The first thing Owen felt was softness. Not just any softness—expensive softness. The kind that sunk in slightly beneath your weight, that carried the faint scent of perfume and silk.
His eyes fluttered open to a ceiling painted like the heavens. Gilded trim, chandeliers with floating crystals, sheer curtains flowing with the breeze of an open balcony door.
This wasn't his dingy apartment.
"…What the hell?"
Owen sat up slowly—then immediately froze.
There was a woman beside him.
Naked.
Her chest rose and fell gently beneath a cascade of silvery hair. Her back was bare and smooth, marred only by faint red marks.
His eyes flicked down—he was shirtless. His pants… gone.
The bed—massive, canopy-style, draped in wine-colored sheets.
And then it clicked. Not all at once, but like puzzle pieces shoving themselves together in a panic.
The bed. The smell. The feel of someone else's skin. The sheer luxury of the room.
This… wasn't just not his room.
This wasn't his body.
Panic fluttered in his chest. He looked at his hands—longer fingers. Paler complexion. Calloused, but refined. His eyes landed on the mirror across the room—and the man staring back was not Owen Drayke.
Dark tousled hair. A sharp jawline. Crimson eyes, almost glowing in the morning light.
"…Who the fuck?"
He clutched his head as memories—foreign ones—poured in. Fuzzy at first, like static over an old TV, but they sharpened rapidly. Names. Places. Battles. Women.
A name surfaced in his mind. Repeatedly.
"Grwm Yuval."
He said it once.
Then again.
"Gram Yuval…"
It rolled off his tongue like it belonged there. And that was when it hit him—like a nostalgic truck barreling through a school zone.
"No. No. No. Not that guy."
He knew that name.
Knew this story.
Hero's Last Crusade. A high fantasy webnovel he binge-read a year ago. Knights, empires, gods, magic… and Gram Yuval, the infamous rival and NTR bastard that constantly messed with the protagonist's life. A sex-hungry noble with a sharp sword, a sharper tongue, and a reputation so dirty it made back alleys look clean.
And now?
He was him.
He stared at the woman beside him again with horror, and just then—she stirred.
"Mmm… young master?" she murmured groggily, lifting her head from the pillow.
Owen flinched.
Her name surfaced from the foreign memories like a label being ripped open: Runa. His personal maid. Loyal. Fiercely devoted. And, apparently, one of Gram's many… frequent visitors.
Owen's face burned with a dozen emotions at once.
I slept with her?! I—
No. Gram did.
That lucky, scummy, aristocratic—"bastard."
"Young master?" she repeated, sitting up and clutching the sheets to her chest, her cheeks still tinted pink from last night's heat. "Are you… alright?"
Owen nodded stiffly. "Yeah. I'm fine."
That was a LIE.
I'm not okay. I'm in a damn NTR novel. In a villain's body. After a night of "servicing" a personal maid I don't even remember. I am—Not. Okay.
Still, Runa gave a soft smile, brushing her hair back.
"I'll go prepare your bath," she said, sliding off the bed gracefully. As she gathered her underthings, she paused shyly. "Thank you for… last night, young master. You were… generous."
Owen's brain nearly short-circuited.
He gave her a tight smile. "Of course… anytime."
She dressed quickly and bowed before leaving the room.
And just like that—he was alone.
Owen dropped back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling again, his mind racing.
No clue how he got here. No memory of any transition. Just—this. New body. Foreign world. Sinful bedsheets. And a gnawing sense of existential dread.
He dragged himself to the edge of the bed and stood, bare-chested, moving to the wide balcony doors.
The view was breathtaking.
A sprawling capital city. Skyships drifting lazily above domed temples and spiraling towers. Flags of noble houses flapping in the morning wind. Magic-infused lanterns still flickering in the shadows below.
This was real.
He was inside Hero's Last Crusade.
And worse…
He was Gram Yuval.
The man the readers hated.
The man the protagonist swore to destroy.
The man who NTR'd half the cast.
Looking at his reflection in the polished marble wall beside the balcony, Owen scowled.
"…You really were a handsome bastard."
He turned away from his reflection with a grimace.
"I need to figure this out. Fast."
Because if the story played out anything like the novel…
He was on borrowed time.