("What the hell is going on?")
Kai's voice echoed quietly in the massive room, swallowed by velvet walls and chandeliers that probably cost more than his entire neighborhood back home. His heart was racing, breath shallow. Every part of this felt fake. Unreal. Like he'd walked into someone else's dream—and got stuck there.
He moved toward the mirror again, slower this time. The reflection stared back at him like it was mocking him.
Sharp cheekbones. Straight nose. Eyes like cut obsidian. The skin was clearer than filtered Instagram photos. He blinked. Hard.
(Huh....This dude face feels...weak)
"...This isn't me," he muttered, poking at his face like it might peel off. "No way."
But the mirror didn't lie, it can't even if it wanted to. He twisted his face, made a few stupid expressions, even slapped his own cheek lightly. Still the same face.
Kai backed away and spun around, trying to calm down. The room was huge, real huge, too clean, too organized. A glass cabinet held medals and trophies—football, racing, global debates, Computer programming. "Tony Bellingham" wasn't just rich. He was elite. The guy he was now…was built like a billionaire's fantasy.
(Again... Is my dude just realizing his rich?)
Drawers opened to rows of designer clothes. Custom belts, hand-stitched suits, clothes that looked like they belonged on magazine covers.
(I'm getting some Miraculous Déjâ vü)
Leather shoes gleamed in their own glass display. He ran his fingers over a watch—Rolex. No, not just any Rolex. Diamond-studded, limited edition. A damn spaceship probably cost less.
Another drawer, a line of colognes with names like Noir Bleu and Titan Flame. One with his face on it, named Noir Flame. He picked it and took a sniff.
"Damn," he coughed, eyes watering. "Smells like money and depression."
He stumbled into the bathroom next—gold taps, rainforest shower, heated floors, and even the toilet paper looked like it had a higher GPA than he did. He looked down at his new hands. No scars. No callouses. Just smooth, rich-boy skin.
(DAMN, Toilet paper be cooking....)
Is this heaven?
No...heaven wouldn't put me in a rich kid's body.
This is some cosmic prank.
A prank!!!!!!
His mind raced. Last thing he remembered was running. Blood on his shirt. Mafia goons. The gunshot. That burning pain. Then…nothing. Blackout.
And now this?
A knock interrupted his spiral.
"Master Tony," came a smooth voice from beyond the doors. "Your father is in the dining hall."
"Uh…" Kai cleared his throat. "I'll be there in five."
He scrambled. The closet was intimidating, but he grabbed something that looked rich yet casual—some charcoal pants and a navy-blue shirt with subtle gold buttons. He prayed it wouldn't scream impostor.
He caught his reflection again on the way out. "Okay. Be cool. You're rich. You own the world. Just… don't say anything dumb, that's if I can do that".
The dining hall was the kind of place that made you forget how to walk. Long marble table. Crystal chandelier. Walls covered with Renaissance paintings. Ceiling so high he could probably fit a small jet in there.
And at the head of the table sat Cristiano Bellingham.
Steel-gray eyes. Broad shoulders. Sharp jaw like he'd been carved from stone and frozen in time. His presence screamed power. There was no warmth in his expression, just cold precision. A man used to winning.
Kai approached slowly, like a student being called to the principal's office.
"Morning," Kai said, voice unsure.
Cristiano raised an eyebrow. "Afternoon."
Kai winced. "Right. Yeah. Lost track."
A waiter glided in like a ninja and placed a steaming plate of food before him. Eggs, grilled mushrooms, toast with avocado spread perfectly. Everything looked like it belonged on a five-star hotel menu.
(Who eats Grilled Mushrooms???)
"Here you go, sir," the waiter said politely.
Without thinking, Kai replied, "Thanks, bro."
Silence.
The waiter paused.
Cristiano didn't move, but his eyes slowly lifted from his plate. Cold. Sharp.
"Bro?" the man echoed, stunned.
Kai's stomach dropped. Oh, crap.
Cristiano finally spoke, voice like distant thunder. "You're acting different, son."
Kai's mouth went dry. He reached for his glass to buy time. It tasted like a liquid Rolex—probably imported from some volcanic spring in Iceland.
"Different how?" he asked, too casually.
Cristiano didn't answer immediately. He studied Kai like a puzzle he didn't quite trust.
"You usually don't talk like that. Or slouch like that," he said sharply. "Something's off."
Kai straightened like a puppet on strings. "Sorry dad. Didn't sleep well."
Cristiano's eyes narrowed slightly. Then he returned to his food, cutting a slice of mushroom with exact precision.
Kai tried to eat too, but his appetite was fake. His mind was racing with thoughts:
"He's suspicious. I'm gonna get exposed in five minutes. How do rich people even chew normally?"
Every bite felt like it came with a side of interrogation. Cristiano didn't talk much. The room was silent except for the occasional clink of silverware and Kai's pounding heart.
As soon as he left the table, Kai walked—no, power-walked—back upstairs. The second he closed the door to his room, he slumped against it and let out the breath he'd been holding.
"Bro. Seriously, 'bro'? That's the word you go with?" he groaned, dragging his hands down his face. "Smooth, genius."
He wandered over to the window, pulling aside the velvet curtain. Outside was a massive garden, trimmed to perfection. There was even a hedge maze. Who had time for a hedge maze?
He sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress practically sighed under his weight, like it was welcoming him back. The sheets were softer than anything he'd ever touched. Even the air here smelled expensive.
(Air smells Expensive, I gotta experience that)
Then a soft ding rang out.
He looked up. A faint light blinked in the corner of the room near the desk. A small, floating hologram—sleek, minimal, blue-white glow—appeared.
Reminder: Meet Clara – 3:00 PM – East Garden.
Kai stared.
"Clara?" he repeated.
He touched the projection, but it gave no further info. Just that.
Is she a friend? A girlfriend? Someone important?
He checked the digital wall clock. 2:49 PM.
His stomach tightened again.
Right. Let's not mess this up too.
He brushed his hair back, found some cologne that didn't smell too aggressive, and threw on a blazer. One final glance in the mirror.
"Okay, Tony," he muttered. "Time to meet Clara. Whoever the hell she is."
Then he stepped into the hallway, the scent of lavender and polished wood drifting around him as he made his way to the East Garden.