A knock echoed through the room.
Elijah's head snapped toward the door. His hand went for a weapon that wasn't there. Old habits. The kind you picked up after years of people trying to kill you in your sleep.
Right. No gun. Different body. Probably not about to get murdered. Probably.
"Young Master Amon?" A woman's voice filtered through the wood. Soft. Professional. "I'm here to wake you up."
The door opened before he could respond.
She walked in like she owned the place. Red hair pulled back in a bun that somehow made her look both proper and completely improper at the same time. The maid uniform fit her curves in ways that should've been illegal. Black dress. White apron. Stockings that went all the way up.
Oh. Oh this is different.
"The master wanted me to inform you that breakfast is at 8:15 AM." Her green eyes met his without flinching. Confident. Not the nervous energy most household staff carried. "He expects everyone to be punctual."
Elijah blinked.
Right. Amon. He was Amon now. Young Master Amon apparently.
Young master. What the hell. That's hilarious.
He caught himself before he laughed. This woman was looking at him like she expected a response. Like she'd done this a thousand times before and knew exactly how the conversation was supposed to go.
"What's your name?" The words came out rougher than he intended. This body's vocal cords needed breaking in.
She paused. Her eyebrows lifted just slightly. "Sabrina, young master."
"Thank you for waking me up and informing me, Sabrina." He kept his tone neutral. Polite. The way you talked to people who worked for you but weren't your enemies. "I really appreciate that."
Sabrina stared at him.
Her professional mask slipped for half a second. Confusion flickered across her face. Then something else. Surprise maybe. Like he'd just spoken fluent Martian.
"I... it's my pleasure, young master." She recovered quickly. Smoothed her apron even though it didn't need smoothing. "Do you require assistance in the bath?"
Elijah's eyebrows went up.
Did she just... yeah she did. Okay. Different world. Different customs. Don't make it weird.
"I'm alright." He kept his voice even. "If you could prepare me some clothing for breakfast with father, I'd appreciate it. Thank you."
Sabrina looked like someone had just told her the sky was now green. She nodded slowly. Mechanically. "Of course, young master. I'll have something ready for you immediately."
She left.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Elijah stood there for a moment processing what just happened. This body, this Amon person, apparently had staff. Beautiful staff who offered to help him bathe. And a father who expected punctuality at breakfast.
He ran a hand over the ridiculously smooth wallpaper, the texture of silk and money.
He looked at his new hands—long, pale fingers that had never been calloused, never been broken in a fight.
Thief to trust fund baby.
The universe had a sick, twisted sense of humor
He needed a shower. Needed to think. Needed to figure out what the hell was going on before he had to sit down with "father" and pretend he knew who that was.
Elijah walked to the nearest door and opened it.
Clothes exploded in his face.
Not literally. But close. The closet stretched back farther than some apartments he'd broken into. Suits lined one wall. Casual wear lined another. Shoes organized by color and style sat on shelves that looked like they'd been designed by someone with OCD and unlimited funding.
"Oops."
He closed the door.
Bathroom. Try again.
The second door opened to reveal exactly what he was looking for. The bathroom was the size of his old studio in Prague. All marble and chrome and surfaces so clean he could perform surgery on them. The bathtub could fit four people comfortably. The shower had more nozzles than a car wash.
And there, above the dual sinks, was a mirror.
Elijah stopped.
The face staring back at him wasn't his.
Snow white hair fell across a forehead that belonged to someone who'd never seen the sun. Golden eyes, the color of old coins, blinked when he blinked. The bone structure was sharp. Aristocratic. The guy was tall, maybe six-one or six-two based on how the room's proportions felt now.
But he looked sick.
Wiry in the way people got when they forgot to eat for days at a time. Bags under his eyes like he hadn't slept in weeks. Skin so pale it was almost translucent. The guy needed a burger. Maybe five burgers. And about twenty hours of sleep.
Huh.
Elijah leaned closer to the mirror. Turned his head left. Then right. Checked his teeth. Ran a hand through the white hair.
Besides the whole vampire aesthetic and looking like death warmed over, the guy has potential. Could almost look as good as I did.
The thought sobered him.
Almost.
Because the face in the mirror wasn't his. Would never be his. Elijah Snow was dead in a parking garage in Paris with a bullet through his skull. This was someone else. Someone named Amon Von Rosen who lived in a mansion with ocean views and had maids who offered to help him bathe.
He turned away from the mirror and walked to the shower.
The control panel was a touch screen. Because of course it was. Temperature. Pressure. Spray pattern. The thing had more options than a fighter jet. Elijah poked at it until water started coming out of the correct nozzles at a temperature that wouldn't boil him alive.
Steam filled the air, blurring the marble walls, but it couldn't blur the questions spiraling in his skull.
Why here?
He'd died. He was sure of that. The void was real.
So was this hell?
No, the water pressure was too good. Unless it was some kind of bespoke psychological torture via luxury accommodation.
Was this even Earth?
The sky looked right, but the tech felt... off. A jump forward in time? Another world?
Each theory was more insane than the last, but they all orbited the one question.
Who the hell is Amon?
Because if he couldn't answer that, and fast, the man who owned this face was going to get them both killed.
The water shut off.
He stepped out and grabbed a towel. It was probably Egyptian cotton or some other luxury material that cost more money than sense. Soft though. He'd give it that.
Sabrina had left clothes on the bed while he was in the shower. Black slacks. White dress shirt. A jacket that looked like it came from a tailor who charged by the stitch. Everything fit perfectly.
Of course it does. Rich people and their perfect fits.
Elijah dressed. Checked himself in the mirror one more time. The sickly kid staring back at him looked slightly more presentable now. Still needed food. Still needed sleep. But at least he wouldn't scare small children.
Breakfast was at 8:15.
He checked the computer clock. 8:03.
Twelve minutes to figure out where the dining room was and who "father" turned out to be.
No pressure.
He opened the bedroom door and stepped into a hallway that stretched in both directions with the confidence of architects who'd never heard of reasonable floor plans.
Time to meet the family.