John staggered to his feet, swaying for a moment as the room tilted. His palm burned, blood dripping onto the worn floorboards.
He stumbled toward the small sink against the far wall. Cold water sputtered out as he turned the tap, and he shoved his injured hand under the stream.
The sting hit hard enough to make him grunt, but he didn't pull away. He scrubbed quickly, clearing the blood so he could see the wound.
When the bleeding slowed, he looked around. The bathroom cabinet above the sink was cracked open. Inside were random pills, cheap toiletries, and a half-used roll of bandage.
John grabbed the bandage with his good hand, tore a length free with his teeth, and wound it tightly around the stab wound. The pain sharpened with each pull, but he kept going until the bleeding stopped.
He let out a slow breath and braced against the sink, staring at the unfamiliar face in the mirror.
The face staring back at him made him stumble backward.
He gripped the sink, eyes wide. That wasn't him. The jaw was narrower, the skin younger, and the eyes didn't match the man he remembered. His own face, the one lined with decades of fights and loss, was gone.
He touched his cheek, then his hair, trying to make sense of it. Even the voice that slipped from his throat when he muttered a curse was different, lighter and unfamiliar.
John stepped back from the mirror and made his way to the bedroom, each movement slow and unsteady. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, breathing hard.
The last thing he remembered was the silenced shot. The cold floor of his prison cell. Death.
Yet here he was.
But there were also other memories pushing into his mind. Small, scattered details that didn't belong to him.
A cheap apartment. Counting a few bills from work at a mechanic's shop. Then the door crashing open, those same three men barging in, demanding money.
Pieces clicked together.
He knew this person. He even knew the name now. Nikolai Crowe.
The surname made his stomach twist. His own name, but not his life.
How? How was he here? Was he this man now? Nothing explained it. Nothing made sense.
He would rather believe he had been reincarnated, or whatever this was, than think he wasn't real.
But Nikolai's life, the life he had stepped into, was far from easy.
Nikolai had been born in another country and brought here years ago by his father after his mother left.
He had no real memory of her. His father had drowned not long ago, officially called an accident after drinking, but there were always whispers and suspicions.
Still, the man hadn't been much of a father. Shifty, unreliable, sometimes cruel. Much of Nikolai's hardship started there.
That history had led to the debt.
Two years back, Nikolai and a friend, now an ex-friend, had wanted fast money.
They planned to invest in a digital coin and strike it rich. With no savings, they borrowed five thousand ₩ullons from a local lender his friend claimed to know.
They gambled and lost. Worse, what little they won before the crash, the so-called friend took and disappeared.
Nikolai was left alone with the debt. He didn't have steady work, just occasional jobs at a mechanic's shop.
Loan sharks didn't care. They demanded payment, and with interest piling up the number kept climbing year after year.
Now he was broke, alone, and drowning in a debt he could never repay.
He had no one. The country he lived in was small. There was crime, but nothing like the world John had once ruled.
Maybe this really could be a second chance. In his last life, he'd built an empire but lost almost everything that mattered.
His family's status had put him under constant watch, and he'd still managed to walk a dangerous path. He'd loved once, or thought he had, but that love had ended in betrayal.
This life could be different.
Nikolai had nobody. No parents or any notable friends left. No one close enough to notice a sudden change in personality. It was a clean slate.
But it wasn't a safe one. The thugs proved that. He'd inherited debt and trouble. He would need to deal with it first.
From the memories settling in his head, this world was oddly similar to his own. Enough that he could adapt quickly.
He stood, walked to the bathroom, and searched the small cabinet. Inside he found an ID card: Nikolai Crowe.
John studied the reflection staring back at him, skinny, tall, underfed, but not hopeless. The face wasn't bad. It just needed work.
He tightened the bandage on his palm, turned on the shower, and stepped in. Blood and dirt slid down the drain.
It was time to let John Crowe die and fully become Nikolai Crowe. A new life to build, new choices to make.
Under the stream of hot water, John let himself think.
He had to admit it, in his past life, his family's name and wealth had opened doors. Connections, influence, knowing who to approach; those things had sped up his rise.
Now he had none of that. No allies. No network. Nothing but his own mind and a stranger's body. He was starting from the very bottom.
But he believed he could climb again. There was always a way. There was always someone to approach, something to build on.
Still, one problem towered above the rest, the debt.
Fifty thousand wullons, insane for what had started as five thousand. Interest and extortion had turned a small mistake into a noose.
Nikolai had been foolish. Borrowing that much just to gamble on a quick fortune and then trusting a so-called friend who ran off with the winnings. The whole thing was pathetic and careless.
John sighed and leaned his head against the shower wall, letting the water run over him. He would have to fix this. Fast.
[From now on, I'll be referring to MC as Nikolai Crowe]