more dangerous world.
As he turned to leave, Virela's voice chimed again, persistent and precise:
"Father, don't forget to pick a timepiece. Your collection remains unmatched, and punctuality is still a Drekkh virtue."
He paused.
Another panel slid open, revealing a velvet-lined display of watches—each more dramatic than the last. Midnight black. Blood red. Obsidian. Some were analog, others digital, and a few looked like they could power a small starship.
(System): "Yes, yes. Pick your royal wrist bling. I'm sure your dead genius self would've gone for something brooding and extra. Better not disappoint the ghost of fashion past."
A dry snort escaped him as he scanned the collection. One stood out—sleek, matte black, thin crimson lines marking the hours. Subtle. Understated. It didn't scream for attention, but it whispered power.
"Fine," he muttered, strapping it on. "Let's keep up the masquerade."
The clasp clicked shut. He flexed his wrist once.
Dressed from head to toe in black and crimson, Sylarion stepped out of the closet, movements fluid and precise. He wore elegance like armor—borrowed, but seamless. The heavy bedroom door creaked open with a low groan, revealing the corridor beyond.
He walked with purpose. The manor greeted him with cold silence. No voices. No warmth. Just pristine halls, silver sconces, and flickering lamps lining the path like funeral torches.
As he reached the corridor's end, a massive window stopped him in his tracks.
Outside, the sky loomed—gray, oppressive, unmoving. Thick clouds smothered the heavens. The trees beyond swayed in a mist-drenched gloom. Not a single ray of sunlight broke through.
His brows furrowed as he placed a hand on the glass, scowling faintly.
Where's the sun?
Why is it always like this?
In his former life, bedridden and brittle, the sun had been his only solace. Warmth. Light. The promise of something better.
Here… only shadows remained.
(Predator System): "Ah yes. The mighty predator longs for sunshine like a depressed houseplant. Touching. Really screams apex material."
He didn't answer. But his jaw tightened.
The system wasn't wrong. He hated this—hated the silence, the artificial grace, the endless etiquette. It all reeked of control.
Of cages wrapped in silk.
This place was beautiful, but it wasn't freedom.
His stomach growled softly, dragging his attention back. Breakfast. Virela had said it was in the Grand Sunroom—wherever that was. The manor felt like a maze. Endless halls and polished stone.
He considered wandering until something made sense.
Then, footsteps approached—soft, deliberate.
An older servant appeared, dignified, composed, with graying hair and calm eyes. He bowed deeply, hand over chest.
"Young Master Sylarion. Allow me to escort you to the Grand Sunroom. Breakfast has been prepared."
Sylarion blinked. Sunroom? He almost laughed.
What sun?
Still, he nodded. Smooth, composed. Playing the part to perfection.
"Lead the way," he said coolly, thoughts simmering beneath the surface.
He wasn't here to bask in shadowed luxury.
He was here to climb