In a lavish chamber adorned with aristocratic opulence, where velvet drapes whispered secrets and golden chandeliers cast a soft glow upon the polished marble, a row of dormant stasis pods lay in silence—silent, but not still.
Suddenly, from one of the pods, something stirred.
An instant later, a violent explosion shattered the tranquility. The pod's lid was blown open with brutal force, flung across the room like a leaf in a storm. The shockwave rippled through the mansion, shaking walls and scattering delicate ornaments like feathers in the wind.
And from within the darkness of the pod, two amethyst eyes slowly opened—burning with ethereal brilliance, as if they alone could illuminate the void.
The figure stepped out.
He moved with unsettling grace, stabilizing his body as if waking from a century-long slumber. His expression was unreadable, carved from stone—an indifference colder than winter's breath. Yet his eyes... his eyes seemed haunted, hollow, infinite—twin galaxies staring out at a world that no longer held meaning.
Elsewhere, two other pods began to hiss open.
Unlike the cataclysmic rebirth of the first, these two opened with gentle mechanical sighs, quiet and almost reverent. Kai gasped awake, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. Rage seethed within him—burning like acid in his veins.
Klaus...
Klaus had betrayed them.
The thought seared through his mind like a brand. He turned—and froze.
Standing before him was not the Klaus he knew.
Instead, a man stood there—too beautiful to be real. Ethereal, too flawless to be of mortal origin. He was tall, over six feet, his posture poised with aristocratic grace. Long white hair spilled down his back like moonlight cascading over snowdrifts, shimmering with every subtle movement. His skin was pale alabaster, soft and flawless like a preserved statue, untouched by time or sin. His physique, lean and powerful, gave him an air of elegance rather than brute strength. And his eyes... cold, amethyst, hollow—voids that shimmered with cosmic light and dispassion.
Kai's rage faltered, drowned beneath the tide of confusion. Who was this man?
Effie's pod opened next with a soft hiss. Joy lit up her face as she leapt out—her first steps, ever. A life once trapped in a wheelchair now replaced by freedom and strength. Her eyes sparkled with wonder.
The strange man turned to them, expression softening into professionalism. He gave a shallow bow, his voice calm and melodic.
"Congratulations on your Ascension, Mr. Kai. Miss Athena. Mr. Klaus has already departed to attend an urgent matter. Shall I notify him of your awakening?"
Kai blinked, baffled, still struggling to assemble a coherent thought. Everything felt off, like he had stepped into a play mid-performance.
"Yes… please inform him," he answered politely, on autopilot.
The man nodded, produced a small notebook, and jotted something down in swift, refined strokes. He glanced up with an elegant smile.
"Very good," he said smoothly. "Is there anything else you desire?"
Effie's lips curled into a wild grin. She flexed her newfound strength and shattered the metal lid of her pod with a single hand, laughing in delight.
"Well, I'm starving, pretty boy. Go fetch us something to eat, would you?"
Unfazed, the man nodded once more, as if handling a royal banquet request.
Kai, however, remained trapped in a web of confusion. The man had taken control of the conversation from the first breath—deflecting, reframing, always a step ahead. And now he was casually discussing food like this wasn't completely surreal.
Kai was unaccustomed to this kind of interaction. Back when he was an idol, others had always handled logistics. Public appearances, schedules, decisions—someone else had always taken care of it.
Effie was already daydreaming of food when it hit them both like a silent spell. A sudden heaviness washed over them. Sleep clawed at the edges of their consciousness. Weariness curled around their minds like smoke, whispering: Rest. It's all meaningless now. Just sleep…
From the shadowed corner emerged Loki, his golden eyes glinting like polished coins in the dark. His obsidian wings rustled, claws raking across the floor with a low, eerie scratch.
And behind Kai and Effie, silent as a falling leaf, Miseria appeared. She reached out with hands invisible to the soul, beginning her quiet work.
The man turned toward the mirror on the far wall—and began to change.
The illusion melted. His height lessened, his beauty softened. The radiant white hair darkened to a deep, natural black. The perfection blurred, giving way to something more human, more real.
Since his childhood, he had never known what he would look like as a man. After tearing his own face from his skull long ago, he had worn a hundred masks—identities borrowed or built, none his own. Now, post-ascension, his body had been reforged. The mirror had offered him a glimpse of his truest face…
Ascension had reforged him, body and spirit. And through it, he had regained a self he had never been given—a face that belonged to him.
Klaus stood unmoving. The silence of the room louder than any scream. His mind spun with newfound understanding—of fate, of stories, of his cursed attribute: Narrator. The truth gnawed at his sanity.
He looked once more at the sleeping forms of Kai and Effie.
But they were no longer themselves.
Effie resembled a gluttonous beast now—eating endlessly, her hunger infinite, her joy twisted by excess. No longer a girl who'd found her feet—she had become a creature devouring the world to fill a void.
Kai, on the other hand, resembled a regal lizard. Self-righteous, vain. Behind the noble posture lurked hypocrisy, cowardice wrapped in pride. A beast wearing a man's mask.
Klaus knew these sins well. Gluttony. Hypocrisy.
He sighed softly.
The glow in his eyes dimmed as the illusion faded. They were human again—flawed, fragile, familiar. Seeing the truth was a terrible burden, and he had no desire to carry it longer than he must.
Klaus shook his head slowly, a subtle tremor betraying the storm of emotions behind his otherwise composed face. His expression wavered, caught somewhere between conflict and detachment. Of course Kai would know he had abandoned them—forged ahead alone to chase a purpose greater than sentiment. Klaus did not regret it. He was not in the wrong. And if he truly desired… he could erase them. Annihilate them without hesitation.
But should he sever that fragile thread of connection? Was it truly necessary to burn bridges with those who once stood beside him?
His gaze lowered, a hand rising to cover his mouth as he turned his gaze toward the two sleeping figures. His expression shifted—no longer pensive, but glacial. Cold as polished steel.
He could erase the betrayal.
He could simply erase it all.
Just wipe the slate clean.
Why struggle with reconciliation, with confrontation, when he could rewrite the narrative? Let them wake up to a lie—a beautiful, seamless illusion. A story where he never left, where he was their savior, not their Judas.
Miseria stood at the ready, watching him with her usual ghostly composure. A nod was all it took. She descended upon them like a dreamweaver in mourning, her spectral fingers plucking memories from their minds like threads from an old tapestry. The betrayal vanished. In its place, she wove a fiction: Klaus, the savior. Klaus, the loyal. Klaus, the friend who never faltered.
Satisfied, Klaus left them in Miseria's care and entered the adjoining chamber. The bathroom mirror greeted him with ghostly stillness. As he approached, his reflection began to shift, his form unraveling like silk drawn through invisible fingers. His shorter stature melted away. His black hair returned to its original, lustrous white. And once again, standing before the mirror was the true Klaus—ethereal, flawless, and almost inhuman in beauty.
He frowned.
Was he truly this beautiful?
He looked like an angel that had murdered God and taken his place at the throne.
The thought distracted him for a moment, lifting a chuckle from his chest. But the levity died quickly, replaced by the heavy hum of thought—of what he had learned. Of fate. Of his cursed understanding. Of what it meant to see the world for what it truly was.
He took a long breath, then shifted his form once more—his divine veneer melting away, hair turning coal-black, stature shrinking, beauty fading. He became plain again, anonymous, forgettable.
He splashed cold water onto his face, pressing his fingers to his temples as if to hold back the thoughts clawing at his sanity.
"Calm down…" he muttered under his breath, voice rough with tension. "It doesn't matter. Every life is a story, whether we realize it or not. So what if I understand it now? That doesn't make everything a lie. My family… my enemies… Cassie… they were real. They are real…"
He wiped his face with a towel, then looked up again—and froze.
Sitting on his shoulders were… well, himself.
One was a miniature devil: horns twisted like obsidian, reptilian wings flicking with irritation, tail coiled and twitching. The other was a serene little angel: halo aglow, white wings unfurled, his face tranquil in that self-righteous, sanctimonious way that only Klaus himself could manage.
Klaus stared, blinking.
"…I've finally lost it," he murmured. "Spectacular. I'm hallucinating tiny versions of myself. Great. Do I have schizophrenia now, or is this just ego-induced psychosis?"
The devilish one scoffed, arms crossed and tail flicking in agitation. "Oh shut up, drama queen. You're not crazy, you're just being a massive pussy. You think we're figments? You think you're the only version of you up here?" He jabbed a clawed thumb at Klaus's head. "Get your shit together, bastard. What kind of man sulks in the dark, whining like some miserable little wretch? You're just scared. Grow a pair, gather your little friends, and use them. Toss them away, sell them, I don't give a damn. But stop being so pathetic."
Klaus blinked at him in stunned silence, then slowly turned to the angelic version, expecting comfort. Guidance. Some glimmer of hope.
The angel opened his glowing eyes and said, in a voice calm as falling snow:
"What are you staring at? Get your shit together."
Klaus's jaw slackened. He stared at the angel, then the devil, then back again.
"Unbelievable," he muttered. "Even the better version of me is an asshole."
And just like that, they vanished.
Klaus remained still, glaring at the empty space they had occupied.
Bloody hell...
Yet somehow, they had a point. Crying in the bathroom like some emotionally unstable opera singer wasn't helping anyone. He wasn't some fragile soul begging the world for kindness. He was Klaus.
And Klaus got shit done.
With that thought, Klaus clenched his fist and drove it into the mirror, shattering it with a deafening crack. The fragments exploded outward, some embedding in the wall, others falling like glass rain. The pain grounded him. Centered him.
Yes. So what if he had become the Narrator? So what if he could see all sins laid bare? So what if the weight of understanding threatened to collapse his soul?
No one cared.
And that was fine.
It was time to stop sulking and do the damn job.