Michael Carron never imagined his life would end slumped over a cheap wooden table in a cramped apartment that smelled like expired beer and hopelessness. But there he was—fifty years old, grey creeping through his unkempt hair, hunched like a man who'd carried twice his share of burdens. He lifted a bottle with a trembling hand, the amber liquid sloshing against the glass before spilling onto his shirt. He didn't care. He hadn't cared for a long time.
It wasn't anyone's fault, really. Life just didn't pan out for him. His parents died when he was still a teenager, leaving him no time to grieve and no chance to dream. He worked whatever jobs he could get—factories, delivery, construction, anything—and even then, he barely scraped by. Fifty years passed, and all he had to show for it were aching joints, scars no one would ask about, and a deathly silence in an empty apartment.
Tonight, the silence felt heavier than usual.
He tried remembering the last time he had been happy. Maybe in his twenties? Maybe before life demanded things he couldn't give? He wasn't sure anymore.
"Pathetic," he muttered to himself, laughing weakly. The laugh turned into a cough that shook his whole body. He reached for another bottle. There were several scattered around him already.
He didn't drink to celebrate or relax. He drank because it was the only thing that made the cold inside him manageable. And tonight he planned to drink until even that cold disappeared.
But there was only so much an overworked, poorly fed, half-broken body could take.
His vision blurred. His fingers numbed. The bottle slipped from his hand and rolled across the table. For a moment, he thought he had simply passed out again. It wouldn't be the first time.
But the pain in his chest was new. Sharp. Crushing.
"Ah… damn," he whispered, trying to push himself upright.
He couldn't.
The world around him dimmed, shrinking into a narrow tunnel of light. He felt himself being pulled somewhere—somewhere far away from the dingy apartment, far away from the man he had become.
"Is this… finally it?"
There was no answer. Only darkness swallowing him whole.
And then—
Everything stopped.
Everything changed.
Everything shifted.
Michael Carron opened his eyes.
For a second, he thought he was still drunk. The ceiling above him wasn't familiar. The air didn't smell like stale alcohol. And his body—his body felt… young?
The confusion lasted only a moment before the real shock hit him.
Because he wasn't lying in his decrepit apartment.
He was lying in a small, tidy bedroom that looked like it belonged to a teenager—simple furniture, posters about virtual reality tech on the walls, and a buzzing old fan blowing cool air across the room.
"What… where…?"
He pushed himself upright, but the motion made his head throb violently. Not like a hangover. More like his brain was trying to tear itself apart. Then, without warning, images—thousands of them—poured into his mind.
Memories that weren't his.
Faces he had never seen. Streets he had never walked through. A school uniform he had never worn. Long nights studying VR chips, coding interfaces, and debugging simulations. The feeling of exhaustion so deep that sleep felt like a luxury. The sound of a struggling mother humming while cooking. A father coming home late every day, still smiling even when he was dead tired. Arguments about money. Laughter during dinner. The warmth of a family he never had.
These memories slammed into him one after another, drowning out his breath.
He clutched his head and gritted his teeth.
It took several minutes before the waves stopped.
And when they did, he finally understood.
He was not in his world.
He was not even in his own body.
He had somehow transmigrated—reborn, copied, transferred—whatever word fit—into the body of his parallel self. Another Michael Carron. An 18-year-old version of him who lived in a completely different version of Earth.
A parallel Earth that had evolved far differently from the one he came from.
This Earth was still in the year 2025, but everything else had gone sideways. Wars erupted during the 80s, borders shifted, and empires rose where nations once stood. The New United States of America acted like the old British Empire, using economic and military dominance to pull entire countries—like the Philippines—under its influence. Southeast Asia fell through and was handed to the United Kingdom Union. Australia and Africa too.
The Middle East became the realm of the Saudi Emperor, rich with oil and minerals. China expanded aggressively, conquering most of East Asia except Japan, which remained under the New USA. Russia absorbed Belarus and Ukraine but still called itself the Russian Federation.
It was a chaotic world once, but the chaos didn't last. By the 90s, instead of fighting, these powers collaborated—pouring everything into space exploration. Humans reached the moon and built a base there by 2010. And, surprisingly, it was this very project that birthed mature virtual reality technology by 2015.
Originally, VR was for astronauts and space engineers. But by 2020, it became public. By 2025, it became the center of global entertainment. Kids, teens, adults, even the elderly—everyone enjoyed immersive VR games, movies, and simulations.
This world was futuristic. Efficient. And very different from the dull, stagnant world the original Michael knew.
He let out a long breath.
"So… I'm 18 again," he said quietly, staring at his smooth, young hands. "A new world. A new body. And… VR tech that's years ahead?"
It sounded like a dream. But the memories in his mind were too clear to deny.
This body's original owner—parallel Michael—had worked himself to death, juggling a part-time job at a convenience store with an intense self-study routine in VR technology. Two years without rest. Too much pressure. Too much ambition. And eventually, his body gave out.
At the exact moment the original Michael died.
That must have been when this transfer happened.
He stood up slowly, still feeling disoriented. His legs were weaker than he expected, probably because the parallel version of him had neglected sleep and meals for far too long.
He walked toward the small mirror hanging beside the door.
Staring back at him was a younger version of himself—dark hair, clear eyes, and an expression that carried both youthfulness and traces of exhaustion. But now there was something new behind these eyes.
Determination.
And something sharper. Something colder.
"This world doesn't have the games or movies I know," he murmured. "None of them ever existed here."
Meaning all the knowledge, ideas, and stories he carried from the original world… were unique. Untapped. Undiscovered.
He could remake everything.
And make money from all of it.
For the first time in decades, Michael felt something rising inside his chest—hope mixed with ambition.
"This time… I won't die poor."
He touched the reflection in the mirror lightly.
"I'll live properly. For myself. And for the parents in this world."
He didn't owe anyone an explanation. And he definitely wouldn't tell anyone he came from a parallel universe.
Not ever.
A small, almost sinister smile tugged his lips.
"And anyone who gets in my way… well, they'll regret it."
This was his second chance.
His restart.
His new world.
And Michael Carron was ready to take it.