The morning after Leong's rebirth felt unreal—too calm for a life that had once ended in betrayal and fire. He woke earlier than usual, the ceiling above him unfamiliar yet comforting, because this time he knew everything that would happen. Or rather, everything that was supposed to happen.
But not anymore.
Not when he carried memories no one else believed existed.
He walked to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. His reflection was sharper now, younger, clearer, and more determined than the broken man he became in his previous life. His eyes were no longer confused—only focused.
"This time," he whispered to himself, "I walk first. I strike first. And no one will see it coming."
The world outside was still waking up when he stepped out of his apartment. The air smelled of dew and exhaust, the same scent he had ignored in his past life during his endless chase for survival. Now, every detail felt like a tool. A weapon.
His first target wasn't an enemy.
It was information.
And information always came before revenge.
The Café That Didn't Exist—Yet
The café sat on the corner of a busy street, a quiet place that in his previous life only opened two years later. Now it was still under renovation—just scaffolding and dust-covered windows. Leong paused at the entrance, remembering the day he had run inside years from now, hiding from men who wanted him dead.
Here was where he had heard the first whisper of the corruption network that eventually destroyed him.
But in this timeline… they were still weak, disorganized, and nowhere near aware of him.
Perfect.
He crossed the street and headed toward a narrow alley beside a stationery shop. The owner here—old, impatient, but strangely observant—had connections that most people overlooked. Connections Leong needed.
The bell over the door jingled as he entered.
"Morning," Leong greeted politely.
The old man behind the counter narrowed his eyes. "You're early. Students don't come until ten."
Leong smiled. "I'm not a student today."
"Then what are you buying?"
"Information," Leong said calmly.
The old man froze. In the previous life, this conversation happened three years later, when Leong was desperate and half-starved. Back then, the old man laughed at him. Now, however… there was something in Leong's voice—too steady, too knowing.
"…If you're joking, don't." The man warned.
"I'm not."
Leong lowered his voice, leaning slightly on the counter.
"You have a nephew who works near the old port. He sometimes hears things he isn't meant to hear."
The man's face changed instantly. "How—?"
"I need to know who recently bought an empty warehouse near Dock 43. Check for private transactions, especially ones done in cash."
The old man swallowed. "That… might take time."
"I'll come back three days from now." Leong placed a small folded note on the counter. Inside was money—just enough to show sincerity, not desperation.
"And don't tell anyone about this. You know I'm not someone who causes trouble."
The old man stared at him in quiet confusion, like he couldn't decide if Leong was dangerous or simply strange. "Three days. No promises."
Leong nodded and left.
On the street again, the sun had risen higher, painting the rooftops gold. People rushed past him—workers, parents, students—none aware that a man reborn was quietly rewriting the script of their future.
Fatma Appears Earlier Than Expected
He didn't plan to see her today.
But destiny—or perhaps memory—had its own timing.
He was walking past the community library when he saw her standing at a vending machine, struggling with a coin jammed in the slot. Her hair was tied loosely, a few strands falling around her face, and she wore a simple beige blouse—nothing like the confident woman she would one day become.
Leong stopped without meaning to.
In his past life, Fatma was one of the few people who treated him with genuine kindness. She defended him once, quietly and without expecting thanks. She saved him twice. She died because of him.
Now she was here—alive, untouched, unaware of the storm he carried in his chest.
He forced his feet to move.
Do not approach her.
Not yet.
Not until he rebuilt everything.
But Fatma turned at that exact moment. Their eyes met, and her expression brightened slightly. "Ah… sorry, could you help? It ate my coin."
Leong's breath caught. Why was fate so childish?
He stepped closer, keeping his tone neutral. "Let me see."
The machine was old—he remembered kicking it years later when it broke on him. A simple adjustment freed the stuck coin, and the can of iced tea dropped with a hollow thud.
Fatma clapped softly. "Thank you! That was embarrassing."
"It happens." Leong handed her the can, careful not to let their fingers touch longer than necessary.
"Do you come here often?" she asked casually, not knowing she was asking a question he had once answered a hundred times across different years.
"Sometimes," Leong said, watching her expression closely. She was exactly as he remembered—warm, unguarded, trusting.
He couldn't stay here.
"I have somewhere to be. Take care," he said quickly and stepped back.
Fatma blinked, surprised by how abruptly he left, but she didn't try to stop him.
He walked until her presence faded behind him, then exhaled deeply.
He must not involve her.
Not until he was strong enough to protect everything.
New Plans and Old Memories
By afternoon, Leong arrived at a small apartment building where his old friend Jia Ming lived. In his previous life, Jia Ming betrayed him—but only after being threatened, cornered, and manipulated by the syndicate.
This time, Leong planned to keep his distance.
He didn't knock.
Didn't call.
He simply watched from across the street for twenty minutes.
When Jia Ming left the building—laughing, holding a bag of groceries, carefree—Leong felt something strange twist in his chest. Bitterness? Regret? Maybe both.
"I won't let us reach the point where you die begging for forgiveness," Leong murmured.
Not again.
He turned and walked away.
Nightfall — The First Move
Leong returned home only when the sky darkened. He opened his notebook—a blank one he had purchased earlier—and began writing every detail from his previous life.
Names.
Dates.
Locations.
People who would rise.
People who would fall.
People who would pretend to help but push him into deeper hell.
Every page was filled with precise handwriting.
When he reached Fatma's name, he paused.
A long moment passed.
Then he wrote a single sentence under it:
She lives. No matter what.
He closed the notebook.
Then the city lights flickered through his window, casting a glow over his determined face.
Tomorrow would be different.
Everything would be different.
For the first time, Leong felt ready—not just to survive—but to execute.
Silently.
Patiently.
And with absolute certainty.
His second life had begun.