Keiran arrived home as he did every day, carrying on his shoulders the weight of a monotonous routine and the scars of a painful past. As soon as he crossed the threshold, he dropped his briefcase in the entrance and shed his work clothes with mechanical movements. With a sigh that seemed drawn from the depths of his soul, he collapsed on the sofa in the living room. His eyes fixed on the white ceiling and, out of the corner of his eye, on the lamp that hung in the center of the room, a choice that was never his.

It was an extravagant lamp, one of those that seem to belong in a ballroom rather than a modest apartment. His ex-wife had chosen it with the enthusiasm of someone looking to embellish a space, although for him it always represented a symbol of everything he hated: the superfluous, the pretentious, the unnecessary. However, he had agreed to buy it because she loved it. Or at least he thought she did. Keiran was always willing to yield, to accept her decisions, to put her happiness above his own. All he wanted was to see her smile, to take care of her and protect her, even at the cost of forgetting himself. But now, lying in the lonely apartment they once shared, he couldn't help but wonder if that absolute surrender had been a mistake, if the price of her happiness was too high.

The memories ambushed him, reliving the most humiliating and heartbreaking moment of his life.

"You don't behave like a real man!" Olivia had shouted at him that fateful afternoon, when he discovered her in his bed with another man. Not just any man; it was his own older brother. Her words were like sharp blades that pierced his chest. "You do everything I say without question, and that's absolutely annoying. I only want a masculine man, not a damn servant who obeys all my orders."

Keiran had been paralyzed in front of the scene, unable to utter a word. His heart broke into a thousand pieces as she continued to hurl reproaches at him with the fury of a storm.

"This is your fault," she continued, as she gathered her belongings with clumsy and hurried movements. "If you weren't so... so princessy! We could have been the family you wanted so much. But your brother gives me what you can't. You're not even rough in bed, do you think I enjoy that? I'd like you to act like a real man for once!"

Each word was a blow that sank him further into the abyss of his self-loathing. When Olivia left, hand in hand with his brother, Keiran could do nothing but watch. He wanted to scream, to demand, to demand explanations, he even had the urge to hit his brother for his betrayal. But he didn't. He remained motionless, a prisoner of his own cowardice, convinced that Olivia was right: he was so "unmanly" that he didn't even dare to fight for her, for her love.

Now, in the overwhelming silence of his living room, Keiran managed a bitter smile. The irony was not lost on him. He had spent years striving to be a devoted husband, an exemplary son, and a loyal brother, but all that sacrifice had not been enough to earn the respect or love of his family. Even when his company, founded with his effort and dedication, financially supported them all, they treated him like an intruder, an inferior being who did not deserve their appreciation.

Perhaps it was because his mother was just a humble young woman from the slums, or perhaps because his childhood was spent far from the glitz and glamour that had once defined his family, before ruin reached them. Whatever the reason, the contempt they felt for him was undeniable, a shadow that haunted him in every haughty glance and every word laden with condescension.

The family that should have given him support and love seemed to see him as an anomaly, a stain on the lineage they so revered. To them, he was an uncomfortable reminder of the mistakes of the past, a son born of failure, someone who could never live up to family expectations. Although he had dedicated his life to working hard, to building a name that they themselves had dropped in the dust, his efforts were never enough.

Every gesture of disdain, every poisoned comment, reinforced that sense of alienation. It was as if he wore an invisible mark that separated him from the rest, a label that read: "You don't belong." There were nights when he wondered if it was all his fault, if something in his essence was intrinsically flawed, incapable of earning the love of those who shared his same blood. And although he tried to convince himself that he shouldn't care, the truth was that it hurt. It hurt more than he was willing to admit.

He strove for years to fit in, to prove that he deserved a place in the family. But no matter how much he sacrificed, how much he worked, or how much success he achieved, his origins remained an insurmountable barrier. In their eyes, he would always be "the son of the girl from the slums," an intruder in a world that rejected him.

He had learned to live with contempt, to build walls around his heart to protect himself from the wounds they inflicted. But sometimes, those walls were not strong enough, and the pain seeped through, reminding him that, despite everything, he still longed for something as simple and complex as being accepted.

"I'm pathetic," he muttered, dropping an arm over his eyes, as if to block out reality. He was about to fall asleep when the insistent buzzing of his phone brought him back to the present. He reached for the coffee table, where the device was vibrating incessantly. The name of Tobias, his only friend, appeared on the screen.

"I hope you're not thinking about that bitch again," was the first thing Tobias said when Keiran answered the call. His tone was direct, almost brusque. Keiran frowned; although he no longer loved Olivia, he couldn't help but feel uncomfortable with the derogatory way his friend spoke about her.

"Tob..."

"Yes, yes, I know what you're going to say," Tobias interrupted with a sigh. "But honestly, I can't find another way to call her. That's what she is, a bitch." He paused briefly, but didn't give Keiran time to respond. "Anyway, I didn't call you to talk about her. I want to know if you've read the book I lent you yet."

Keiran glanced quickly around the room until his eyes found the book in question, resting on a corner of the table. He got up, picked it up, and examined the cover: a young woman with red hair and an innocent face dominated the illustration.

"Do I really have to read this?" he muttered dejectedly.

"Of course you do," Tobias replied enthusiastically. "There's a character who has your name! There's even an illustration of him on page twenty-two. You have to see it."

Keiran rolled his eyes and let out a resigned sigh.

"Okay, I'll read it. I'll tell you what I thought of it tomorrow."

"Perfect. See you tomorrow."

When the call ended, Keiran leafed through the book with some reluctance. He went to the kitchen and left the copy on the island while he prepared a light dinner. He thought about how absurd everything was: he was alone, with a plate of bland food, and about to read a fantasy book that he wasn't even interested in.

"Well, I have nothing to lose by reading it," he said to himself, returning to the sofa with the book in one hand and the plate in the other. Maybe the story would serve as a distraction, something that would take him away, even for a few hours, from the chaos that was his life.

And with that thought, he opened the book, unaware that those pages were about to offer him something more than a simple escape.

...****************...

...Hello everyone, this will be my new project. An omegaverse transmigration story, I hope you like it, leave your comments and likes....

...See you soon...

...Happy New Year and may all your goals be fulfilled....

Keiran slowly opened his eyes, feeling a sharp headache pounding like each beat was a reminder of something terrible. He blinked a few times, trying to focus on his surroundings. The dim light of the room seemed strange to him, as if he weren't in his home. He tried to sit up in bed, but his body, lighter and weaker than he remembered, moved with a clumsiness that was alarming.

The persistent pain forced him to bring his hand to his skull, searching for the source of the discomfort, but an unexpected tug on his arm made him gasp in surprise.

"Ouch!" he exclaimed aloud, more from the fright than the pain. Looking at his right hand, he found an intravenous cannula inserted into his vein. He froze for a moment, watching the thin hose that connected to a bag of serum hanging next to the bed. Confusion and alarm intertwined in his mind. When had he fainted? And, most importantly, how had he ended up there? No one had access to his apartment, or at least, he thought so.

He shook his head, trying to clear the questions that were beginning to accumulate, but a soft weight on his shoulders stopped him. His gaze lowered slowly, and a cascade of hair, between pink and purple, fell over his shoulders. Long, silky hair, and clearly coming from his head. He brought a trembling hand to it, touching it with disbelief. It wasn't a wig. It was his.

"What the fuck...?" he muttered in a hoarse voice, full of bewilderment. His mind frantically went over his last image in front of a mirror. His hair had been short, black, as he had always worn it. So, what the hell had happened?

With a hesitant effort, he got out of bed. His body protested immediately, weak, clumsy, as if it had forgotten how to move. He grabbed the serum stand to avoid falling and noticed something else strange: the floor seemed closer. A disturbing feeling invaded him. Had he shrunk? He went to the bathroom with hesitant steps, fighting against the weakness that invaded him, and turned on the light.

The reflection in the mirror froze him.

In front of him was someone else. A slender, pale figure, with delicate features that bordered on the feminine. Keiran moved a hand and the reflection did the same. It was not an illusion, it was not a trick. That face was not his, but the mirror insisted that it was.

"What the hell happened?" he shouted, releasing the serum stand and bringing both hands to his face. His fingers touched high cheekbones, a thin chin, and eyes that seemed huge due to the thinness of his face. He had lost all trace of his former appearance.

With trembling hands, he opened the hospital gown he was wearing, hoping that what he was seeing was some kind of misunderstanding, but what he found only worsened his anguish. His torso, once muscular and worked, was now almost skeletal. His abdomen, which he had proudly flaunted after years of effort in the gym, had disappeared, replaced by a narrow waist and bones that protruded disturbingly.

His breathing quickened, and the questions began to swirl in his mind like a whirlwind. Where were his muscles, his height, his usual body? What kind of cruel joke was this?

"Whose body is this and why am I here?!" he shouted into the air, hoping, wishing, that someone would answer him. But the only sound in the room was the echo of his own voice, filled with despair.

He slumped against the bathroom wall, feeling trapped in a nightmare from which he could not wake up. His mind searched for answers, but each attempt led to more questions. Had he been kidnapped? Some strange experiment? Or had he lost his mind completely? His world, his identity, everything he knew, seemed to have been snatched away in the blink of an eye, leaving in its place a terrifying void.

And, for the first time in a long time, Keiran didn't know what to do.

He was lost. Confused. Where had that appearance come from? He brought his hands to his face again, as if by touching it he could confirm that everything was real. His pale skin and the sharp contours of his face left no room for doubt: this body was not his. And then there were the eyes. His eyes. A vibrant and fascinating purple tone that, although undeniably beautiful, was impossible. Who the hell had purple eyes? It was a trait that only existed in fantastic stories, not in the real world.

He knew it. He had always had the same brown eyes, identical to those of his mother, who always said they were her most precious legacy. Thinking about it caused a knot in his stomach. It was as if that intimate connection with her had been erased along with his body.

"What is this?" he murmured, his voice trembling with a hint of despair. "How the hell did I get here?"

He tried to force his memory, but the only thing that emerged was a vague memory of the night before. He had been in the living room of his apartment, reading that fantasy book that his friend Tobias had lent him. "It's amazing, you have to read it," he had insisted over and over again. Against his will, he had given in. The story seemed entertaining, although somewhat predictable, and when he reached almost the end, fatigue overcame him. The last image in his mind was that of the open book, his body relaxed on the sofa.

So, how had he ended up there? In an unknown place and with an appearance that was not his?

Suddenly, something clicked in his mind. The details began to fit together in a disturbing way, like pieces of a puzzle that he didn't want to complete.

"The book!" he exclaimed suddenly, standing up abruptly. The action reminded him of the intravenous still connected to his arm, the tug of the tube almost made him lose his balance. He grumbled as he made sure to hold the bag of serum, recovering it from the floor where he had dropped it moments before.

He looked in the mirror again, this time with a growing sense of disbelief mixed with a hint of recognition. That appearance... That face… That body. He knew it.

Then he remembered. That image was of Keiran, the marginalized and despised omega from the book Tobias had lent him. Everything fit together in such an absurd way that he almost wanted to laugh, even if it was out of pure nervousness. It couldn't be possible, but there it was: the purple eyes, the hair between pink and purple, the slender and delicate complexion. Everything corresponded exactly with the character who bore his same name.

"Fuck..." he whispered, the weight of the situation falling on him like a slab. "How the hell did I get into this book?"

His mind was racing. He thought of the stories that Tobias had told him that he had read about fictional worlds and people magically transported, but those were just stories, right? This couldn't be happening. And yet, everything indicated that the impossible had become reality. He was trapped inside a world that didn't belong to him, a world that didn't even exist... until now.

He brought a hand to his chest, trying to calm the frantic beating of his heart. If this was true, if he was really inside the book, what did it mean for him? Keiran, the character, was not only despised, but had also faced a destiny full of suffering and abandonment.

"Damn..." he muttered, clenching his fists in frustration. He needed answers, and fast. But the question that troubled him the most was: if he had arrived in this world, was there any way to get out of it?

Keiran spent the entire night recalling the details of the book. Fragments of the story returned to his mind with a disturbing clarity, as if instead of having read them once, they were now part of his own memories. Even stranger was that he could evoke snippets of the life of the body he now inhabited, as if the memories of the literary Keiran had merged with his own. It was a strange sensation, like looking at his reflection in a distorted mirror.

He knew that the Keiran of the book was a secondary character, a figure condemned to suffering and oblivion. The narrative, though brief, detailed his life with a rawness that left no room for hope. He had been labeled a "villain," not for his actions, but for his desperation: clinging to the love of a man who only used him and being the obstacle between the protagonists. But the most heartbreaking part of his story was the final betrayal. Almost at the end of the book, Keiran discovered that his half-sister was his husband's lover.

"Ha, how ironic," he murmured, running a hand through his hair dyed a color that still felt strange to him. The life of the Keiran in the book and his own had too many similarities. For an instant, he allowed himself the absurd idea that someone had known him well enough to write that story, like a cruel reminder of his own misery.

However, there were important differences between them. To begin with, the literary Keiran was mute, his voice stolen by a childhood trauma that marked him for life. And then there was the biggest difference: the father of the Keiran in the book did love him.

That detail was crucial. Gabriel Sterling, his husband in the book, had agreed to the marriage not out of love, but out of interest. Keiran was the heir to a small fortune and a family business that, while not gigantic, had enough value to attract Sterling's ambition. After Keiran's father's death, Gabriel had forced him to sign the documents transferring all assets to his half-sister's name, then demanding a divorce. After that, Gabriel had kicked him out of Lockhart House, and the book mentioned nothing more about his fate.

Keiran closed his eyes, trying not to be overwhelmed by the rage he felt, a rage that was not entirely his own. Although the Keiran of the book had fought to the end for his husband's love, enduring constant humiliations from his stepmother and half-sister, he was never truly loved. Sterling had only been kind to ensure his own future. It was a futile struggle, a sacrifice in vain.

Keiran sighed, feeling a pang of pity for the man he had been before him. "Do I really have to suffer all that?" he wondered bitterly.

He had already lived that kind of pain in his previous life. He had experienced the contempt, the betrayal, and the emptiness of unrequited love. He had lost his mother too soon and, in a desperate attempt to escape loneliness, he had thrown himself into work to the point of exhaustion. Perhaps that was what killed him: the weariness, the exhaustion, the lack of a purpose beyond surviving.

And now, here he was, trapped in the body of a man whose fate seemed as miserable as his own. "It's not fair," he thought, clenching his fists tightly.

"No, it's unfair," he muttered softly, but with a determination that was beginning to grow within him. "I'm not going to suffer the same fate twice."

He got out of bed with renewed resolve, ignoring the tug of the IV in his arm. If he was going to live in this body, he would not resign himself to repeating the same story. He would do something different, change the course of fate, and if that meant facing those who had despised him, then so be it.

"I will give this body a good life... and I will find a way to get revenge on all of them," he said firmly, his purple eyes shining with a mixture of defiance and hope.

Keiran had already lost one life. This time, he would not allow anyone else to take away his opportunity to live fully. With that determination, he went back to bed, after all, he was tired and sore.

...****************...

The sound of voices reached his ears, pulling him from his lethargy. Keiran opened his eyes slowly, allowing the clarity of the day to invade his vision as he blinked, adjusting to the light. His body felt strangely rested, as if he had slept for days. He tried to sit up, and that movement immediately attracted the attention of those in the room.

"Darling," the honeyed voice made Keiran's stomach churn. He looked up and found Gabriel Sterling looking at him with an expression that was trying to be tender. "The unfaithful one." Keiran recognized him instantly. His husband, as perfect in appearance as the drawing in the book, but with a soul as rotten as the rest of them. "You scared me to death," Gabriel whispered as he hugged him with a gesture that was too affectionate to be sincere.

Gabriel's touch provoked a visceral reaction; Keiran had to suppress the urge to push him away and vomit. The hypocrisy of that man was simply disgusting.

"Brother, I was also very worried about you," added a voice that was just as irritating. Keiran turned his head to the left and saw Shelby, his half-sister. There she was, as beautiful as the illustration on the book cover, with her flawless smile and elegant bearing. But Keiran knew that, behind that facade, a venomous snake was hidden.

Gabriel finally stepped away, giving way to the next in the parade of falsehoods: his stepmother, Margaret. With the same feigned sweetness, she hugged him while speaking in a voice laden with theatricality.

"Oh, darling, you really scared me. When I saw you there, on the floor, full of blood, I feared the worst."

Hearing those words, a memory burst into Keiran's mind like a bomb. He was on the stairs. He could feel Shelby's hands shaking him violently, her nails digging into his skin like claws.

"You are nothing more than the son of a whore who messed with our father. You are a bastard who shouldn't be here," Shelby shouted, her eyes blazing with anger.

Keiran, or rather the original owner of that body, cried desperately, trying to break free from her grasp. But Shelby was out of control. With a brusque and hateful movement, she pushed him down the stairs.

The fall. The dull thud. The darkness.

Keiran blinked, returning to the present, as the echo of that last image invaded him. "That's how the real Keiran died," he thought. A blow to the head. However, something didn't fit: that scene wasn't in the book.

"Does it hurt a lot?" Margaret asked, feigning concern. Her cloying voice brought him completely back to reality. Keiran shook his head, forcing himself to appear fragile.

Margaret smiled, as if she was truly relieved.

"That's good, son. I wouldn't know how to explain this to your father."

Keiran silently observed the faces of those around him. The fake smiles, the calculated gestures, the hypocritical aura that permeated the room. He felt nauseous, not only because of the disgust they produced, but also because of the contained hatred that grew inside him. He wanted to scream at them, expose them, but he knew it wasn't the time.

Revenge had to be cold, meticulous. Any mistake could cost him everything, and he was not willing to waste this second chance. For now, he would continue with the role that had been assigned to him: the poor, helpless mute, a harmless figure in everyone's eyes.

"For now..." he muttered to himself, barely moving his lips. His purple eyes shone with a mixture of determination and contained rage as he watched the hypocritical faces around him.

Patience would be his greatest ally. And when the time came, no one would be spared from his punishment.