The beat echoed through the alleys of São Paulo , Brazil ,like the heartbeat of someone about to make an impossible choice.
**Nando**, stage name **"Versu"**, spat verses like punches into the rusty mic in Praça da Sé. Hoodie pushed back, eyes closed, body loose—each rhyme flowing like a ginga. He wasn't just another MC from the hood—he was a fighter at heart, a capoeirista in soul.
His capoeira master, old **Mestre Baianinho**, used to say:
*"Life is a roda, my son. Sometimes you fall, but you always rise in rhythm."*
But that day, Versu wasn't in rhythm. The record deal he had turned down still echoed in his mind. He wanted freedom, but independence came with a price. And now, he was there, broke, lost, freestyling into the night for no one, just his own beatbox and the city's hollow reply.
Suddenly, the sky went... strange.
The streetlights flickered. Reality warped like a scratched vinyl. Time froze mid-air, and a voice—made of a thousand tongues—whispered:
**"You want strength? Want to change your fate? Then fight like never before."**
Before he could react, light burst around him. A sharp pain split his chest. He dropped to his knees—or maybe he was flying. The world went black.
---
**When he opened his eyes**, he was lying in a filthy room, reeking of cigarettes and dried blood. Broken mirrors, maps on the walls, and... a U.S. passport on the floor.
Name: **Dreg T. Donovan**
Nationality: USA
Affiliation: **New International**
Versu scrambled to the nearest mirror. The face staring back wasn't his—it was a Black bald man, scar on the brow, tired eyes, and a body marked by countless fights.
**"What the hell...?"** — he muttered, but the voice was deep, American-accented.
He tried to remember his name. The music. The roda. But it all felt distant now, like an echo in a forgotten alley.
Then the memories hit—flashes: Dreg beating someone in a backstreet, Dreg taking orders from someone called Mangil Ri, Dreg smiling while carrying a black case filled with something dangerous.
Versu collapsed back, breathing heavy.
**"I'm a damn villain now... So what do I do?"**
He stood, feeling his new body. Strong. Heavy. But deep down, his blood still sang capoeira. The ginga still lived in him—even in this new shell.
And right there, in that dirty room in Baltimore, he made a decision.
**"If I'm in this body... then I'll rewrite this story."**
The mission to South Korea hadn't begun yet.
But the new Mr. Dreg already knew:
He wouldn't be the same.