Damon stood in front of the mirror, his bare form reflected clearly against the polished surface, while the familiar white and navy-blue interior of the Duke's manor bedroom stretched behind him exactly as he remembered it, every detail so vivid and precise that for a moment his mind failed to question it, as though he had simply returned to a place he had never truly left.
His gaze lingered on his own reflection, golden eyes meeting golden eyes, before his brows drew together slightly and he muttered under his breath, almost absentmindedly, "Huh… isn't this the moment right after I transmigrated…?"
A faint unease crept in as he stepped closer.
Slowly, cautiously, Damon raised his hand and reached toward the mirror, intending to confirm the illusion, but just before his fingers could touch the surface, something felt wrong, something subtle yet deeply unsettling, because the reflection did not follow.
It did not move.
His hand hung mid-air.
