The pale morning light seeped through the tall glass windows, casting a faint glow on the cold, polished marble floor. The living room was vast—large enough to fit a mini futsal court—yet utterly silent.
At its center, reclining on a luxurious leather sofa sat a man in his sixties. The remnants of the imposing aura he once wielded in his youth lingered in the way he held himself. In his hand, a delicate porcelain cup filled with bitter black coffee—its rich aroma meaningless to his numb senses.
His gaze drifted beyond the window to the meticulously manicured private garden, but his mind wandered elsewhere. Not to the vibrant flowers or the freshly trimmed grass. There was no escape. His memories always circled back—to dark alleyways, the hiss of bullets, the metallic stench of blood. Back when he was still *The Crow*, a shadowy executioner who moved in silence.
Now, he had everything:
- A hidden Swiss bank account.
- A secluded luxury villa.
- A garage full of high-end sports cars.
He had climbed to the top of the food chain in his world. But…
*"Even with all this money, all these cars… I still don't have a damn wife."*
His voice, hoarse from disuse, shattered the silence. The wealth he had amassed felt like ashes, unable to fill the void of a life steeped in darkness—devoid of connections, warmth, or love.
He reached for the expensive tablet lying on the side table, hoping for a momentary distraction. He launched the latest hyper-realistic battle royale game. His character ran, shot, built defenses—but his eyes were empty, his fingers moving mechanically.
Fifteen minutes later, he tossed the tablet aside with a sigh.
*"F*ck this."*
A meaningless digital victory.
Bored out of his mind, he scrolled through his contacts:
- *"Broker X – Water Delivery Guy"*
- *"Weird-Haired Informant"*
- *"Dr. Strange"*
- *"k07"*
All aliases. All transactional. Not a single person he could call just to ask, *"Hey, wanna watch this anime?"*
No friends. No family. Just a network of people who'd vanish the moment his money dried up.
The silence pressed down on him, heavier than ever. He stared at the crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceiling, its shimmering light almost mocking him.
*"Is this… the end of a charismatic 170cm genius like me?"*
His voice trembled—not from age, but from the crushing weight of realization.
*"After all the battles, all the blood, all the loneliness… is this what I wanted? Sh*t… I listened too much to those 'money is everything' motivational speakers and those 'women aren't important' influencers…"*
The question hung in the air, unanswered. The only echo in his gilded prison was the sound of emptiness.
That night, Leo went to bed earlier than usual. Not a peaceful slumber, but a surrender to decades of accumulated exhaustion. Darkness swallowed him whole as he lay on his silk-covered, million-dollar bed.
**THUD!**
Leo jolted awake—not from the chime of his high-end tablet alarm, but from the sound of something hitting the floor… and the sharp pain in his backside. He blinked, disoriented. Instead of the high ceiling with its crystal chandelier, he saw… a plain, ordinary ceiling? And why was he on the floor?
He looked up. A single bed with a wrinkled rock-band bedsheet from 2015. Posters of old movies and games plastered haphazardly on the walls. A cluttered desk piled with textbooks and manga.
*"What the hell…?"* he muttered, his voice sounding… strange. Higher? Clearer?
He stood up, still half-dazed, wondering if this was some bizarre caffeine-induced dream. His legs carried him toward the full-length mirror on the wooden wardrobe door.
And he froze.
*"Bro… who is this handsome, charismatic young man?!"*
Thick black hair, slightly messy. Smooth skin without a single wrinkle. Eyes that still held a spark of life. A body that—though slim—thrummed with latent energy.
Slowly, the truth hit him like a freight train. He touched his cheek. Soft. No rough stubble or sagging skin.
*"This… this is real?"* he whispered in disbelief. *"This is me at eighteen?"*
His eyes darted around frantically. A calendar! There, on the desk, a cheap mecha anime calendar. His trembling finger pointed at the date.
**[April 29, 2015]**
*"No f*cking way…"*
He pinched his cheek hard. *"OW!"* It hurt. He slapped his face a few times. Still hurt. He jumped up and down. The wooden floor creaked under his light, agile steps.
This was real.
**THIS. WAS. REAL.**
His expression shifted—from shock to pure, explosive joy.
*"WOOOOOOOOOOOOOHOOOOOOOOO!"* he screamed, leaping onto his bed like a madman. *"LET'S GOOOOOOOOOOO!! SCREW THAT WEIRD BROKER LIFE!"*
He rolled around, punching the air.
*"I—I'M BACK?! IN THIS ERA?! F*CK YEAH! GOODBYE, TRASH LIFE!"*
Laughter erupted from his chest, the relieved cackle of a prisoner granted clemency after a lifetime sentence. He stared at his youthful hands, clenching them. Strength! Potential!
Then, a brilliant idea flashed through his mind. His eyes widened further, as if he'd just struck gold.
*"Wait… if I've regressed from the future…"* His brain, trained for rapid calculations, kicked into overdrive. *"That means… I CAN PREDICT THE STOCK MARKET AND BUY A TON OF BTC CHEAP?!"*
His jaw dropped.
*"HOLY SH*T! HOLY SH*T! HOLY—"*
He could already see it: stock charts aligning with his predictions, mountains of money (earned *legally* this time, maybe?), a life of luxury without bloodshed!
*"PERFECT! AHAHAHAHA—"*
**BANG!** The door slammed open. A middle-aged woman in a faded housedress stood in the doorway, glaring at him with the most exasperated look in the world.
*"SHUT UP, IDIOT! IT'S TOO EARLY FOR YOUR SCREAMING!"* she snapped, her voice a familiar, shrill annoyance he hadn't heard in decades. *"GET READY FOR SCHOOL! GRADUATION'S TOMORROW!"*
Leo froze. His manic energy evaporated, replaced by a tidal wave of unexpected emotion.
*Mom.*
That was his *mother*. Alive. Healthy. Standing there, scolding him like normal. Something he hadn't seen since… well, since everything went to hell in his original timeline.
His eyes burned. Without thinking, he jumped off the bed and hugged her tightly, startling her.
*"H-Huh?! You okay, kid? Possessed or something?"* she asked, confused but instinctively patting his back.
*"I'm fine, Mom,"* Leo's voice cracked. *"I just… missed you."*
He held onto her a moment longer, breathing in the scent of *home*—something he'd forgotten. Then he pulled away, quickly wiping his eyes.
*"Alright, Mom. I'll get ready now,"* he said with the first genuine smile he'd worn in decades.
As he turned to grab a towel, his mind buzzed with euphoria, stock market schemes, and the unexpected warmth of reuniting with his mother.
Today was the first day of his new life. And he knew *exactly* what he needed to do first at school—prevent the tragedy that started all his nightmares.
---