The young man woke to the sharp smell of antiseptic and disinfectant—the unmistakable scent of a hospital.
A heavy headache throbbed through his skull.
No wonder, considering how much he had drunk the previous night.
But why did it smell like this?
Through his blurry vision he could see white walls surrounding him and a white sheet covering his body. An IV needle was pierced into his vein, slowly dripping fluid.
For a moment he lay there, confused.
Did I really drink so much last night that they had to admit me to a hospital? he wondered sarcastically.
Then suddenly the memory struck him.
Oh shit… the accident.
After losing custody of Pia, his six-year-old daughter, to his wife—or more accurately now ex-wife, Mira—Rajat Mishra had drunk far more than he normally would.
While driving his old Maruti, he had barely been able to keep his thoughts straight. The road had been nearly empty.
Then suddenly—
A pair of blinding headlights from a Mercedes G-Wagon appeared directly in front of him.
Even though he had been drunk, Rajat was certain he had still been within the speed limit.
The other car, however, must have been going insanely fast.
Then everything went dark.
And now he had woken up in a hospital.
A wave of anxiety washed over him.
I hope the insurance covers both the car and the hospital bills.
He was practically broke.
At that point he could barely even afford a cab ride home.
That was his life now.
Once a promising NSD (National School of Drama) graduate, Rajat now survived on tiny background roles and occasional work as a stunt double.
Just enough to survive.
No wonder Mira had left him.
What kind of life could he have given his daughter when his own career was collapsing?
After a few minutes, Rajat slowly sat up.
Alright… if I'm feeling fine, I should probably ask for discharge before the bills start piling up.
He also hoped the other driver involved in the accident was alright.
He had absolutely no energy to deal with a legal battle.
But as Rajat finally looked around the room carefully, something felt wrong.
The hospital room was… luxurious.
Far too luxurious.
The walls were spotless, the lighting warm, and the furniture looked expensive.
It looked less like a hospital room and more like a five-star hotel suite.
Who the hell admitted me here?
A government hospital would have been more than enough for a few stitches.
Why bring him to such an expensive place?
Before he could think further, the door opened.
Two nurses walked into the room.
Both of them were young and well dressed, and they looked visibly relieved when they saw him awake.
"Sir, are you feeling alright?" one of them asked.
Before he could even answer, she quickly called the doctor to inform him that the patient had regained consciousness.
A few minutes later, a doctor entered the room.
He began checking Rajat's vitals—pulse, blood pressure, and pupil reaction—while asking routine questions.
"How are you feeling now, Mr. Mehra?"
Rajat frowned.
Mehra?
Why was the doctor calling him that?
His name was Rajat Mishra, not Mehra.
Maybe someone had filled out the hospital forms incorrectly.
That could become a headache when dealing with insurance later.
"Excuse me, doctor," Rajat said.
"It's actually Mishra. Rajat Mishra. Not Mehra."
The doctor looked at him sympathetically.
"Sorry, Mr. Mehra," he said gently. "I believe you're experiencing some post-accident shock."
He paused before continuing.
"Mr. Mishra… unfortunately passed away."
For a moment, the entire room seemed to go silent.
"We tried our best after the accident involving your vehicle," the doctor continued carefully. "But we were unable to save him."
"We are currently processing the transfer of his body to his wife, Mrs. Mira Das."
The words echoed inside Rajat's head.
Dead?
But something else immediately struck him.
Mira? Why Mira?
He and Mira had already been separated for nearly two years. The custody battle for Pia had finalized their divorce only a few months ago.
Why would the hospital contact her?
Before Rajat could make sense of it, the doctor continued speaking calmly.
"But please don't worry. You are not legally responsible for the accident."
"We conducted a blood test on Mr. Mishra. He was heavily intoxicated while driving."
"Your mother, Mrs. Rani Mehra, is currently handling the legal formalities with the police."
"She will be here shortly."
"Your father and younger sister have been waiting outside since last night. If you wish, I can call them in."
"What the hell?" Rajat snapped.
"Is this some kind of elaborate scam?"
"Let me make this very clear," he continued angrily. "I have five thousand rupees left in my bank account. There's no point trying to trick me—you won't get anything."
"And tell that rich brat this—yes, I was drunk. But I was still driving within the speed limit."
"He was the one driving like a maniac. Probably over 150 kilometers per hour."
"So let's end this here and go our separate ways instead of dragging this into legal nonsense."
"And don't try to ruin my reputation. I know plenty of people in the industry."
"I'm from NSD."
It was mostly a bluff.
Except for his friend Ratan Jain, who was also struggling—though doing slightly better—almost no one in Bollywood even picked up Rajat's calls anymore.
That was the harsh reality of the industry.
When you were successful, everyone wanted to know you.
When you failed, you became invisible.
The doctor raised his hands calmly.
"Mr. Mehra, please relax. Confusion after an accident is completely normal."
"We will call your family shortly."
"To hell with relaxing."
Rajat swung his legs off the bed and stood up.
Right in front of him was a large mirror.
And the moment he looked into it—
His entire world stopped.
"What…?"
The man staring back at him was not a tired forty-plus-year-old struggling actor.
Instead, the reflection showed a young man in his early twenties.
Messy raven-black hair framed a sharp face.
Striking blue eyes stared back at him.
Broad shoulders.
Lean build.
Tall.
Handsome.
The kind of face casting directors loved.
Rajat felt his heart stop.
Because he knew this face.
Neil Mehra.
Son of famous screenwriter and producer Gaurav Mehra and renowned choreographer Rani Mehra.
But what shocked Rajat even more was what he remembered about Neil's future.
Because in the timeline Rajat knew…
Neil's life had been just as miserable as his own.
Neil had debuted with the film Dil Se Dance.
Produced by his father.
Directed by his mother.
But the film had been a massive box office disaster.
Critics brutally mocked Neil's monotonous acting.
Still, thanks to nepotism, he received three or four more chances.
Every single one of those films flopped.
Eventually his acting career died.
Then came the scandals.
Rumors about an affair with a senior actress.
Then drug accusations.
Eventually jail time.
By the time Rajat last saw him in the news, Neil had become fat and almost unrecognizable, quietly managing his father's production house.
Even worse—
During the time Neil had been in jail, his younger sister had committed suicide.
The reason was never confirmed.
But many suspected severe depression.
Rajat remembered those headlines clearly.
Because during the same time, his own life had been falling apart.
But the real reason Rajat knew Neil so well was something else.
Years ago—fresh out of NSD, and newly married to his longtime sweetheart and college classmate Mira Das—Rajat had actually worked in Neil's debut film.
Dil Se Dance.
It had been the only major role Rajat ever received in his entire career.
He played a gangster-turned-frenemy of the hero, a strong supporting character with considerable screen time.
For Rajat, it had felt like destiny finally smiling on him.
He had been on cloud nine.
In his early twenties, he had married the woman he loved. At the same time, he had landed a meaningful role in a major Bollywood film. To him, it felt like life was unfolding perfectly.
Back then, Rajat truly believed his future in Bollywood had begun.
He imagined bigger roles, better scripts, and a long career ahead.
But reality had other plans.
When Dil Se Dance released, the film collapsed at the box office.
Critics tore it apart.
Producers labeled it a failure.
And in the ruthless world of Bollywood, failure was contagious.
The entire cast—except for the star kid—was quietly pushed aside.
The phone calls stopped.
Auditions disappeared.
Offers never came.
Slowly, Rajat's promising career faded into nothing.
And with it, the life he had dreamed of.
Yet Neil Mehra had still been given three… four… even more chances.
Despite his wooden acting.
Despite the criticism.
Because his father was the producer.
Because his mother was the director.
Because in Bollywood, nepotism could buy opportunities that talent alone never could.
Rajat slowly raised a trembling hand and touched his face.
The reflection copied the movement perfectly.
"How…?" he whispered.
Then his eyes drifted toward the wall.
A calendar hung there, its pages fluttering slightly under the cold air from the AC.
His gaze froze.
February 2010.
His heart nearly stopped.
Fifteen years.
He had gone fifteen years back in time.
And somehow…
He was inside Neil Mehra's body.
For a long moment, Rajat simply stared at the calendar, unable to move.
Fifteen years.
An entire lifetime of regret… suddenly undone.
Rajat had spent fifteen years watching others live the life he had once dreamed of.
And now fate had handed him the very body of the man who had taken that dream away.
At that moment, a faint blue glow appeared before his eyes.
Lines of text slowly formed in midair.