Transmigrated as a Playboy: I Solve Crime With Forensic

The first thing I noticed was the smell. It wasn’t the sterile, antiseptic sting of the Chicago morgue, nor was it the copper tang of a fresh crime scene. It was the scent of ozone—like a thunderstorm trapped in a bottle—mixed with the sickly-sweet aroma of expensive lavender perfume, stale wine, and the musk of s*x. The second thing I noticed was the pain. It felt as though someone had taken a sledgehammer to my left temple and stirred my brains with an ice pick. "Ugh..." I tried to move, but my limbs felt heavy, disconnected, as if I were operating a machine I hadn’t read the manual for yet. I forced my eyes open. The light was wrong. It wasn’t the harsh fluorescent buzz of the precinct, nor the warm yellow of the sun. It was a dim, eternal amber glow, filtering through heavy crimson velvet curtains. Where the hell am I? I pushed myself up, my hand sinking into plush, silk sheets that cost more than my entire detective's salary. This wasn't my apartment. My apartment was a studio with peeling wallpaper and a radiator that hissed. This room was cavernous. The ceiling was painted with moving frescoes—figures of gold gears and weeping angels that shifted slightly when I blinked. Brass pipes ran along the onyx walls, hissing softly with steam. I looked at my hands. They were pale. Manicured. Smooth. These were not my hands. My hands had calluses from gripping a service pistol and burn scars from a chemical lab accident in '09. These were the hands of a man who had never worked a day in his life. Panic. It rose in my throat like bile. I scrambled backward, my breath hitching—and my elbow bumped into something warm. Something soft. I froze. My instincts, honed over fifteen years in Homicide and Forensics, kicked in faster than my confusion. Don’t look. Assess first. Body heat: Cooling. Breathing: Negative. Movement: Negative. I turned my head slowly. Lying next to me in the massive four-poster bed was a woman. She was breathtakingly beautiful, with cascading crimson hair fanned out over the pillows. She was naked, the sheets tangled around her waist. Her skin was the color of porcelain. Her eyes were wide open, staring up at the shifting clockwork angels on the ceiling. She was dead. "Oh, hell," I whispered, but the voice that came out wasn't mine. It was smoother, arrogant, a baritone dripping with aristocracy. I scrambled out of the bed, my legs tangling in the silk, and hit the floor hard. The impact jarred my brain, and suddenly, it wasn't just pain—it was data. Memories that weren't mine crashed into my skull like a tidal wave. Name: Silas Vane. Title: Viscount of the Onyx District. The richest man in the sector. Reputation: Disgrace. Drunkard. Man-w***e. "The Hollow Lord." The Woman: Baroness Lydia. A fire-mage. A lover I met at the Opera House three nights ago. I grabbed my head, groaning on the Persian rug as the two lives wrestled for dominance. I was Detective Aris Thorne, top profiler for the CPD. But I was also Silas Vane, the trash of the Vane family. Breathe, I told myself. Focus. You are in a new body. You are in a new world. And you are apparently in bed with a corpse. I stood up, fighting the nausea. A mirror on the vanity caught my reflection. High cheekbones, messy black hair, dark circles under eyes that looked like they hadn't slept in a week, and a body that was lean but untrained. I was handsome, in a ruined, gothic sort of way. Click. The lock on the bedroom door turned. I spun around, grabbing a silk robe from the floor to cover myself. The door creaked open, and a young woman slipped inside. She wore a black and white maid’s uniform, but the skirt was shorter than practical, and the corset was tight. "My Lord?" she whispered, closing the door softly behind her. It was Elara. My personal maid. The memories flooded in—Elara, who I had pulled off the streets. Elara, who warmed my bed on cold nights when the high-born ladies were too boring. She saw me standing there, clutching the robe, and her eyes softened. She didn't look at the bed yet. "You're awake," she said, her voice dropping to a husky, intimate whisper. She walked over, not with the subservience of a servant, but with the familiarity of a lover. She reached out, her fingers brushing the bare skin of my chest. "You were screaming in your sleep again, Silas. Do you need... comfort?" Her touch was electric. Even in this crisis, this body—Silas’s body—reacted instantly. The man was a walking hormone factory. "Elara," I said, my voice rough. "Don't come closer." She frowned, hurt flashing in her eyes. "Did the Baroness satisfy you so much that you have no need for me?" She looked past my shoulder toward the bed. Her expression shifted from jealousy to horror. She saw Lydia’s unmoving eyes. Elara gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. "My Lord... is she...?" "She's dead," I said flatly. "And unless we act fast, your Master is going to hang for it." Elara didn't scream. She didn't run. Instead, she rushed to me, grabbing my arms, her body pressing against mine. "They will kill you," she hissed, her fear entirely for me. "The Royal Guard is already at the gates. I came to warn you. Captain Draven is here." Draven. The name brought a spike of hatred from Silas’s memories. "Help me dress," I commanded, pushing aside the distraction of her body against mine. "Something sharp. Black. And get me a glass of water. My head is splitting." Elara nodded, her professional mask sliding back into place, though her hands lingered on my waist for a second too long. As she scrambled to the wardrobe, the heavy double doors of the bedroom blasted open. BANG! Splinters of wood flew across the room. Elara shrieked, ducking behind the vanity. In the doorway stood a woman. She was tall, encased in a dress of ice-blue silk that looked more like armor than clothing. Her hair was platinum blonde, pulled back in a severe bun, and her eyes were cold enough to freeze the steam in the pipes. Lady Eleanor Vane. My wife. She didn't look at me. She looked at the dead woman in the bed. Her expression wasn't one of shock or sadness. It was pure, unadulterated disgust. "Really, Silas?" Eleanor’s voice was like cracking ice. She stepped into the room, ignoring the splinters. "I tolerate your drinking. I tolerate your gambling. I even tolerate the parade of whores and maids you parade through my hallways." She glanced at Elara with a sneer. "But leaving a corpse for me to clean up? That is simply bad manners." Behind her, three armored men marched in. The Royal Guard. Leading them was a man with a scarred face and a smug grin—Captain Draven. "Secure the room!" Draven barked. "The Baroness is dead, just as the tip-off said." Draven marched up to me, his breastplate glowing with blue mana. He pointed a baton at my chest. "Lord Silas Vane. You are under arrest for the murder of Baroness Lydia. Though I suppose a Hollow like you just panicked when she laughed at your performance." Eleanor crossed her arms, watching me. She expected me to cry. To beg. That’s what Silas would do. I tied the sash of my robe tight. I looked at Draven, then at Eleanor. I felt a strange calm settle over me. Aris Thorne was in control now. "Murder?" I let out a short, dark chuckle. "That’s a heavy word, Captain. Do you have proof, or are you just upset that I won three hundred gold coins from you at the card table last week?" Draven’s face reddened. Eleanor’s eyes widened slightly. She had never heard me speak with this kind of tone. "She’s in your bed!" Draven spat. "You’re the only one here besides your little pet maid." "Circumstantial," I said, stepping toward the bed. "Guard, scan the body." Draven gestured to a subordinate. The young guard hovered a glowing crystal orb over Lydia. "Nothing, sir," the guard stammered. "No magic residue. It’s clean." "He strangled her then," Draven growled. "Wrong," I said. I leaned over the body. "Look at her eyes. Clear white sclera. If I strangled her, the capillaries would have burst. Look at her neck. No bruising. No crushed hyoid bone." I turned to face them. "And since your orb proves I didn't use magic—which I can't use anyway, as my dear wife loves to remind me—tell me, Captain, how did I kill her?" The room went silent. Eleanor was staring at me now, really staring, as if seeing a stranger. "You poisoned her," Draven insisted, though he sounded unsure. "Maybe," I lied. "But if I poisoned her, why sleep next to her for an hour? Why not dump the body?" I tapped my temple. "I was knocked out. Someone came in, killed her, and left me to take the fall." "Lies!" Draven stepped forward, grabbing my robe. "Wait!" I twisted out of his grip—a sharp, disciplined movement that made Draven stumble. I knelt down by the bedside table. "Elara, the light." The maid, shaking, held up a mana-lamp. On the floor, half-hidden by the rug, was a small glass vial. Empty. "Bag this," I said, tossing it to Draven. He caught it instinctively. "What is this?" Draven sneered. "Smell it," I said. "Bitter almonds. Nightshade Essence. And look at the glass." Etched into the glass was a tiny symbol: An eye with a gear inside the pupil. Draven froze. Even Eleanor took a step back, her composure cracking. "The Gear-Heart Syndicate," Eleanor whispered. "But... they are a myth. A story to scare children." "The myth just killed a Baroness in my bed," I said coldly. "And unless you want to explain to the High Council why you tampered with evidence from a Syndicate kill, Captain, I suggest you lower your voice." Draven looked at the vial, then at me, fear replacing his arrogance. "Take him to the Tower. House arrest until the Inquisitors arrive." As the guards grabbed me, I glanced at the mirror one last time. The bandage on my head had slipped. Underneath, on my own forehead, was a faint, red puncture mark. Just like the one on Lydia. My blood ran cold. I hadn't just been framed. I had been murdered too. The poison was already in my veins. Based on the dosage that killed Lydia... I had exactly forty-eight hours before my heart stopped. I looked at Eleanor. She met my gaze, confused, angry, and perhaps... intrigued. Two days, I thought. Two days to clear my name, seduce the truth out of this city, and find the antidote. I grinned, a sharp, dangerous smile that didn't belong to the old Silas. Game on.