The café was nearly empty, save for a few scattered patrons lost in their own worlds.
Outside, clouds folded against the skyline like heavy linen drapes, threatening rain or maybe just lazily hanging there. Inside, a man sat by the window, fingers curled around a warm cup of coffee. Bitter, yes, but calming—like an old friend.
He'd been coming here for years—same time, same drink, same nondescript corner table. Not out of sentimentality. Habit.
Leo glanced out at the fogged glass, where cars passed in a blur of muffled exhaust and hurried faces. People rushing to plans that didn't matter to him. His own life wasn't especially remarkable either. Stable. Quiet. Somewhat detached.
He raised the cup to his lips—when suddenly, the sky cracked open.
A sound, more felt than heard—a brutal tearing of air. A flash of light, searing heat.
And then, he saw it—a colossal meteor hurtling straight toward him. No news reports. No warnings. How that was possible—no idea.
The window shattered inward with a deafening roar.
And then—nothing.
Blackness.
Not poetic darkness. Not the gentle sleep of death. Just… absence.
Then, a voice echoed, mechanical and clinical:
"Now serving… Soul ID 7439A. Please proceed to counter four."
Leo opened his eyes. The line stretched endlessly—scores of souls queued silently beneath a pale white void. No sky, no ground—only a dull, ambient glow.
He looked down—he had a body, or something like one. A translucent silhouette. He stepped forward—and somehow, he moved.
Finally, his turn.
Behind the counter sat a clerk. Human-shaped, with a bored expression, pushing papers that dissolved once stamped.
The clerk didn't look up.
"Name?"
"Leo."
A pause. The clerk tapped on something invisible.
"Hm. Compatible. Slot 34-C. Machine reincarnation. Low-tier package."
"What does that mean?"
The clerk glanced at him, unreadable.
"Rebirth with minimal memory interference. One minor enhancement based on prior worldline compatibility. No customization. No appeals."
"No choices?"
"We no longer do all that."
A brief silence hovered, then a mechanical whirr sounded behind him. A door slid open.
Before he could speak again, the floor vanished beneath him.
He didn't remember being born. But, gradually, memories resurfaced—layered softly over the instincts of a newborn.
Honestly, he was disappointed with how he'd been reincarnated. He'd read all those fanfics—people gaining absurd powers from ROB or some gacha pull, right? This clerk simply sent him straight into this world. He wasn't even sure where he'd ended up. Was it some fictional realm like in those isekai mangas? Or his own world, just reborn?
He was in a different body now. Smaller. Lighter.
He learned the name given to him: Leo Bruno, third son of Angelo Bruno, head of a minor mafia family.
They weren't powerful, not in the grand scheme. The Bruno family operated under one of the Ten Dons—a small piece of the underground puzzle. But they held territory, managed trade, and kept the neighborhood in line.
He wasn't sure if he remembered a Bruno family back in his original world—or if it was just a coincidence with the same name.
As a child, Leo observed more than he spoke. People kept their distance from his father—not out of love, but necessity.
He liked that no one paid much attention to the third son.
His tutors drilled him in etiquette, kinship ties, how to read people without looking them in the eye.
He listened. He learned. And he waited.
Until he was three. That was when he felt… something different.
An instinct that didn't belong in a child. His heartbeat slowed in stressful moments. His eyes sharpened under pressure. His muscles responded with more strength than he thought possible. His intuition about danger grew sharper—while his father mostly ignored him, busy with his other sons.
Somehow, those moments left him knowing he was detecting something others couldn't. He chalked it up to being trained—by the mafia himself.
Sometimes, when angry or afraid, the air around him shimmered faintly with heat.
This wasn't normal. Maybe he'd been given some kind of power during reincarnation, or perhaps this world wasn't ordinary. Whatever the case, he started to harness it, quietly—small exercises, focus drills, control.
A whole year passed in silence. Until… it broke.
The house was unnervingly quiet.
Leo had woken early. His father's room was empty. Tense guards and whispering maids filled the halls.
By midday, a black car returned to the estate.
Angelo Bruno stepped out. His face was pale, his shirt stained dark at the sleeves.
That night, Leo was summoned to the study. The scent of ash and old oak hung thick.
His father sat behind the desk, eyes heavy, face Gravel and grim.
He looked at Leo for a long, unblinking moment.
Then, without ceremony:
"Your brothers are dead."
Leo didn't react.
"Ambushed. Professional work..." his father said, voice flat.
Another silence stretched. Only a flickering candle illuminated the room.
"You're the next in line to inherit. I'll have you trained. We don't have time for grief."
He stood, crossed the room, and placed a heavy ring into Leo's palm.
It was too large for his small fingers.
Leo looked at it—then at his father.
And, for the first time since that blinding white void, he asked himself not where he was—
but what he was going to do next.