I shoved the crumpled letter back into my pocket without even glancing at it. I didn't need some piece of parchment to remind me of my fate. Harrison's fate. Mine now, whether I liked it or not.
The only thing that mattered was the timer—90 days. That number burned into my mind like a brand.
I couldn't afford to waste another second. The Delacroix estate was waiting, and whether I was ready or not, I had to face the music.
I glanced at the mirror one last time. Harrison's face stared back—sharp jawline, cold blue eyes, a perfect, smug bastard.
The face of a dead man who didn't even know it yet.
How had it come to this?
The game. Crown of Shadows.
I had spent years buried in that world, escaping my miserable life. Now I was trapped in it. And not as some hero, not even as a hidden boss with some broken power set.
No. I was Harrison Delacroix. The scumbag. The traitor. The one everyone in the story hated.
And according to the screen that popped up earlier, I had 90 days to commit crimes—or be erased.
What a fucking nightmare.
I grabbed a coat off the back of the chair and threw it over my shoulders. It was way too extravagant—velvet, silver trim—but the least of my problems now.
The door creaked open as I stepped out into the hallway.
Silent. Empty.
The walls, the chandeliers, the polished floors—all of it screamed wealth and power. But it was hollow. Rotten at the core.
Just like the man whose life I was wearing like a second skin.
My footsteps echoed as I started down the hall, my thoughts racing.
The "Criminal Performance System" wasn't optional. It was a sword hanging over my head.
Commit crimes. Earn points. Survive.
Or disappear.
I didn't even know yet what Harrison had done to piss off his own family this badly.
But that letter made one thing clear: this wasn't going to be a warm welcome.
A soft knock at the door ahead interrupted my spiral.
"Master Harrison," came a voice, calm but tight with unease. "Your carriage is ready, sir."
I stopped, clenching my jaw.
No choice. No backing out.
If I wanted answers, the Delacroix estate was the only place I'd get them.
"Right," I said, forcing the words through my teeth, trying to summon the effortless arrogance that came so naturally to Harrison.
"Tell them I'll be down in a minute."
The servant nodded and vanished, their footsteps fading into the silence.
I stood there, breathing in the cold, heavy air.
The clock was ticking.
The system was watching.
And if I wanted to keep breathing after these 90 days, I had to act like Harrison. Walk his path. Play the villain—until I figured out a way to win.
No hesitation. No second-guessing.
I moved forward, the mansion feeling less like a home and more like a prison with every step.
At the grand staircase, I paused, feeling the weight of this cursed life settle over me.
This wasn't a game anymore.
This was survival.
And if I didn't outsmart this twisted world, I'd end up just like Harrison—betrayed, framed, and executed for a crowd that would cheer as my blood hit the cobblestones.
I reached the front doors. The carriage waited beyond them, horses snorting in the crisp morning air.
"Let's get this over with," I muttered.
It was time to meet the Delacroix family—and find out just how deep this nightmare went.
The carriage ride was miserable.
Every rattle of the wheels was like a countdown ticking in my ears. Ninety days left.
Maybe less if I played my cards wrong.
Outside, the mist rolled across the bleak, endless fields. The Delacroix lands. Even the weather seemed to be brooding. Typical.
I leaned my forehead against the cold glass window, sighing.
This is it. Welcome to hell. Population: Me.
I sat back, trying to piece together what little I knew. Harrison Delacroix: a rich, arrogant bastard who had somehow managed to piss off an entire noble family renowned for backstabbing each other at Sunday brunch.
If there was a dumbass Olympics, Harrison would've taken gold, silver, and bronze.
And now I was him.
The carriage shuddered to a stop, nearly throwing me off the seat. Great start.
The door swung open, and an older man in a stiff black uniform bowed low.
"Welcome home, Master Harrison," he said, like he was reading it off a script and had already started looking for the exits.
I climbed down, my boots crunching on the gravel.
Before me, the Delacroix estate loomed—towering stone walls, razor-sharp spires, and just enough ominous torchlight to make it clear that yes, this was where dreams came to die.
A line of servants bowed, synchronized like clockwork. Not a single smile among them.
Yeah. Definitely a welcoming party.
"Your father awaits you in the council hall," the butler said, voice clipped and cold.
I resisted the urge to tell him I was suddenly feeling sick.
"Lead the way," I said instead, doing my best to channel Harrison's trademark arrogance. Which mostly felt like pretending I had a stick shoved up my spine.
The butler nodded and turned, and I followed him into the beast's stomach.
The inside of the estate wasn't much better.
Dim corridors. Heavy wooden doors. Chandeliers heavy enough to flatten a man if they fell wrong.
Everything smelled like old money and quiet resentment.
Finally, we stopped in front of two massive doors carved with the family crest: a sword wrapped in chains.
Subtle.
The butler knocked once.
A voice answered from within, colder than the grave.
"Enter."
The doors creaked open, and I stepped into the council hall.
It was exactly how I remembered it from lore dumps—just with the added bonus of me being the sacrificial lamb this time.
High-backed chairs ringed the room like vultures circling a corpse. Stained-glass windows let in an anemic sort of light.
And dead center, like a spider in a web, sat Lord Orson Delacroix.
Harrison's father.
My father now, apparently.
Awesome.
He looked down at me, his ice-pale eyes pinning me to the floor.
"You return to us after disgracing this house," he said. "And you expect forgiveness?"
There was no good answer to that. Only less-bad ones.
I dropped my head slightly in a show of obedience—just enough to look respectful, not enough to look weak.
"I seek only to make amends, my lord," I said, voice even.
A few nobles chuckled under their breath.
If I had a coin for every person here waiting for me to screw up, I could've bought my own damn escape carriage.
Lord Orson's mouth twitched—something halfway between a smirk and a snarl.
"Then you will prove it," he said. "You will redeem yourself, or you will disappear."
He didn't specify how I was supposed to redeem myself.
Which was a pretty good sign it involved blood, tears, and possibly a body count.
"I understand, my lord," I said, because what else could I say?
'Actually, could I interest you in a bribe and/or a fake death plan?'
Lord Orson waved his hand like he was already bored of me.
"Take him to his quarters. He will be summoned when we are ready."
The butler appeared at my side again, silent as a ghost.
I turned, walked out with what little dignity I had left, and only allowed myself a deep breath once the heavy doors slammed shut behind me.
The butler led me down another endless hall and opened a door at the far end.
My new "quarters."
The moment I stepped inside, I saw it.
Something was sitting on the desk.
A thick envelope.
Unmarked.
Curious, I closed the door behind me and picked it up.
There was a note inside, scrawled in a sharp, rushed hand:
"Welcome back, Harrison.
We know what you did.
Consider this your first and only warning.
You have seven days."
I stared at the letter, heart hammering.
Seven days? For what?
Who the hell was we?
And why did it feel like I'd just been handed a noose instead of a second chance?
Before I could even process it, a second notification blinked into my vision.
___
[CRIMINAL PERFORMANCE SYSTEM UPDATE]
Mission: First Crime
Objective: Commit your first crime before tomorrow evening.
Time Limit: 22 Hours.
Reward: Access to Crime Store.
___