Blake POV
They say a man's character is revealed by the choices he makes when no one's watching. If that's true, mine's been on full display in every bad decision I ever made. I wasn't born a villain. Just an orphan who learned early that nobody hands you happiness—you have to negotiate for it.
I became good at reading people, good at pretending to care, and even better at walking away when the deal turned sour and by twenty-six, I'd turned my charm into a career. Worked at a Consulting firm. Manhattan skyline. Expense accounts and fake smiles.
I was living proof that greed could wear a suit and still get invited to charity dinners. And I was fine with that. Money doesn't make you happy, but it makes happiness easier to rent. My evenings were a blur of neon bars and half-truth conversations.
I liked the chase. The risk. The whispered "I shouldn't" that always came before the inevitable "but maybe just once."
I didn't love anyone; I loved the feeling of being wanted. Then she came. The one that should've been off-limits.
She wasn't like the others—classier, sharper, the kind of woman who carried herself like she owned the air around her and her body had curves in the right places.
I met her at a fundraiser in her husband's company. He was old money, ruthless, the type who made markets bend with a phone call and I knew all of that.
And still, I wanted her.
You ever convinced yourself you're untouchable? It's addictive. Every risk you survive starts to feel like proof you're invincible.
So when she smiled back, I didn't think twice. We talked. We met again and soon I was stepping into her penthouse like a thief who'd already accepted his sentence.
She smelled like strawberries and danger. Her voice trembled when she whispered my name as I pounded her hard.
Every moment felt like a dare I couldn't resist. Until the door opened. He didn't shout. Didn't rage.
Just stood there—an expensive suit, calm eyes, and a gun steady in his hand.
The silence hit harder than the fear.
"Blake" he said. "I was told you're ambitious and reckless. Didn't realize that meant suicidal."
I should've run but I'd spent my life bluffing through worse. At least, I thought I had.
"Hey," I said, forcing a grin. "Everyone dies chasing something. Some men go after glory. I go after beauty."
"Then die satisfied," he replied. Simple. Cold.
When he pulled the trigger, I half expected a cinematic pause—some miracle interruption.
There wasn't one.
Just heat. Then a weightless kind of stillness.
The bullet didn't feel real. Pain came later, distant and muffled, like it belonged to someone else.
I fell backward, the world tilting sideways, colors bleeding together like bad watercolor and for a second, I thought maybe I'd wake up from it.
Then the metallic smell hit, and I realized I wasn't dreaming. The wife screamed yet he fired again and everything blurred.
I've always believed death would come with revelation. A grand montage. A voice from above.
Turns out it's just you and your thoughts, trapped in a fading room.
So this is how it ends, I thought. Not in an office. Not in a car crash.
But in someone else's bed, outplayed by a man who didn't even need to raise his voice.
Figures.
My mind wandered, detached from the mess below. I remembered cheap instant noodles in that foster home, the glow of my old laptop screen playing late-night anime marathons.
Back then, I dreamed of power, of being the guy everyone wanted to get close to and always got the girls without any worry
Guess I got noticed after all but then, the regret came quietly. Not about morality—I'd never claimed that.
Just the realization that I'd spent years collecting fleeting moments, but never held any real power.
A laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep, half choke, half sigh. Man, I really was an idiot.
If I ever got another chance—just one more roll of the dice—
The ceiling faded into shadows. My heartbeat slowed until I couldn't tell if it was still there. Strangely… I didn't feel afraid. Only curious.
What comes next?
Maybe heaven.
No, it's definitely hell for me!
The first thing I heard was the low, steady hum of engines.
A soft vibration ran through the floor, smooth and rhythmic, like the heartbeat of some enormous mechanical creature.
Then came the smell — leather, polished wood, and something warm and buttery. Lobster?
For a second I thought I'd fallen asleep during one of those corporate flights I used to dream about taking someday.
Except… I hadn't booked a flight. And I was pretty sure I'd been shot last time I checked.
My eyes opened to light so soft it could only come from a luxury cabin.
Cream-colored panels curved overhead, golden strips of LED running along them like sunrise frozen in metal. A glass of red wine shimmered on the table beside me, catching the glow.
I blinked. My hand twitched. The fingers were long, smooth, young.
No scar from my childhood fight in the foster yard.
No faint callus from years of typing reports.
"…What the hell?" I muttered.
My voice sounded different — deeper but lighter at the same time.
I looked at the reflection in the dark window opposite. Black hair, slightly messy, framing a face that looked like it had walked out of a modeling ad.
Seventeen? Eighteen? No older than that.
Sharp jawline, mystic blue eyes that almost glowed in the cabin light.
For a moment I just stared, speechless.
All I could think was, Damn… puberty hit me twice?
A soft knock interrupted my existential crisis.
"Excuse me, sir," came a voice — gentle, professional, with the faintest musical lilt.
I turned. Two flight attendants stood at the front of the cabin, each in neat navy uniforms trimmed with silver and hugged their body.
One held a tray with two lobster tails glistening in lemon butter. The other carried a bottle of wine cradled in a white cloth.
Both smiled the kind of polished airline smile that says you're someone important.
"Lunch is ready," the first one said. "We'll be landing in about two hours."
Landing. Landing where?
But my stomach answered before my brain did. The smell was incredible — butter and a whisper of garlic. My last meal had been… what, whiskey and irony?
I cleared my throat and leaned back into the plush leather seat. "Thanks. Smells amazing."
They both seemed pleased by that. The one with the wine poured a glass, careful and steady, while the other set the plate in front of me.
Steam curled upward, catching the light. For a moment I could almost forget the fact that I'd died.
I picked up the fork, testing the weight.
Even the cutlery felt expensive — silver that practically hummed against the plate.
"Sir, would you prefer sparkling or still water with your meal?"
"Sparkling," I said automatically. Then paused. "Wait… where exactly are we going?"
The two exchanged quick glances — tiny, polite, rehearsed.
"Japan, sir," one answered. "As scheduled."
Japan? Why Japan?
I almost laughed. The irony was cosmic. The kid who grew up worshiping anime clichés wakes up on a jet headed straight into one.
I looked down at the lobster, the perfectly folded napkin, the wine so rich it caught the light like ruby glass.
Then at my reflection again — younger, sharper, not a trace of bullet holes or blood.
Everything felt real. Too real for a dream.
Yet… what else could it be?
Maybe I'd lost it in those final seconds before dying. Maybe this was some luxury-class purgatory conjured by my guilty subconscious.
Still… if it was a dream, it was one hell of an upgrade.
I took a bite. The taste exploded — sweet, buttery, rich.
I closed my eyes. "Man… if all dreams tasted like this, I'd never wake up."
"Pardon, sir?" one attendant asked.
"Nothing. Just talking to myself." I smiled, half-sheepish, half-cocky. "By the way, you two are doing an excellent job. You'd make anyone feel like royalty."
A faint flush rose on the nearer attendant's cheeks. She bowed slightly lower than usual. "You're very kind, sir." and her deep cleavage was visible for a second.
That sight made me grin.
Old habits die hard.
The engines droned softly, a lullaby of altitude and money. Outside, a field of white clouds stretched forever. Sunlight turned the wing's metal edge into a blade of gold.
I sipped the wine — smooth, dry, perfect.
Whoever I'd become, this version of me had taste but the more I looked around, the more questions crowded in.
Why did my muscles feel stronger, more alive, like I could sprint down the runway and keep going?
Why did these strangers act like they'd known me forever? And why… couldn't I remember anything between dying and waking up here?
I set the glass down. My reflection in it smirked back at me.
"Alright," I whispered. "Play along, Blake. If it's a dream, enjoy it. If it's not… you'll figure it out."
The attendants moved quietly, tidying the table, their movements precise and graceful.
When they left me alone again, the cabin fell into a warm silence broken only by the hum of engines.
I leaned back, closed my eyes, and let the rhythm carry me.
Somewhere deep inside, beneath the calm, was a spark of curiosity — not fear, just the thrill of a new game starting.
For now, I decided, I'd eat well, drink better, and see where this "dream" landed.
Maybe fate had finally decided to give me a first-class seat.
The End