"Henry, the company has come to an agreement," the man said, his voice clipped and business-like. His pudgy fingers tapped against a thick, glossy envelope before shoving it forward.
His jowls trembled with the motion, and his expensive cologne fought desperately against the stale office air.
"We've come up with the best option, and we've decided to cut some people to avoid losses. Unfortunately for you, you're one of them."
The words floated into Henry's half-conscious mind like a faint echo underwater. His eyes fluttered open. His vision… was staring straight at the ground. Confused, he realized his upper body was bent forward in a polite bow — the kind you'd see in a Japanese office drama.
"What… wait..Didn't I just get hit by truck?" His voice was hesitant, his body stiff, still trying to understand why his eyes were locked on the grain patterns of the floor.
Just seconds ago—he was sure—he'd been lying on a cold asphalt road, lungs burning, ribs crushed. He remembered the sound of screeching tires, the blinding headlights of a truck, and the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.
He'd died. There was no mistaking it.
So… what the hell was this? Who was this guy? Being cut? Cut from what? And why was his body bowing like some obedient office worker?
The man across the desk let out a sharp exhale, his thick eyebrows bunching together in irritation. He leaned forward, impatience radiating from him like steam from a kettle.
"So all of a sudden you are dumb, huh? Hey! Listen to me carefully, you little shit," he barked, a spray of spit escaping his mouth and splashing across the polished desk.
The mahogany gleamed richly in the sunlight — or at least, it had - until the man's saliva christened it.
"This time, even if you remain silent ,the decision is final if you know what's better for you. you little punk," the man continued. "Just sign the contract and get the hell out."
The sudden verbal assault jolted Henry upright from his 90° pose,still dizzy and confused. His gaze swept this unfamiliar environment. Everything looked expensive — the pristine floor, the intricate crown molding, the lush leather furniture arranged like it belonged in a CEO magazine spread.
The décor was almost perfect… except for the man behind the desk. Middle-aged, round in the face and rounder in the body, he looked less like a Ceo and more like a human-shaped dumpling stuffed into an overpriced suit.
Damn it, don't tell me this guy is an angel! Henry thought in disbelief.
Aren't angels supposed to wear white, have halos, maybe even wings? But this guy… nope. Not even close. Wait—maybe he's the devil? Baal or something? Nah, it's too squishy for that, and he aint red. Maybe he's the god of wealth; those guys are usually fat, right?
He blinked. Or maybe… this is just one of my weird dreams again.
The man opposite him kept rambling, but Henry barely heard him. His eyes wandered around the unfamiliar environment, mind spinning. Then, suddenly, a dull throb started in his head — not painful, but enough to unsettle him.
Memories poured in like a silent slideshow — scenes from a life that wasn't his… yet was.
The previous owner of this body was also named Henry Storm, a rookie singer under a company called Rock Media.
And the round man in front of him? Peter McCain, the CEO of Rock Media. Known in the industry by several flattering nicknames: Little Tyrant, Fat Emperor, Porky Godfather.
His reign over the company wasn't built on talent or vision but pure nepotism. His father's massive empire — shipping, construction, real estate — kept the company alive.
Peter was the kind of man who blew hundreds of thousands on Rolex watches — like the one currently being strangled by his thick wrist. Henry estimated it was a Rolex Rainbow Daytona, easily worth $650,000, but from here, it looked like it was fighting for its life, choked by layers of flesh.
Henry almost pitied the elder McCain, still running his empire at eighty while his son sat here destroying the family name. The old man probably wasn't afraid of dying — he was afraid of leaving his business to this buffet monster.
Henry's hands curled into fists under the desk as more memories surfaced — rage, humiliation, and despair from the original Henry.
This meeting… it was his termination.
And the reason? Peter's nephew, Liam — the company's new golden boy.
The old Henry had become an obstacle. And obstacles in showbiz got crushed.
Peter's voice cut through his thoughts. "So now you've completed your antics… like I said, sign the damn contract. My patience is limited, you know?" He jabbed a sausage-like finger at the document.
Henry almost laughed. Limited patience? He might've believed that… if there weren't six steaming lunch boxes lined up neatly beside him.
"Oh, and before I forget," Peter added, lips curling, "there will be no termination fees. You can feel free to go to court."
Henry cursed inwardly. Damn capitalist pig. Taking him to court? That was a joke. Peter had enough money to bury him in legal fees before the first hearing even began. Judging from the memories, this wasn't even the first employee he'd thrown out like rubbish, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. The law bent far more easily for those with deep pockets.
The chair let out a tortured creak as Peter leaned back, twirling chopsticks in his stubby fingers with the poise of a man seconds away from devouring an army of dumplings.
"Anyway, word of advice — change your career to something that doesn't require too much talent. Like… umh… an escort or something. You're quite handsome, so you better use that to your advantage. Although," he snorted, adjusting his tie, "you're not as handsome as me, but I'm sure you'll survive you little punk just like cockroaches."
Henry blinked, another curse escaping his lips. He had literally died less than ten minutes ago, and now his second life had started on Hell Mode. What kind of cosmic joke was this? Had he accidentally offended every god before dying? A faint sting gathered at the corners of his eyes. They weren't tears of weakness, but of sheer frustration. If there really was a god watching all this, then that old bastard had a twisted sense of humour.
No termination pay? What kind of scam company is this?
And the "career advice"? That was the cherry on top.
Escort? Not as handsome as him? This man? Henry's mouth twitched.he had seen plenty of thick skinned people, but Peter stood above them.
Truth was, women didn't flock to Peter for his looks. They came because he was a trampoline — a springboard into fame and fortune,and so Peter became delusional that he was handsome.
"Oh, right," Peter added with a smirk, "there's no need for you to debut in Hit Maker. Without resources, you'll be eliminated instantly. But hey, if you're stubborn, be my guest."
Henry stayed calm. He'd just died a few minutes ago. His brain hadn't even processed that yet. Compared to that, getting fired by a glorified meatball wasn't the worst thing in the world.
This wasn't because he was untalented — it was because Peter's nephew Liam was dating Henry's ex-girlfriend, Jessica.
The company planned to push Jessica as the nation's next "pure and innocent" idol, and Henry… well, he was a stain on that story.
"I know about your little fling with Jessica," Peter sneered. "If you try to sabotage her career, you'll answer to me."
Henry gave a curt nod. Don't worry, old man, he thought coldly. I have better things to do.
Jessica. That snake. Who knew evil came wrapped in such a pretty face? The predecessor had paid her rent, covered her tuition, and bought her gifts… only for her to leap into Liam's arms the second a richer man appeared.
Without another word, Henry picked up the pen. He'd had enough. There was no point wasting more time on this circus.
He scribbled his name with a calm, detached motion. Fine. You win this round, dumpling.
But deep inside, he was already plotting.
From the memories, he knew this wasn't Earth as he remembered it — it was a parallel world, eerily similar but different enough.
If this world had things like Bitcoin, Apple, or Tesla, he could make a killing before anyone else even knew their value.
First, though, he needed to go home, gather his thoughts, and accept the impossible truth: he had died, and somehow, he was alive again — in someone else's body.
His chest tightened. The last image of his previous life — the truck, the pain, the cold — flashed again. He clenched his fists.
Henry stood up, straightened his jacket, and threw one last look at Peter.
Peter didn't glance back; he was already opening his lunchbox, humming like a pig in heaven.
"just you wait," Henry muttered under his breath as he walked in a hurry. The corner of his trousers snagged on the door handle just as he was storming out.
"Son of a—!" He hissed, jerking his leg free.
Peter flinched,startled by the sudden outburst nearly dropping his noodles. "Watch it, you piece of trash!" he shouted, chopsticks raised like a weapon.
"Fuck," Henry cursed quietly, jaw tight. Rule number one — never pick fights with the rich and powerful unless you're on their level… or you're a psychopath. Sadly, he was neither.
The moment he stepped out, whispers filled the corridor. Everyone had heard the yelling.
Rock Media had been cutting "underperformers" all week, and the staff already knew what that meant.
Some artists gave him sympathetic looks. Others smirked — one less competitor to worry about.
Meanwhile, somewhere inside the building fifth floor recording room…
🎵 Baby, I will never betray you… cause you are my one and only… 🎵
Anne stood in the recording booth, eyes closed, a soft smile curving her lips as she caught her breath. Her long black hair was tied in a neat bun, highlighting her porcelain face and the subtle blush on her cheeks.
Behind the glass, Liam McCain, Peter's nephew, leaned back with a smug grin.
"The song's definitely a hit in tge making. Once it's fine-tuned, it'll top the charts. With my uncle's backing, your debut will be a breeze.thats it for today."
Anne's smile deepened with a hint of shyness. "Mmh, thank you."
Her voice was gentle, sweet — the kind that could make any man drop his guard.
Outside, Henry walked down the hall, eyes cold.
As fate would have it, he crossed paths with them near the studio entrance.
Anne turned just in time. Their eyes met. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.
She looked calm, her posture perfect, but deep down, something flickered — guilt? Fear? Relief?Maybe both.
Henry said nothing. He gave them a dead fish expression as the passed them.If it had been the old Henry, he would've begged, argued, maybe even cried asking Jessica to say something. But not this one.
Yes, he still felt something — the echo of the predecessor's feelings — but it was fading fast, like an old photograph left too long in the sun.
Liam's voice echoed behind him, sharp and arrogant,still displayinghis usually arrogant look. "Finally, trash is gone. He's been sticking around you like a koala,haha,simps get nothing in the end"
Anne's lashes lowered. "There's no need to mention him. From today onwards, we're from two different worlds."
Her voice was calm. In her mind, she was destined to shine. And Henry Storm? Just a side character in a forgotten chapter.
Outside, the city's skyline shimmered beneath the afternoon sun.
Glass towers reached high above the streets, alive with motion and noise.
Henry hailed a taxi, stepped in, and slumped into the seat.
"Maple Street Apartments," he said, his new voice sounding strange even to his own ears.
As the car pulled away, he exhaled slowly,letting everything sink in.