The operating room was unnaturally quiet.

Not the quiet of peace, but the suffocating stillness that settled after too much screaming. Blood stained the floor in thin, dried trails that no one had bothered to clean. The metallic scent of iron clung stubbornly to the air, mixing with antiseptic and the faint smoke drifting in from the battlefield outside.

At the center of the room stood a man dressed in a white coat.

His sleeves were neatly rolled to his forearms, his gloves spotless despite everything around him. Every movement was measured, almost elegant, as he adjusted the surgical instruments laid out before him.

Across the operating table, an enemy soldier strained against thick leather restraints. His breathing came in shallow, uneven gasps. Sweat soaked his hair, and the little strength he had left was spent trying to pull free.

"...Please..."

The plea was barely audible.

The doctor didn't even look up.

"Fascinating," he murmured instead, studying the man's pulse with quiet interest.

To anyone else, it would have looked like cruelty.

To him...

It was research.

War had become the greatest laboratory humanity had ever created. Every wounded soldier, every shattered limb, every dying heartbeat offered another chance to understand the limits of the human body.

He had long stopped seeing patients.

He only saw specimens.

The operating room door swung open.

A woman entered without knocking, still dressed in a white medical gown streaked with dust from the field hospital. She folded her arms tightly across her chest, her patience already gone.

"You're doing it again."

The doctor's hand paused for only a second.

"Am I?"

His voice remained calm, almost distracted, as though she'd interrupted a pleasant afternoon conversation.

Her eyes drifted toward the restrained soldier.

"This stopped being treatment a long time ago."

Silence stretched between them.

The doctor finally removed his gloves, peeling them off one finger at a time before turning around.

He looked perfectly ordinary.

Black hair.

Composed posture.

A face that would have seemed kind, if not for his eyes.

Those eyes held no sympathy.

No hesitation.

Only endless curiosity.

The woman sighed.

"...You really are insane."

Mikhail regarded her for a long moment before giving a faint smile.

"I simply believe life should be enjoyed while it lasts."

Her eyebrows shot upward.

"You call this fun?"

"I do."

She stared at him in disbelief.

"You're experimenting on a living person."

"Yes."

"You say that so casually."

"I wasn't aware I was supposed to sound guilty."

Kim Haerin pinched the bridge of her nose.

"You're impossible."

"So I've been told."

"You know," she muttered, "sometimes I wonder how someone with your talent became such a complete psychopath."

"Hm."

He tilted his head thoughtfully.

"Perhaps the same way someone with a medical degree spends her nights reading novels where two men fall in love and somehow produce children."

Haerin froze.

"...Excuse me?"

"It seems biologically inefficient."

"It's fiction!"

"So is your sense of scientific dignity."

She pointed an accusing finger at him.

"I separate fiction from reality."

"And yet you enjoy reading it."

"Because it's entertaining!"

He gave a small nod.

"Then we're not so different."

"We are completely different!"

"I perform research for entertainment."

"I read novels!"

"Entertainment."

"Research."

"Not the same thing!"

A faint laugh escaped him.

It wasn't loud.

It wasn't mocking.

If anything, it sounded genuinely amused.

Haerin clicked her tongue in frustration.

"I swear, one day you'll die because of that twisted personality."

"I look forward to discovering whether death is as interesting as life."

"...See? That's exactly the kind of thing a crazy person says."

Without another word, Mikhail turned toward the exit.

The conversation had ended the moment it stopped entertaining him.

Outside, artillery thundered across the horizon. The earth trembled beneath another barrage, followed by distant gunfire and shouted commands.

The war continued.

It always did.

He reached for the door.

Then the world exploded.

The blast swallowed the building before thought could become action.

The walls folded inward.

Glass shattered.

Fire rushed through the operating room like a living thing.

For the first time in years, instinct overpowered reason.

Mikhail moved.

He grabbed Haerin by the shoulder and forced her to the ground, shielding her beneath his own body just as concrete and steel rained down around them.

Something heavy struck his back.

Pain bloomed through every nerve.

His vision blurred.

Warm blood trickled down his temple.

So...

This was what dying felt like.

Odd.

After spending an entire lifetime dissecting bodies and studying death from the outside, he'd never imagined experiencing it himself.

His heartbeat slowed.

Each breath became shallower than the last.

He noted every sensation with detached curiosity.

The loss of feeling in his fingertips.

The ringing in his ears.

The heaviness spreading through his limbs.

Remarkable.

His final observation.

The last sound he heard before darkness swallowed everything...

...was Haerin screaming his name.

.

.

.

Silence.

Not empty.

Gentle.

Almost comforting.

Mikhail opened his eyes.

Soft morning light filtered through towering curtains embroidered with silver thread. Warm sunlight spilled across polished wooden floors, illuminating furniture carved with a level of craftsmanship that belonged in museums rather than hospitals.

There was no smoke.

No blood.

No smell of iron.

He lay motionless, studying the unfamiliar ceiling.

"...This isn't the battlefield."

His voice sounded wrong.

Younger.

Smoother.

He slowly sat upright.

His body felt unnaturally light, almost fragile, as if someone had stripped away years of muscle and replaced them with glass.

He lifted one hand.

Long fingers.

Smooth skin.

Not his.

Interesting.

Instead of panicking, he flexed each finger experimentally before pressing two against his wrist.

A pulse.

Healthy.

Different.

His expression barely changed.

A knock echoed from the door.

"Young Master?"

A timid female voice.

"May I come in?"

"Enter."

The door opened, revealing a young maid carrying a breakfast tray. The moment she saw him sitting upright, relief washed across her face.

"Young Master! You're finally awake!"

She hurried toward him before stopping several steps away.

Mikhail noticed it immediately.

She was relieved.

But she was also afraid.

Fear always revealed itself in the smallest details—the stiffness of the shoulders, the hesitation before speaking, the way her eyes refused to meet his for too long.

He had spent years studying people.

This girl feared him.

"Where am I?"

She blinked.

"My... lord?"

"I asked a question."

"...The Duke of Lelouche's estate."

A noble household.

Useful information.

"And who am I?"

This time, genuine confusion crossed her face.

"You are Young Master Aries Cain de Lelouche... the youngest son of His Grace."

Aries.

Cain.

De Lelouche.

He repeated the name silently.

No memories surfaced.

No emotions followed.

Only facts.

He stood from the bed and crossed the room.

The mirror reflected someone he had never seen before.

A handsome young noble.

Delicate features.

Pale skin.

Silver hair that framed a face far too beautiful to inspire caution.

The sort of face people underestimated.

He smiled.

It looked unnatural.

"I see."

Behind him, the maid unconsciously stepped back.

He noticed.

Interesting.

Then another memory surfaced.

Not his own.

Haerin's voice.

Alpha.

Beta.

Omega.

That absurd novel she had insisted on reading between surgeries.

The maid hesitated before speaking again.

"The physician said... it was fortunate that your secondary gender remained a beta, Young Master."

...

Beta.

For the first time since awakening, genuine amusement appeared in Mikhail's eyes.

A quiet laugh escaped him.

"So that ridiculous story..."

"...was real."

The maid stared at him in confusion.

Mikhail ignored her.

Whether this was reincarnation, hallucination, or something beyond science hardly mattered.

He was alive.

He possessed a new body.

A new world.

And an entirely new field of study.

His smile slowly widened.

Cold.

Curious.

Dangerously sincere.

"It seems..."

"...I've been given another chance to conduct research."

TO BE CONTINUED…