Mike Dalton pedaled hard down the empty street, the pizza box strapped tight to the back of his bike.
The night air felt cool against his face, but his legs burned from the last three deliveries.
He was sixteen, still in high school, and every cent he made went straight into the jar labeled "Sara's College Fund" on the kitchen counter.
Dad worked double shifts at the warehouse, Mom had been gone since Mike was nine, and the three of them scraped by.
If Sara could just get that scholarship, or at least enough saved up, she might actually escape this cycle.
That was the whole point. Mike didn't care much about his own future as long as hers looked better.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He coasted to a stop under a streetlight, pulled it out, and squinted at the screen.
A text from Jess.
"We need to break up. I've been seeing someone else. He's… he can actually take care of me. Sorry Mike."
He stared at the words until they blurred. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, but nothing came. A hollow laugh slipped out instead.
"What the fuck," he muttered under his breath.
He was still looking down when bright white light flooded the corner of his eye. Headlights. Too close. Too fast.
He jerked his head up just in time to see the truck's massive grille filling his vision.
The impact was deafening. Pain exploded through his body, ribs, legs, everything at once.
The bike vanished underneath him. He hit the asphalt hard, rolling, limbs bending in ways they weren't supposed to.
The pizza box skidded away, lid flapping open.
Everything hurt so much he could barely breathe. But one stupid, clear thought cut through the haze: *delete the search history.*
He dragged his broken arm across the ground until his fingers closed around the cracked phone.
Blood smeared the screen. He fumbled through the settings, found the browser, and swiped to clear everything.
Every embarrassing late-night Google search, every dumb thing he'd looked up when he thought no one was watching.
When the little "cleared" notification popped up, a weak, crooked smile tugged at his bloody lips.
*At least no one's gonna read that crap after I'm gone.*
Then darkness swallowed him.
....
Mike's eyes snapped open.
He was standing.
No pain. No blood. Just… standing.
A cool breeze brushed his face. He blinked and realized he was on a wide stone balcony.
Below him stretched a thick carpet of green treetops, broken here and there by the pointed roofs of old stone buildings that looked ripped straight out of a medieval movie.
Torches flickered along distant walls. The air smelled like pine and woodsmoke.
He looked down at himself.
Tight black fabric hugged his arms and chest, some kind of fitted suit, expensive-looking.
Gold bracelets circled both wrists, heavy and cold against his skin.
His hands looked… different. Longer fingers. No calluses from gripping handlebars.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
Did I die?
The thought hit like another truck. He spun and stumbled back inside the room behind him.
The ceiling was ridiculous, high, arched, painted with swirling gold patterns and tiny painted stars.
A massive four-poster bed sat in the middle, draped in dark silk. Everything screamed money. Old money.
He half-ran, half-stumbled toward the only other door he saw, shoving it open. Bathroom. Had to be.
Mirror.
He froze.
The face staring back wasn't his.
Sharp jaw, pale skin, dark hair that fell just past the ears, eyes a strange stormy gray. Handsome in a cold, dangerous way.
He raised a trembling hand and touched the cheek, smooth, no acne scars. He pinched hard. It hurt.
"I… I really died," he whispered. "And I got… reincarnated?"
The word sounded stupid out loud, like something from the games he used to play when he should've been studying.
Then the memories of his old life crashed back in. Dad coming home with aching shoulders.
Sara staying up late to study on a cracked phone screen. The empty fridge some weeks. And now he was gone.
They'd have to bury him, or whatever was left of him. Funeral costs. Even less money.
They'd suffer more because he wasn't there to deliver pizzas anymore.
His gaze dropped to the gold on his wrists. Thick. Solid. Probably worth more than his family's entire apartment and everything in it.
"If I'd had even one of these…" he murmured, voice cracking. "They wouldn't have had to worry so much."
He stood there breathing hard for a long minute, then forced himself to look in the mirror again.
Wait.
He leaned closer. Tilted his head.
That face. He *knew* that face.
"No way."
His stomach dropped.
"Wait… isn't this Alex Rover?"
The name tasted sour in his mouth.
Alex Rover. The final boss villain from Death Game: Eclipse, the mobile game he'd grinded for months before the pizza job ate all his free time.
The guy everyone hated by the end. Scheming, arrogant, cruel.
The one who kept trying to kill the protagonist until the very last chapter.
Mike's knees buckled. He dropped to the thick rug, hands shaking against the floor.
"I'm so screwed."
Alex wasn't just any villain. He had enemies stacked up like cordwood, rival nobles, betrayed allies, entire guilds who wanted him dead. And worst of all, he had an older sister.
Elara Rover.
Archmage-level talent. Perfect combat records. Beautiful. Terrifying. And she despised Alex. Everyone knew she wanted the countship for herself.
The succession right belonged to Alex by birth order, but she'd made it very clear she planned to take it, one way or another.
Compared to her, Alex was weak. Untalented. Lazy. A disappointment.
And now Mike was inside that disappointment's body.
He crawled to the bed and collapsed onto it face-first, the silk cool against his flushed skin. His chest heaved.
Should I run?
The thought looped in his head.
Forget changing the plot. Forget trying to be the hero or fix anything. First priority: survive.
Because if Elara found out her useless brother was suddenly acting strange, or worse, if she realized he wasn't really Alex anymore, she wouldn't hesitate.
She'd just kill him and be done with it.