Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Zhou Mingrui fantasized about transmigrating to another world, this wasn't what he meant! Especially transmigrating to an unknown world without having read any book and in a body with a hole in its head!

But there he was, and now he had to overcome the first challenge: the police.

Klein hid the revolver, straightened his clothes, and quickly opened the door with a murmur. "Sorry, I just took a nap..."

Without Klein noticing, two of the police officers behind Mountbatten opened their eyes slightly, as if expressing something they'd been holding back for a while, then let out silent sighs of relief.

Thank goodness...

Anyway, those two seemingly normal inspectors questioned Klein, who learned of Welch and Naya's deaths and admitted that he had lost his memory of the previous day. Finally, they agreed that Klein would be seen by a real psychic to verify his lost memories.

If that was already worrying for a transmigrator, the poet-like inspector further disturbed Klein with a comment.

“Very well. How lucky.”

“What?” Klein’s face was puzzled.

“Generally, it’s normal for everyone involved to die in such an incident. We’re very happy and lucky to see you alive.” The poet inspector seemed to want to add something more, but he only smiled softly as if amused by his thoughts. Ultimately, he said nothing. After that, he left and politely closed the door behind him.

????

Klein was startled and horrified by those words. For peace of mind, he opened the door and called out in a trembling voice toward the stairs. “You’ll protect me, right?”

Tap, tap, tap… There was no response from the inspectors, nor was there any change in their pace. However, the supernatural police officers exchanged glances, having a silent conversation with their eyes.

Shall we tell him? Leonard asked.

No. Dunn replied without opening his mouth.

“You will! I know!” Klein shouted again, trying to act like a normal person in danger.

Leonard felt like laughing. At least they know who will be in charge of surveillance.

. . .

Both Nighthawks climbed into the waiting carriage.

“Something just had to happen to Klein Moretti on Rokso’s day off. One of the few times he has had bad luck.” Leonard chuckled. “Oh, this certainly won’t help his paranoia!” He raised his thoughts without a problem, earning a head-shaking Dunn.

Poor Rokso, he tried to keep his junior away from the extraordinary world while advising him to be careful, but it didn’t work.

Rokso is known among the Nighthawks as the 'lucky paranoid' for several reasons. Although he often seems to be exaggerating, given his particular situation, it makes sense; just as it makes sense that he extends that care to his teammates.

So Dunn and Leonard should admit they’re relieved. When they heard Klein Moretti's name in the information they'd gathered, they both looked at each other in recognition, because they sometimes heard this name from their teammate. But the name 'Klein' is very common, so if it was the same Klein they had in mind, they really hoped he was okay.

Thank goodness he was.

His over-caring for others is his way of showing affection beneath that unfriendly expression. And that's why they're sure he'll be the one to check on Klein Moretti first. They wouldn't even need to say it out loud.

. . .

Klein decided to make dinner for his sister. It turned out better than he expected.

Melissa's eyes lit up, and her expression changed for a moment before she finally said, "Let me cook for you in the future. Uh... You have to hurry up and get ready for the interview."

Klein smiled, but before he could answer, Melissa added something else.

"Don't worry so much, though! With Rokso's help, you'll definitely pass."

...Uh???

"By the way, when you get the job, Benson comes back, and you get paid for the first time, why not treat Rokso to a meal somewhere? Uh, nothing big, of course, but as a thank you for his help and support..." She continued in a somewhat low voice.

?

???

Who???

Klein opened his eyes in confusion before a flood of memories hit him. They were images he'd previously ignored from this body's college days.

Moments on campus with someone.

Asking for help to study with someone.

Casual meetings at a cafe with someone.

On his graduation day, celebrating with his family and someone.

And that someone had black hair, reddish-gray eyes, and a stoic temperament.

Ah. Klein remembered. Senior Rokso, a college friend four years older than him. They kept in touch even after Rokso graduated three years ago. They've had monthly get-togethers where they catch up on each other's lives, with Klein telling how his classes were going, and Rokso complaining about his work, which he made it sound like he was being overworked. Though later he would smile and say, “At least the pay makes up for it a bit.”

He really seems to be a good friend… Klein thought, at first happy, but then worried… Very worried, in fact. Because he also remembered something else about this Senior.

Rokso is lazy, but also intelligent, cunning, and above all, observant. A ridiculously observant man who genuinely cares for those close to him in his own way.

And to make matters worse… He claimed to have a photographic memory… Something incredibly troubling for Klein Zhou Mingrui Moretti. What if he notices something out of place in me? That made him even more nervous.

According to those memories, the original Klein met with his Senior two weeks ago, so the next time they will meet should be in another two weeks… Could he delay it any longer? I just transmigrated! Even if I can pretend in front of Melissa, I'm not that good an actor in front of someone who's a walking security camera!

Another thing on Klein's list of worries. Now he must try to minimize his contact with that Senior as much as possible without looking suspicious.

. . .

Klein's memories were checked and nothing was found, so his status was officially changed from suspect to victim. A victim with a chance of being haunted by the supernatural again.

"Or just become a beyonder. We're not babysitters, after all."

"Can I?" Klein questioned. "Really?"

Dunn laughed slightly. "You don't believe me, huh? Actually, when you become a Nighthawk, you lose a lot. For example, your freedom." A pause. "Someone's already complaining about that a lot.

And on the other hand..." Dunn held onto the handle and climbed into the carriage as it continued forward. “Among the cases we handle annually, a quarter were the result of beyonders losing control. And among a quarter of the cases, a large number are our teammates.”

While Klein was in shock at this information, Dunn sighed internally. He omitted the fact that, since someone joined them, they haven't had any casualties in three years. But Klein didn't need to know that right now; it's better to prepare him for the worst. After all, luck isn't infinite, not even for the 'lucky paranoid.'

The conversation continued, and speaking of luck—

Dunn opened his half-closed eyelids; his silver eyes reflected the same calmness as before. “You managed to survive without our help in such a situation. Certain exceptional qualities aren't present in others. For example, luck. Lucky people are always welcome.”

Seeing that Klein's expression had turned blank, Dunn smiled slightly. “That's the same expression someone made when I said the same thing. Fine, take it as a humorous statement.”

The conversation continued.

“Would you like to join us as a civilian staff member?”

Multiple thoughts surfaced in Klein’s mind, making him hesitant. He pondered and asked. “Can I take some time to reflect?”

“No problem, just give me an answer by Sunday,” Dunn nodded. He thought of adding something else, but decided to stay silent. After all, Klein Moretti will see him soon.

“Okay,” Klein replied gravely. Seeing them approach Iron Cross Street, a question occurred to him. “Mr. Smith, what salary and benefits do civilian staff receive?” This was a serious question…

Dunn was puzzled for a moment, then smiled with a touch of amusement. Did Rokso influence him? Or are they friends because of this?

. . .

The next morning.

“What??” Someone in Dunn Smith's office almost shouted. "Why didn't you tell me before??"

"The last time we interrupted your day off, you didn't speak to us for a week." Leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, Leonard answered, amused.

"This is different."

Dunn sniffed his pipe. "I understand your concern, but we kept it under control."

"I wasn't doubting that, Captain."

"I know. Don't worry, Klein Moretti will be here with his answer before Sunday."

The man with reddish-gray eyes looked directly into Captain Dunn's silver eyes, communicating tactically, picking up on the unspoken words.

But you can keep an eye on him if you want.

And Rokso is the type to do things because he wants to.

. . .

1345

4 years earlier.

I hate pain.

He really hates pain.

In a dark, cold, sticky, and murmuring world, Kim Rok Soo, asleep, felt a piercing pain in his head, as if several sharp objects were slowly piercing his temples and neck.

This was unlike anything he had ever experienced before, which was no small feat. This pain wasn't just physical; it went far beyond that, penetrating his consciousness and soul like an ice pick hammering into a wall.

Kim Rok Soo couldn't think of a reason, as his coherence was obstructed by the torture he was going through. He tried to open his eyes or move, but was completely unable to. It was as if he had no body at all, or as if something was pressing on him? He didn't know; he couldn't think. He could only remain conscious while drowning in that stormy sea of ​​extreme pain.

With what little rationality he had left, he repeated the same words over and over again to anchor himself.

I'm not going to die. I'm not going to die. I'm not going to die. I'm not going to die. I'm not going to die.

He really felt like he could die. Somehow, he knew the death was embraced him and coiled around him like a boa constrictor. But Kim Rok Soo can't die. He promised them that.

He shouted those words into the endless darkness, as if he said them a thousand times, they would be carved in stone and thrown into the heavens to be placed on a sign at the entrance.

In the midst of his struggle, another voice echoed. Distant, close. Real, false. Concerned, relieved.

"My child, you won't die."

With that, the pain slowly subsided and the dark world faded, leaving only a cold, sticky sensation. Unfortunately, a new, burning pain in his throat overwhelmed him. It was so sudden and stabbing that Kim Rok Soo wanted to move immediately, and fortunately, the muscles in his arms and legs responded, helping him prop himself up on his knees and hands.

Instinctively, Kim Rok Soo inhaled for oxygen. A big mistake because the pain increased, followed by a wave of rusty flavor filling his taste buds. He coughed, another big mistake, as it only multiplied the pain tenfold and gave him a new feeling of drowning.

Unable to support himself, Kim Rok Soo fell headlong to the ground, clutching his wet, sticky neck. He coughed blood nonstop, each time with a little less pain, but it still hurt like hell.

After what felt like an eternity, the choking sensation ceased, returning him to rationality. Very slowly, Kim Rok Soo breathed through his nose; once, twice, three times, as if each movement of his system was a step through a minefield. Confirming that he stopped suffocating, he opened his eyes.

Unlike his blurred vision, all his other senses returned to normal. He could feel the cold environment, the damp ground beneath him, and his skin touching a long wound on his throat.

Kim Rok Soo's pupils dilated as he finally identified the reason for his recent torment.

What?... He thought, half shocked and half horrified, not daring to open his mouth for fear of pulling at the skin that connected to his neck. But strangely, his fingers also informed him that the terrifying cut was moving. Muscles and skin were knitting back together.

What the—?! Another thought that didn't emerge from his strangely regenerated vocal cords.

A few seconds later, his fingers confirmed that the fatal wound no longer existed, as if it had all been a bad dream. But no, that wasn't a dream; it was real, painfully real, and the semi-liquid blood on his body, clothes, face, hair, and floor confirmed it.

It took a few moments for Kim Rok Soo to realize he was no longer in pain, and when he did, his vision returned to normal.

Huh? More uncertainty crept into his mind as he observed where he was. Where is this?

He was in a strange room, with strange furniture, strange walls, strange decorations, and through the window, a strange moon was peeking out. A bloody moon.

This wasn't his apartment. That wasn't his moon.

"What the hell—" He finally spoke his first words, filled with confusion.

Once he'd completely calmed down, Kim Rok Soo analyzed what was happening with complete seriousness.

First, I woke up in a Victorian-style room.

Second, there's a damn red moon in the sky. The few stars I see don't form the constellations I'm familiar with.

Third, He touched his neck again. There's a huge pool of blood on the floor— my blood, apparently.

What happened? What did he do before he appeared here?

It was the night before Kim Rok Soo's day off. He had collected five books from a series to read all the next day. He fell asleep and then woke up here, in what seemed like another world, bleeding to death because of a deep cut on the neck.

What kind of transmigration is this?!

Fourth, these memories are... Kim Rok Soo also analyzed the information included in this body.

Rokso Hill, born into an upper-middle-class family in Backlund. His father ignored him because he suspected he wasn't his son because of his different appearance. Then, his mother died, and his father remarried. Rokso grew up with little attention, being a troubled child and a kept man. At 18, his family had had enough and sent him to Tingen to study.

Kim Rok Soo sighed heavily as he massaged his temples. He didn't know what to think, whether his luck was so bad that he transmigrated into another broken family, or be surprised that his original name and that of this body were so similar.

And if that weren't enough, there was the appearance. Rokso was an europeanized version of Kim Rok Soo, with 22 years old, reddish-gray eyes, less muscular, and without scars.

This is driving me crazy. He thought in frustration. He really didn't want to think about anything and go back to sleep.

So that's what he did. He fell asleep on the living room couch, ignoring the blood on himself and the floor, also not giving a thought the other information in his head that sounded too absurd.

He hoped he could wake up from this strange dream.

It didn't happen.

Chapter Text

…And I'm still here.

Kim Rok Soo sighed heavily.

He woke up, not in his apartment in Korea, but on the Victorian sofa of his strange dream. He tried to go back to sleep, but when he opened his eyes the only change was that the sun was brighter.

Swallowing his complaint, Kim Rok Soo forced himself to get up and take a clearer look at his surroundings: Victorian living room, Victorian kitchen, Victorian walls, huge bloodstain on the floor.

Let's put this in order.

He transmigrated, obviously. Into a dead body, terrifyingly obviously. Now, was it murder or suicide? The thought of suicide sent a shudder down Kim Rok Soo's spine.

He carefully analyzed the house; there wasn't any knife or sharp object near, so that was a good sign. There were some fallen decorations and moved chairs; it could have been the scene of a fight, but…

Kim Rok Soo knew it wasn't, because as he closely examined the out-of-place details, a wave of information injected itself into his brain, causing him to hold his head and clench his eyes and teeth. After a snort, the pain subsided, and some of the answers he was seeking appeared in the form of memories.

Let's start from the beginning, with the context of this body.

Rokso is—or was, a senior at Khoy University, an irresponsible drinker who somehow always got good grades thanks to his good memory. Or so he claimed.

His father sent him money every month, more than half of which went to drinking and bartending. The original Rokso gained a reputation for lavishing money on alcohol, and, if he was drunk enough, he would buy everyone drinks.

According to those hazy memories from yesterday, probably because he was very drunk, the original Rokso was leaving a bar as usual at midnight, when he came across… A corpse?? What the hell?! in an alley. And what did the original Rokso do? He grabbed the shiny object sticking out of that corpse and left!

Again, what the hell?? Kim Rok Soo thought with a shiver before focusing again on those memories, which Record was already registering. He returned to his apartment, looked at his hand, and… ugh… He couldn't remember anything else because of a sudden headache that felt like his skull was being stabbed repeatedly. He had to stop thinking completely for the pain to calm down.

After a few seconds, only a slight dizziness remained in Kim Rok Soo; however, he managed to confirm that the object the original Rokso picked up from the corpse was gone; his hand was empty when he arrived at his apartment. Did he lose it? Was it stolen? According to these memories, that didn't seem to be the case... Perhaps a thief took an interest in the object and followed the original Rokso to his door, killing him there.

That should be the most obvious option, but there were several inconsistencies.

First, if there had been a fight, the neighbors would have heard it and called the police, but that clearly didn't happen. Second, while a death would undoubtedly be traumatic, it shouldn't be a reason for Kim Rok Soo not to remember it when he remembered everything else. He'd seen worse than someone bleeding from the neck, and he'd bled plenty before. And third, why do I feel like there's something far more sinister than a simple thief? Could it have something to do with the shiny object on that corpse?

Kim Rok Soo stopped thinking about it because the piercing pain from before reappeared. He massaged his brow, exhausted.

Honestly, he didn't want to think about it again. Clearly, something strange had happened to make even his hard-drive brain have trouble accessing those memories (which had never happened to him before, and honestly, it scared him), so he didn't. What was the point?

As long as that reason doesn't come back, I can ignore it.

"..."

But for some reason, his brain felt restless, alert, as if whatever killed the original Rokso was coming back for him. It was an unpleasant sensation, as annoying as ten mosquitoes in his ear.

He sighed again, shook his head hard, and forced himself to stop thinking. The original Rokso died. Period. Whatever the reason. And Kim Rok Soo is here now, what a shame.

New life, new world, a mystery he was going to ignore, but for that... he needed to distract himself.

And just at that moment, he realized that he was now a college student. Resigned, he prepared to attend half of the remaining classes that day after cleaning the bloodstain on the floor, taking a bath, and hiding those dirty clothes.

At perhaps 1:00 p.m., Kim Rok Soo left the apartment, taking a step into that new world. It was the same as the original Rokso's memories, even more detailed thanks to Record, but experiencing it was something else entirely.

Very Victorian, with a hint of steampunk. He commented to himself as he took the public carriage to Khoy University.

Along the way, Kim Rok Soo planned his new life.

The original Rokso's father would continue sending money until the last day of classes. According to the agreement, if Rokso graduated, his father would send him one last large sum of money while he found a job. After that, they would cut off contact.

And that was fine with Kim Rok Soo; he didn't want to deal with that family.

So I need to continue in college to get that money, how annoying. At least it would only be for a year.

Well, that was one reason to keep studying, but there was actually another…

“My little Rokso…” Whispered a beautiful woman with reddish-gray eyes just like her son's. “Promise me you'll live well… graduate, get a good job, do whatever you want, but don't do any harm…”

“Sniff… yes, mom…”

Those were the last words of Rokso's mother, and the boy's last words to his mom. It was a promise the original Rokso was willing to keep, even though he didn't want to study.

Sign… Kim Rok Soo felt a new headache. Despite not wanting to find out why the original Rokso died because it was problematic, he was still a 'parasite' in the body of a dead person. He had his memories, his deeply rooted experiences and emotions. He was going to spend his family's money, live the life someone else had built, even change it; so, at the very least, he should keep that mother's promise. Out of respect for both of them who died.

The original Rokso's promise was now Kim Rok Soo's responsibility, and he always kept his promises.

From now on, I'm Rokso.

. . .

Kim Rok Soo, now just Rokso, was a master at ignoring problematic things. There should be a PhD in that; it would be much more interesting than going to regular classes.

The original Rokso's reputation at the university was peculiar. The more social juniors knew certain gossip, while the fourth-year students, especially the ones in Rokso's major, were the ones who spread the information.

A problematic student, a piece of trash, perhaps a cheater who got good grades on exams without paying attention in class. A drinker squanders money. Someone with a high tolerance for alcohol, therefore, drank more and more, squandering more and more of his family's money. However, no one mentioned that despite becoming aggressive when drunk, he never hit anyone who didn't deserve it; he only broke things that then paid for them.

Well, let them think what they wanted, this Rokso didn't come to this world out of sympathy or to change the reputation of the original Rokso —which, by the way, the original didn't care either— he came to graduate and that was it.

He arrived late to class, which didn't surprise anyone and they ignored him. Rokso thought it was perfect, sat far back in a corner, and played the teacher's lecture as background music while he took a nap.

That class ended at 2 p.m. and he didn't have another one until 4 p.m., so Rokso was left with nothing to do for three hours. Great, he could go eat and sleep, his favorite things to do.

According to this body's memories, there was a space in a corner of the university, on the riverbank, where few people frequented. An ideal place to be alone, so he headed there with his freshly bought lunch after taking a nap.

As he rounded the last building and headed to an open area, Rokso spotted someone on the riverbank.

It was a person sitting, hugging their legs. Beside them, a cheap suit jacket.

What was a child doing here? No, if he was there, he should have been a student, at least a first-grader, but he was so thin he looked younger. Rokso knew that Khoy University didn't discriminate socioeconomic levels, but less privileged students usually wore baggy clothes that hid their malnutrition. This person took off his jacket, likely due to the still-warm weather in late August, which also meant he'd been there for a while.

Rokso sighed, ignored the young man, and looked for another place to eat.

. . .

The next day, Rokso returned to the same place and found the same student, in the same position, wearing the same clothes, with his jacket off, still staring at the river with bleary eyes. Rokso ignored him again.

But Rokso still returned the next day, and the next. The freshman was always there before 3 p.m., and each time, his eyes grew more lifeless.

After a week of seeing the same pitiful sight, Rokso felt annoyed for some reason. Aside from that undead expression, the student's neck and arms were exposed, which looked very thin.

Rokso was good at ignoring many things, but one of them wasn't a young man who looked hungry and like the world would swallow him alive. Who would like to see that?

Without realizing it, his legs began to move.

"Hey," Rokso called.

The young man's eyes focused in surprise and turned his head sharply, finding what was clearly an older student standing about a meter and a half away.

"I don't want this anymore, take it," Rokso said flatly before giving him the dessert he bought with his lunch today.

Now that Rokso looked at him up close, the first-year student had a certain scholarly air about him. A malnourished scholarly air, of course.

The young man blinked a few times, very confused, as if seeing a four-eyed cat. He whispered timidly. “I… don’t need it.”

“Hey,” Rokso’s stern tone shook the young man. “I said I don’t want it anymore and I’m giving it to you. It’s not difficult to understand.”

The student barely managed to spit out a question. “But… why?”

“Because I want to and I have the money.” With that, he furrowed his eyebrows, annoyed. “Are you going to take it or not?”

“Uhm…” The young man controlled his trembling and mechanically took the dessert, not wanting to bother the other any further. “Thank you… Senior.”

Rokso hummed disinterestedly, crossed his arms, and didn’t move.

…? The young man looked at him nervously with suppressed confusion.

“Are you going to eat it? I don’t want the food I bought to be eaten cold.”

The first-year student gulped. He hadn’t had an appetite in days, not after what had happened and his family’s financial situation being worse than ever. But, faced with this senior’s eyes that resembled those of a military commander, he forced himself to open his mouth and chew.

He ate stiffly, ignoring the disgust caused by his numbed digestive system, so he didn’t notice when the senior sat down next to him.

The reason? Rokso grew tired of standing. He watched through the corner of his eye how the young student ate with the least concealed conflicted expression he had ever seen, but he ignored it. As long as he ate, he didn’t care about his feelings.

When the young man finished, his body felt a little better and his tired expression softened a bit. “…Thank you.” He whispered again.

Rokso just nodded, not looking at him or showing any signs of wanting to move.

He's weird. Klein thought. But despite that cold demeanor and strange choice of convincing words, the Senior didn't ask any questions or look at him with genuine disgust. He was like a spectator participating in the minimum in a play.

When it was 4 p.m., Rokso stood up, putting his hands in his pockets. Klein followed him, but when he stood up, he felt dizzy and lacking energy; luckily, he hid it well. Or so he would think if he didn't have someone with security camera eyes and a hard drive brain in front of him.

Rokso wanted to frown. By not wanting to move, he spent more time than necessary with this freshman and discovered that his physical condition was worse than he imagined. He knew the signs of malnutrition firsthand.

Ignoring this new information, Rokso diverted the topic. "What's your name?" He took the initiative to ask. He was tired of calling the other guy 'the young student.'

“…Klein Moretti,” Klein replied almost in a whisper. “And you?”

“Just call me Rokso.” He knew the original didn't usually use his last name out of resentment toward his family, always correcting students or teachers when they used it.

“Mhm, Senior Rokso.”

Rokso hummed in response and walked to his class, separating from Klein as he entered the building designated for his branch of study. For his part, Klein watched the strange senior lazily walk away.

Klein bit his inner lip and unconsciously touched his stomach. He knew that avoiding eating was wrong, but he had to save as much as possible right now, no matter how much Benson insisted they would be fine.

At least the recent stress had taken away his appetite.

. . .

The next day was Friday.

The schedule was simpler than in the first years. Before, he had many short general classes, and as he progressed, these became shorter and more specialized, but the classes were now longer.

Rokso had only two classes a day: one from 12 to 2 and the last from 4 to 6. He sighed inwardly as the first three hours of class ended (as if he hadn't been sleeping most of the time), and he was already hungry.

When he arrived at the cafeteria, he saw a familiar person in the distance. Yesterday's student, Klein Moretti, was looking at the store with a complicated expression while playing with a few coins in his hand. After a few seconds, he shook his head, put the little money away, and left.

Rokso had a feeling he'd seen something he shouldn't have again.

. . .

Predictable. Rokso found Klein in the same place he had been all last week. Doesn't he have anywhere else to go to make his sad face? He didn't know and didn't want to know, so he just approached quietly. Klein barely noticed his presence when someone tapped him on the shoulder, causing him to jump slightly in fright.

He turned around suddenly, seeing a familiar face. Before he could say anything, the Senior spoke first.

"Hey," Rokso held out a box of food to him. "I bought some extra, here."

Klein couldn't hide his nervousness and surprise. With eyes wide as if he'd seen a crow wearing a straw hat, he asked in a whisper. "Why…you bought extra?”

“I had money left over, I don’t care.” Technically, it was true, since he didn’t mind spending the money of the body’s original owner’s family this way. He was just feeding someone in a familiar situation, that was all.

“…Money left over?” The dumbfounded Klein asked.

“I have plenty,” He said simply before practically forcing the food into his hands. “Stop interrogating me and take it.”

Since the Senior didn't give him any room to refuse, Klein resigned himself and accepted the food. The two didn't speak, not even when Klein finished eating.

. . .

"Ugh..." Rokso groaned as he writhed in his bed. He'd had migraines ever since he transmigrated, and he could swear he heard distant whispers at night.

The original Rokso never suffered from migraines; this was new.

Should he be worried? Maybe. But what could he do? The medicine in this world was as primitive as that of the early apocalypse.

But he was fine; he'd been through worse, like when he transmigrated or when he tried to remember the moments before the original Rokso's death. These intermittent migraines were acceptable.

So, after an uncomfortable weekend, he returned to university on Monday, fell asleep in class, somehow passed the surprise exam, and left the classroom first, determined to do some quick work and sleep until 4:00. p.m.

The library was somewhat busy that day, as many excited first-year students were gathering to fill themselves with as much knowledge as possible, forcing Rokso to look for an empty spot. And to his surprise, he saw a scholarly-looking young man at a secluded table, reading a book and energetically writing notes beside more books stacked and among a sea of papers and more notebooks.

Did he actually eat breakfast today to look so energetic while writing notes? Who knows, it wasn't Rokso's business, but it was his business that there were no more free tables, and since Rokso was too lazy to fill out the form to check out the books he needed from the library for his assignment, he walked over and sat directly across from Klein.

The freshman jumped slightly at the noise and stopped looking at his notebook. "Senior Rokso?"

Rokso just hummed in response. "Do you mind if I sit here? I'll finish quickly."

Klein shook his head. "It's fine."

That settled, they both focused on their own business. Soon, Klein began to hear the sound of a quill writing very quickly and too fluidly. Looking ahead, he saw the Senior writing nonstop and without checking the closed books beside him.

He could read at an absurd speed and remember each page like a photograph thanks to Record. Or whatever 'Record' had become.

Rokso felt that Record had transmigrated with him to some extent, not as an ability from his Earth, but as a biological capacity of this brain. The original Rokso had a good memory, but that evolved when Kim Rok Soo arrived, becoming the 'photographic memory' popularly known even in this world, thanks to a certain Roselle Gustav (a name he will continue to ignore).

Tap! Rokso closed his notebook and gathered the books he had only read once.

"Are you finished?" Klein asked unconsciously.

Rokso simply answered a lazy: "Yes." As expected, he finished the work in 10 minutes. Now he was free to do nothing!

He nodded to Klein in farewell and left.

“…” Klein was incredulous. He looked at the open notebooks beside him, along with several thick textbooks stacked high.

He had a disadvantage compared to his other classmates. His knowledge of ancient languages ​​was practically nonexistent upon entering university, so he had to work three times as hard to keep up. The only time he allowed himself to rest was in the afternoon, at 3 p.m., the time he usually ate with his mother.

But when she died, Klein's hunger disappeared at the same time every day, and since the memories of those moments returned punctually, he couldn't concentrate. So Klein treated that hour as a 'break,' despite not eating and only staring at the river water with lost eyes.

However, that soon changed.

. . .

Another week passed where Rokso shared his dessert and sometimes an entire lunch with Klein, and each time, his scholarly face darkened further, but he still accepted the food. Which, ironically, improved his complexion.

They didn't speak for the entire hour.

One day, Klein was about to get up to go to class and instinctively checked his pockets. Two seconds later, he froze, his pupils dilated. His hands moved quickly to all his pockets, empty.

The very obvious movements were caught by Rokso, who didn't turn around until he noticed Klein's very panicked face.

Rokso sighed inwardly and asked, "Did you lose something?"

Klein bit his inner lip as he nodded stiffly. "I think I dropped my money somewhere..."

How could he have been so careless? Even though he'd recently been exhausted from classes and his self-imposed study of ancient languages, he would never lose his money! The money his older brother had worked so hard to earn!

Klein felt horrible.

Rokso had never seen the freshman spend money, but judging by his reaction, it must still have been significant.

"How much did you lose?"

"2 solis..."

Without a word, Rokso stood up, reached into his pocket, took out 4 solis, and gave them to him, not giving him a chance to return them.

"Eh?!?" Klein froze.

"Keep what's left, I don't care." Rokso said before turning his back and starting to walk back to campus.

Now panicking for another reason, Klein finally reacted. "W-Wait! I can't accept this—"

"I said I don't care." Rokso replied tersely without pausing, waving goodbye with a lazy wave of his hand.

“…” Klein’s hands trembled as he clutched the coins.

. . .

Rokso went over a week without seeing Klein Moretti.

He considered ignoring it, whatever, he must have had his reasons, but when he happened to run into Klien near the entrance one day he arrived a little earlier than usual and they made eye contact, Rokso frowned. Klein looked scared to see him and undecided whether to flee so openly.

With a headache, Rokso approached the trapped Klein. Without hesitation, he blurted out, “You’re avoiding me.” It wasn’t a question; it was a statement. Though he didn’t sound angry either.

Klein answered in a suppressed voice. “I… don’t have the money to pay you… I can’t keep accepting favors, I can’t put my family in debt now—”

“Klein,” Rokso interrupted him, looking him straight in the eyes, challenging him to break eye contact. “Nothing indeed comes for free in this world, but I’m not going to saddle a freshman much poorer than me with debt.” He was trash, but not a scoundrel. “If you want to repay me so much in the future, then study, get a good job, work hard to improve your life and that of your family first.” He spoke in a stern, almost annoyed tone. But not at the student, but at the trouble of having to explain himself.

Klein froze completely. With dilated pupils, he could no longer maintain eye contact and subconsciously lowered his head.

Rokso turned his back on him as he uttered a few last words. “Only then, we’ll see.” With that, he left, leaving a strange atmosphere that Klein had to deal with alone.

But it wasn’t a bad thing, Klein knew, just as he knew that the annoyance in the Senior’s voice wasn’t necessarily cold. What he said was actually something warm, setting reasonable boundaries and opening up possibilities, good possibilities for Klein.

He swallowed, his appetite returning.

. . .

Klein also had limits on how much charity he was willing to receive without his conscience eating him up. Before, he couldn't help but go to the same place, perhaps hoping something good would happen again, not necessarily related to Senior Rokso, but it was always him, appearing even when he didn't expect anything, with that unfathomable expression, but with strange kindness, or pity, whatever you want to call it.

A walking contraction. That's how Klein categorized him.

However, when this Senior gave him money directly, that's when Klein drew the line and began to avoid him. He didn't know whether to be surprised when it didn't last long, nor when Rokso was adamant about continuing to do what he wanted just because.

Rokso was the most stubborn person Klein had ever met, even more so than Melissa. But that wasn't bad, was it?

. . .

"Ugh..." Rokso wanted to take out his brain right now.

The migraines stopped being intermittent and started being constant. He knew how to hide it, but out of nowhere, while eating with Klein, a spike of pain hit him like ten hammers were being dropped one after the other.

"Senior?" Klein called out, stupefied by the sudden change in his expression and his complaint.

"I'm fine," Rokso said, controlling his tone.

But Klein wasn't convinced; he was observant, too. "You don't look well."

"I'm fine." He said again, now annoyed and paler.

"..." Klein pursed his lips. "If it gets worse, I know some pharmaceutical..."

Rokso simply nodded at Klein's suggestions to avoid pursuing the subject further.

. . .

And it got worse.

Rokso experienced several bouts of pain during class, so much so that he couldn't stand it anymore. He got up and left the university.

He didn't really trust these medications at all, but right now, when the pain was comparable to when he tried to remember what happened to the original Rokso, he would accept anything to ease this pain.

In the afternoon, Rokso walked down the street looking for a pharmacy Klein suggested, staggering and struggling to pay attention to the road because of his saturated and blurry vision. Passersby looked at him in disgust, wondering who was getting so drunk so early, but Rokso didn't care; he was more focused on not fainting from the unbearable whispers in his ears.

When these whispers sounded like a macabre orchestra inside his eardrums, another torment began.

He felt a lot of itching on his skin, especially on his arms and neck. He unconsciously scratched those areas, but the itching only increased and became painful; each brush against his skin felt like it was digging into his flesh to make way for something else.

"###### ##? ###."

Rokso couldn't see it, but he managed to feel something liquid and warm coming out of his ears, nose, and eyes. His skin also began to stretch into small spikes, so much so that in some places something resembling scales began to protrude.

“#######! ####.”

He had never experienced anything like this before; it was like when he transmigrated, but different and just as painful. However, he couldn't make the comparison since his consciousness had already dissolved without him realizing it.

He felt a burning sensation all over his body; the wind against his skin felt like needles stabbing his nerves; his throat was dry, and he ended up closing his eyes from the overstimulation that came with catching a ray of sunlight.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't help but let out sounds of pain along with a sound of something hitting the ground—himself. Rokso simply collapsed, writhing and clutching his hands over his ears, as if trying to crush his head.

“#######!”

“#######, #### ####!”

Maybe if Rokso were conscious, he'd have desperate thoughts, but he didn't even remember who he was in the midst of all this madness and pain. Until—

“##, ### ###### o# ######, ### ##pe ## ###so# cri##!

O#e ####g ## ##### i# c####in—##at #h#s ##fe #lie#;

One thi#g is ##rtain, a## the r##t is #ie#;

T#e #lower t#at once ha# bl#omed forever dies…”

Somewhat coherent words filled his ears, barely calming his overstimulated senses and allowing him to think again, but he still didn't dare open his eyes.

“Sir, can you hear me?”

Mechanically, Rokso nodded at the question, but he could do no more as the darkness of exhaustion enveloped him, something he was grateful.