By the time the clock on the restaurant wall hit five, my shift was done. I untied the beige apron, hung it by the staffroom door, and stepped out into the cooling air.
The city was already shifting into its evening rhythm.
Neon signs flickered awake, humming softly, their colors painting the walls in faint glows of red, green, and blue. The street outside wasn't packed, but it wasn't quiet either. The low murmur of conversations floated from shopfronts, footsteps tapped against the pavement, and the occasional bicycle bell chimed as riders passed.
Across the street, a convenience store's glass doors slid open, spilling warm light onto the sidewalk. The smell of instant ramen and fried snacks drifted toward me, carried on a gentle breeze that also rustled the hanging banners outside a laundromat. Farther down, an elderly man was locking up a small bookshop, its interior lined with shelves that reached the ceiling.
The buildings here weren't towering skyscrapers — most were three to five stories tall, packed shoulder to shoulder, their windows reflecting the star-pricked sky above. Power lines crisscrossed overhead like a messy web, the black cables swaying slightly against the deep blue of the night.
My body moved through these streets like it had done this a hundred times. The pace, the turns, the subtle shifts between the smooth and cracked pavement — all familiar to the muscles, even if my mind was still cataloging them like a newcomer.
That was the strange thing. This body remembered the city. I didn't.
And as I walked, the weight of what the voice in the void had told me earlier began to resurface.
No parents.
An apartment left behind by them.
It was strange, almost unnerving, how closely my parallel self's circumstances mirrored mine from my previous world. But where my old self had been obsessed with Beyblade since childhood, this one hadn't cared in the slightest. His life had been simple — work at the restaurant, come home, repeat.
The Beyblade in his possession wasn't the result of passion or skill. He'd only kept it because, in this world, everyone had one. Like a wallet or a phone. It was… normal here.
Normal.
The word felt heavy on my tongue. I doubted I'd be staying "normal" for long.
After a few more turns, I found myself in front of the apartment building. My steps slowed.
The place was bigger than I'd expected. Four stories, clean white walls, a single stairwell running up the middle. A narrow metal balcony wrapped around each floor, with sliding doors leading to the individual units. Dim but warm lights glowed above the entrances, casting long shadows across the concrete walkway.
From the body's memories, I knew exactly which unit was mine. But I still took a second to glance around the courtyard below. A couple of bicycles were chained to the railing, and a single vending machine blinked quietly in the corner, offering rows of bottled drinks.
I climbed the stairs, my hand brushing the cool metal of the railing, and slid open the door to my unit.
Warm light greeted me.
The living room was spacious — far more than one person would ever need. A soft yellow couch sat in the center, with a low wooden table in front of it. On the table, a smooth oval stone and a few neatly arranged trinkets rested like decorations. To the side, a bookshelf stood against the wall, filled with neatly arranged books and a few framed photographs. The pale green tatami mat beneath my feet gave the space a quiet, comfortable feel.
Large windows on the far wall let in faint silver light from the moon, soft enough not to overpower the warm glow from the ceiling lamp. Curtains hung loose, swaying gently with the evening breeze slipping through the barely open glass.
It was… nice. Peaceful.
Almost too peaceful for someone like me, who had just been reborn with an unlimited Beyblade.
I slipped off my shoes, walked through the living room, and slid open the door to my bedroom.
The sight made me pause.
It wasn't messy, but it wasn't obsessively clean either. A desk sat by the window, a small lamp and an older computer occupying its surface. A few stacks of papers and a closed notebook rested nearby. The shelves above were lined with books, binders, and a couple of framed photos — none of which stirred any emotion in me.
On the far side, the bed was neatly made, the white blanket slightly wrinkled from use. The faint scent of fresh laundry hung in the air. To the right, a tall dresser stood beside the closet, its top holding a small fan and a few more odds and ends.
The warm orange glow from the window mixed with the cooler shadows of the room, painting everything in a muted evening palette.
I didn't even bother turning on the light.
I dropped onto the bed, the mattress dipping softly beneath my weight. My body — this body — felt heavier than I expected. Not from exhaustion in the muscles, but from something deeper, like a lingering weight from the soul transfer itself.
I exhaled, reaching into my pocket.
The moment my fingers touched it, warmth greeted me. I pulled out Abyss Phoenix and let it rest in my palm.
Even in the dim light, its transformed form was a masterpiece — the jagged crimson ring glinting faintly, the deep glassy red of the Energy Layer catching the glow from the window. The emblem at the center — Phoenix mid-cry, framed by that blazing halo — seemed almost alive, as if it might move if I stared long enough.
I traced my thumb along the edges, feeling the subtle warmth that wasn't from my hand. The Perfect Mental Link wasn't actively buzzing right now, but it was there, like a heartbeat I could sense without listening.
I didn't launch it. Not tonight.
Part of me wanted to, just to see the sparks of its spin under the moonlight, to hear the hum of its power. But my body was telling me something else entirely — that it needed rest. My eyelids felt heavy, and a deep, unshakable drowsiness tugged at me.
It wasn't ordinary fatigue from working a shift. It was… something else. The kind of weariness that seeps into the bones, one that even my previous life's memories couldn't explain.
Maybe it was the side effect of the transfer. Maybe it was this body adjusting to my soul.
Either way, I didn't fight it.
I set Abyss Phoenix gently on the nightstand, letting my fingers linger on it for a moment longer. The warmth pulsed faintly in response, almost like a goodnight.
A small smile tugged at the corner of my lips.
"This world has no idea what's coming," I murmured.
Then I let my eyes close.
Sleep took me quickly, the hum of the Phoenix still echoing softly in the back of my mind, promising flames and battles yet to come.