Chapter:-5

Suddenly, the door creaked open.

I turned my head, still groggy, and saw a woman step inside.

She looked like she was in her early thirties, but there was something... wrong with that assumption. Her beauty wasn't ordinary, or even extraordinary—it was timeless, untouched by years, like she had stepped out of a dream painted centuries ago and simply refused to fade.

Her hair was black—no, not just black. It was deeper than that. It was the color of a starless, lightless night, cascading down her back like a river of pure silk. Her skin wasn't just pale—it glowed, catching the soft candlelight with an almost supernatural delicacy, like porcelain you were afraid to even breathe on.

Her features were the kind that made poets hate themselves: high, proud cheekbones, a slender nose, lips curved in a shape that somehow looked both wistful and strong at the same time.

And then there were her eyes.

God.

Those eyes.

They were black, yes—but not a normal black.

It was the black of a bottomless pit, the kind you could fall into forever without even realizing you were falling. It wasn't just darkness—it was absence. An endless void that somehow... still felt warm when they landed on me.

She looked like she belonged on a throne carved from the bones of dead stars.

Regal. Ethereal. Untouchable.

But the second her gaze locked onto mine, all that grandeur shattered like brittle glass.

Her eyes widened; her lips trembled.

"My boy! You're awake!" she cried out, her voice breaking under the weight of emotions too big to carry.

Before I could even process anything, she was already there, crossing the room faster than my mind could catch up.

She threw her arms around me, hugging me so tightly it felt like she was trying to stitch my broken pieces back together just with her warmth.

I froze.

I didn't know how to react.

My body—slow, stiff—just stood there while her warmth bled into me, grounding me in a way I hadn't even realized I needed.

There was something terrifyingly familiar about her touch.

Something ancient.

Something buried deep inside me.

Before I even understood why—without even giving myself permission—tears welled up in my eyes.

They slipped down my cheeks silently, steady and shameful, like my body remembered something my mind was still too broken to grasp.

She didn't say anything else.

She just held me. Tighter.

Tighter.

Like if she let go, I'd disappear.

She ran her fingers through my hair, her voice cracking with a trembling laugh. "Still trying to act so tough... even while crying like a little baby."

I gave a weak, pathetic snort against her shoulder.

I should have pulled away.

Should have wiped my face.

Should have pretended I was fine.

But for once...

I didn't.

I let her hold me.

I let the cracks show.

I let myself be someone loved.

And somewhere between all that choking emotion, the realization hit me like a sucker punch to the gut:

This woman was Selena Aryan.

My mother.

The wife of Asher Aryan.

And somehow, despite the fear, the confusion, the thousand sharp questions slicing my insides apart...

In her arms, I felt safe.

Truly safe.

For the first time in what felt like forever.

But—because the universe is a twisted little shit that can't let a guy breathe—the air in the room suddenly shifted.

It thickened.

Pressed down against my skin like invisible hands.

A strange, heavy pressure crackled through the room, setting every nerve I had on fire.

I turned my head—

And there he was.

A tall figure, standing in the doorway like he'd been carved out of the storm itself.

I'd seen him once before, right before I blacked out—a blurry silhouette—but now, now he was crystal clear.

He was tall, maybe six feet, with a body built like an athlete: broad shoulders, strong arms, a powerful chest, every line of him saying, "I am not someone you fuck with."

His hair...

Silver.

Not old man gray—no, this was silver like fallen moonlight, each strand catching the faint light and scattering it like it was alive.

And his face?

Unfair.

Sharp jawline, strong nose, lips that looked like they were allergic to smiling but could probably kill if they ever tried.

A face that shouldn't exist outside of paintings or war myths.

But it was his eyes that froze me.

Crimson.

Not red—not some cheap cartoonish red.

These were deep, heavy embers that burned in the sockets of a man who had seen too much and lost even more.

They glowed faintly, smoldering in the shadows.

The weight of his gaze hit me like a physical force.

Instinctively, I tensed.

Fight or flight, pure animal panic.

This man could kill me with a twitch if he wanted to.

But then—

He crossed the room in three long strides and, without hesitation, he wrapped me in his arms.

Not rough.

Not cold.

Warm.

Solid.

Real.

Like home.

He held me like he thought I might break.

Like I was something fragile he'd been searching for across impossible distances.

I didn't fight him.

I didn't even think.

I just...

let myself be held.

And for the second time that day, the tight knot in my chest unraveled a little more.

Somewhere deep inside me, beyond reason, beyond logic, I knew.

This man was Asher Aryan.

My father.

And when my arms moved—slow, shaky, hesitant—and wrapped around him, it wasn't a conscious decision.

It was my body, moving on its own.

An ancient memory, buried too deep for words.

I hugged him back.

Small. Broken. But there.

And when my mom's soft voice broke the moment, I barely heard it through the roaring in my head:

"I think he's still feeling the aftershock, honey. Give him some space."

Then she turned to me, brushing my hair back tenderly.

"Rest, Rayan. You need it."

I tried to say something—anything—but only a small, cracked sound escaped.

They left quietly after that, slipping out of the room and shutting the heavy door behind them.

I thought I was alone.

(Yeah, right. Because life was clearly in a generous mood today.)

Before I could even catch my breath, a voice drifted in from the half-open doorway:

"Why are you still lying there like a corpse? Come on, loser, sit up."

I blinked.

Standing there—wind tugging dramatically at her hair, crimson eyes glowing like freshly lit coals—was a girl who looked way too smug for someone interrupting my mental breakdown.

She looked about my age, maybe a little younger.

Same height as me, though somehow she felt taller just by how she stood.

Her hair was silver like Dad's, but longer, tied back in a messy braid that looked like she either didn't care or deliberately made it look that way.

Her face?

Unfair, again.

If Selena looked like she stepped out of a painting, this girl looked like she'd smashed the frame and strutted out to conquer the world instead.

Sharp, elegant features.

A smirk playing on her lips like she was in on a joke nobody else understood.

Eyes so piercing they could probably slice through souls and leave the pieces neatly stacked.

Her whole vibe screamed goddess of chaos in training.

"Well? Gonna sit there leaking tears all day?" she said, walking inside like she owned the place. She dropped herself into a chair beside me and propped one leg over the other lazily. "Geez, I thought my loser brother was going to die from a minor headache. Guess you're more stubborn than you look."

That's right.

I said brother.

Because, plot twist:

This demon-child was Serena Aryan.

My twin sister.

Yay me.

Now, if you're wondering what kind of relationship we had, let me break it down:

Serena was like a knife in a pretty sheath.

Beautiful. Deadly. Sharp enough to make you bleed before you even knew you were cut.

She didn't love anyone but herself—at least, not yet.

In my memories, she was a manipulator, a strategist, someone who could make kings dance at the end of her strings and smile sweetly while doing it.

But in the novel—the one I half-remembered from before I came here—something changed.

After Rayan's "death" (yeah, spoiler alert, thanks brain), Serena shifted.

She stopped being the cold, calculating heiress and became a staunch supporter of the hero.

Eventually, she even inherited the House of Aryan, ruling with grace and power.

Oh, and she had a boyfriend at some point, apparently.

His name was... something.

Ruh?

Ruen?

I honestly couldn't remember clearly.

(Brain fog: one. Rayan: zero.)

Anyway, right now, she was staring at me with that trademark smirk of hers, arms crossed.

"Seriously," she said, voice dripping sarcasm. "If a little existential crisis is all it takes to break you, maybe you really should've stayed asleep."

I wiped my face roughly with my sleeve, scowling at her.

She just laughed.

Because of course she did.

Because that's what Serena Aryan does:

Kicks you when you're down—

—and somehow makes you want to get back up just to wipe that smug look off her face.

And somehow, stupidly, idiotically...

That felt almost comforting too.

Yeah.

Welcome back, Rayan Aryan.

You're gonna need all the luck you can get.