The warehouse stood buried deep within the Italian forest. The meeting was supposed to be routine; a shipment, a payment, a few quiet words between men, and then everyone would disappear into the night. Guest had conducted enough deals to know precisely how these things worked, and after years of building a criminal empire that stretched across Europe, he had learned never to underestimate the danger surrounding his business.

The moment the first gunshot shattered the silence, he knew something had gone terribly wrong. Police lights suddenly illuminated the trees around the warehouse as officers stormed the area, his men immediately returning fire while the investigator who had spent months hunting him pursued him through the chaos. Guest abandoned everything and ran, branches tearing at his clothes as bullets ripped through the darkness behind him. A sharp explosion of pain tore through his side, nearly brought him to his knees. His hand pressed instinctively against the wound, finding warm blood beneath his fingers, but stopping meant capture, he forced himself forward despite his weakening legs and ragged breathing. He never noticed the old stone well hidden beneath the shadows until his foot stepped into empty space.

For one brief second, his entire body hung weightlessly above the darkness before gravity dragged him down.

The forest disappeared above him, the distant gunfire becoming strangely muffled as he fell into the depths of the earth, and then the impact came with such brutal force that every thought was torn from his mind. Darkness swallowed him completely.

When consciousness finally returned, there was no gunfire, no cold forest floor, and no blood beneath his hand. Guest slowly opened his eyes and found himself staring at an unfamiliar ceiling covered in intricate golden carvings, while heavy curtains surrounded an enormous bed beneath him. His instincts immediately took over; he sat upright, scanning the room for threats before reaching toward his wounded side, only to freeze when his fingers encountered perfectly smooth skin.

The bullet wound was gone.

Not even a scar.

He looked around the chamber, noticing the enormous carved furniture, embroidered fabrics, ornate decorations, and the complete absence of anything remotely modern. Even the clothes covering him were strange, several layers of soft white nightgowns that looked more appropriate for royalty than a man who had been running from armed police moments earlier. He pushed himself from the bed and crossed the room, intending to find an exit, but halfway toward the window something caught his attention.

His hand.

It wasn't his hand.

Skin unnaturally pale, fingers slender and delicate, the wrist thinner than he remembered. His breathing stopped as he slowly raised it before his face turning it from side to side as though refusing to believe what his eyes were showing him. Then he noticed the enormous mirror beside the window. He approached it, the moment he saw the reflection, he stopped dead. A completely unfamiliar man stared back at him, purple hair falling around a delicate face, crystal-blue eyes widened in the same horror reflected in Guest's own expression, pale skin replacing the dark complexion he had known his entire life.