June 14, 2025 — Mumbai
The rain poured mercilessly over the cracked streets of Mumbai. Neon lights flickered weakly, reflecting in muddy puddles as thunder rolled through the night sky.
A young man trudged along the roadside, his shoulders hunched beneath the downpour. His name was Ishaan — no surname, no family, no one to remember him. Just another face lost in the crowd.
His clothes were soaked through, his shoes torn, his stomach empty. For years, life had been nothing but a struggle — odd jobs, sleepless nights, and dreams that never came true. Yet even now, in the middle of this miserable rain, there was a faint light in his eyes — a stubborn will to keep going.
But fate had other plans.
A blinding flash of headlights — a horn screaming through the storm — and then, impact.
The world spun. His body hit the cold asphalt, pain flooding every nerve. His breath came out in short, broken gasps as the rain mixed with blood on his skin.
So this is how it ends… he thought bitterly.
Memories flickered in his fading vision — the orphanage, hunger, nights spent alone under streetlights, and all the faces that turned away when he begged for help.
"I just wanted… another chance," he whispered, voice trembling.
The lights dimmed. The sound of rain softened. Darkness closed in.
Somewhere, within that void, a faint echo rose — his own voice, quiet yet powerful:
> "If life won't give me power… I'll take it in the next one."
And then — silence.
---
1995 — Mumbai
A sharp breath shattered the stillness of a grand bedroom. Ishaan jolted upright, drenched in sweat, eyes wide open.
The air smelled different — rich, perfumed. A chandelier glittered overhead, sunlight spilling through creamy curtains. He stared around in disbelief. This wasn't a street, or a hospital… it was a mansion.
He looked into the mirror nearby — the reflection staring back was younger, sharper. Eighteen, maybe. His trembling fingers brushed his face. Smooth skin. No scars.
"What the hell…" he whispered.
The door burst open. A woman in her forties rushed in, panic on her face. "Ishaan! Beta, are you okay?"
She ran to him, hugging him tightly. Warmth — something he hadn't felt in decades — wrapped around him.
"I—Mom?" he stammered.
"Yes, it's me," she said, cupping his cheeks. "You fainted again! You really must stop skipping breakfast."
Her words felt unreal. A mother. He'd never had one. Yet everything — her touch, her scent, her voice — felt real.
His pulse quickened. His head pounded. Two lifetimes' worth of memories clashed inside his skull. The orphan who died in 2025… and this new Ishaan — reborn as the son of a wealthy family in 1995.
Then something deeper awoke. His heartbeat steadied. His senses sharpened. He could hear the faint ticking of a clock, the whisper of her breath — and even her thoughts.
> Poor boy… he looks so pale. I'll ask the cook to make his favorite breakfast.
He froze.
He could hear her thoughts.
Slowly, a smile crept onto his lips. The rain-soaked orphan was gone. In his place stood someone reborn — powerful, privileged… and dangerous.
This time, he wouldn't just live.
He'd rule.