The scream died in my throat before it could escape. My hands clutched armrests I didn't recognize as the world around me snapped into focus.
Okay I'm not dying.
A train. I sat in a goddamn bullet train.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I struggled to process what was happening. Outside the window, the countryside blurred past at 200 miles per hour. Inside my head, reality itself seemed just as distorted.
"You okay there, young man?" An elderly woman across the aisle peered at me with concern, her wrinkled face framed by a neat white bob.
"Fine," I managed. "Bad dream."
She nodded sympathetically and returned to her book.
Dream. That was one word for it. The last thing I remembered was bleeding out on cold concrete, my friends screaming for help that wouldn't arrive in time. The pain had been excruciating—a knife between the ribs from some crazy ex who'd decided if she couldn't have me, no one could.
Michael did say to not stick your dick in crazy.
April 29, 2025. My death date.
Except here I was. Breathing. Whole.
I glanced down at my hands—my young hands. No callouses. No tattoo on my left wrist. These were the hands of someone who hadn't lived my life.
The train's PA system chimed softly. "Next stop, Tokyo Station. Please ensure you have all personal belongings."
Tokyo? I hadn't been to Japan since—
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out, not recognizing the sleek black model. The screen lit up with a notification from an app I'd never seen before. Simply labeled "Management."
I tapped it with a shaking finger.
The message expanded to fill the screen.
'Hello Toshiro Kagami.
You are currently on a train from Hokkaido on the way to your new apartment in Tokyo. Below is the background for this world, please read it thoroughly.'
I read it. Then read it again. And again.
This had to be a hallucination—some final neural misfire as my brain shut down. But the leather seat felt real beneath my fingers. The subtle vibration of the train on the tracks. The scent of the old woman's jasmine perfume mixing with the smell of the air conditioning.
Too real for a hallucination.
The message continued, explaining that I was in a parallel world similar to my own but with differences in pop culture and specifics. That I had belongings stored under my seat and in the overhead compartment. That I had 6 million yen in a bank account.
As a bonus, I have increased your base singing and dancing skill, and have enhanced your memory to remember every minute detail in any song you listened to in your past life.
As for how I did all of this, I did say I would give you a new chance.
Be the superstar you were meant to be and live a good life. This document will automatically delete in 20 minutes. Goodbye.
My stomach lurched, and it had nothing to do with the train's movement. I closed my eyes, focusing on my breathing to keep from vomiting or screaming or both.
Who or what was "Management"? Some cosmic entity? A god? A simulation programmer?
I reached under the seat with trembling hands and found a backpack—expensive, black leather with subtle embossed designs. Inside: a wallet containing ID for Toshiro Kagami, born October 31, 2007. Making me seventeen in this world.
Seventeen again. A second chance.
I laughed quietly, the sound edged with hysteria. In my first life, at nineteen, I'd been a nobody in Seattle with big dreams and deferred student loans. Now I was Toshiro Kagami with six million and "enhanced" abilities.
The train began slowing as we approached Tokyo Station. The PA announced our arrival, but I barely heard it through the roaring in my ears.
"First time in Tokyo?" The old woman had noticed my panic.
"Yes," I said, which wasn't technically a lie. I'd visited Japan once before, but that was in another life. Literally.
She smiled. "You'll do well here. I can tell."
"How?"
Her eyes, bright despite her age, fixed on mine. "You have old eyes in a young face. That usually means you've learned lessons others your age haven't yet."
I stared at her. "Who are you?"
"Just an old woman who's seen much." She gathered her things as the train pulled into the station. "Good luck, Toshiro-kun."
She knew my name. I hadn't told her my name.
Before I could question her further, she was gone, lost in the flow of passengers disembarking.
I glanced at my phone again. The message from Management remained, with a countdown timer now showing 14:37 before deletion. I took a screenshot, then grabbed my backpack and retrieved the carry-on from the overhead bin. It was heavier than expected—quality luggage packed with what felt like clothes and other essentials.
As I stepped onto the platform, Tokyo Station engulfed me. Massive, gleaming, and packed with people moving in organized chaos. Digital signs flashed departure times and advertisements. Announcements in Japanese and English echoed through the cavernous space.
I checked my wallet again. Along with ID and bank cards, I found a slip of paper with an address in Shibuya. My apartment, presumably.
My phone vibrated again. Another notification from Management.
You have questions. That's natural. I'll answer three.
I ducked into a quieter corner of the station, my mind racing. Only three questions? I had thousands.
I typed: Who or what are you?
The response came immediately: I am what humans throughout history have called many things—fate, destiny, God, guardian angel. I am the entity that monitors the multiverse and occasionally intervenes when potential is wasted. You may call me Management.
Cold sweat broke out on my forehead. I typed my second question: Why me?
Your potential in your previous life was extraordinary, but circumstances conspired against you. You achieved moderate success before your untimely death, but you were meant for greatness. I dislike waste. Think of this as recycling talent.
My fingers hovered over the screen. Last question. Make it count.
What's the catch?
The reply took longer this time: Perceptive. There's always a price for intervention. In this case, entertainment. Your journey amuses me. That's payment enough. But be warned—while I've given you advantages, I won't interfere again. Your choices remain your own, as do their consequences. I'll be watching with interest, but not helping further.
Also, you cannot reveal your true nature to anyone. The knowledge that you've lived before, died, and been transported here must remain your secret. Breaking this rule would have... consequences.
I stared at the screen. That was more than one catch, but before I could point this out, the app closed itself. When I tried reopening it, it was gone from my phone entirely.
Great. Cosmic entertainment for some interdimensional being. My second chance came with an audience.
The station clock showed 2:37 PM. I needed to find this apartment and figure out what the hell I was supposed to do now.
Outside the station, Tokyo hit me like a physical force. The buildings stretched skyward, digital billboards flashed advertisements, and the crush of humanity moved in currents around me. The air smelled different than I remembered—cleaner somehow, with undertones of cooking food from nearby vendors.
I hailed a taxi, showing the driver the address. As we pulled away from the curb, I caught a glimpse of the elderly woman from the train, standing perfectly still amid the flowing crowd. She raised her hand in what might have been a wave or a blessing.
Then she was gone, and I was speeding toward my new life.
The taxi crawled through Tokyo's congested streets. The driver, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair, kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror.
"First time in Tokyo?" he asked in Japanese.
"Yes," I replied, the language flowing naturally from my lips despite never having been fluent in my previous life. Another "enhancement" from Management, apparently.
"Student?"
"Something like that."
He nodded knowingly. "Many young people come to Tokyo with big dreams. The city eats most of them alive."
Cheerful bastard.
We turned into a residential neighborhood in Shibuya—not the glitzy, neon-lit district from tourist photos, but the quieter residential area where actual people lived. The buildings here were packed tightly together, a mix of older structures and newer developments trying to maximize every square inch of Tokyo's precious real estate.
The taxi stopped in front of a seven-story apartment building. Nothing fancy. Clean concrete exterior, small balconies with potted plants and hanging laundry, a bicycle rack near the entrance. The sign read "Sakura Heights" in both Japanese and English.
"This is it," the driver said, pointing to the meter.
I paid him with cash from my wallet, calculating the conversion rate in my head. Japanese currency still felt like play money to me—too many zeros.
The driver counted his money and grunted. "Good luck, kid. You'll need it."
The lobby, if you could call it that, was a small tiled area with mailboxes along one wall and a single fake plant in the corner. No doorman, no security desk—just an intercom system and a key card reader for the inner door.
I consulted the papers in my bag. Apartment 602. I punched the code into the intercom and waited.
"Hello?" A woman's voice, elderly and suspicious.
"Kagami Toshiro. I'm moving in today. Apartment 602."
"Ah, the new tenant. Come up, come up."
The door buzzed, and I pushed through into a hallway with scuffed linoleum floors and walls in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint. The elevator had an "Out of Order" sign taped to it.
Of course.
Six flights of stairs later, I found a small, gray-haired woman waiting in the hallway. She couldn't have been more than four-foot-ten, dressed in a floral housedress and slippers, with the kind of face that suggested she'd spent decades judging people and found most of them up to no good.
"Toma-san. Building manager," she said, giving me a once-over. "You're tall."
"So I've been told."
"Hmph. Young people. Always trouble." She dangled a key in front of me. "Rent due first of month. No noise after ten. No parties. No drugs."
I took the key. "I'll be the model tenant."
"That's what they all say." She pointed to the door. "Your boxes came yesterday. I signed for them."
With that, she shuffled back to what I assumed was her own apartment, muttering something about "young people these days."
The apartment door stuck slightly, requiring a firm shove to open. Inside, I found myself in a modest space that smelled faintly of fresh paint and cleaning supplies. The main room served as both living area and kitchen, with worn tatami mats covering the floor and a small balcony visible through sliding glass doors. A kitchenette hugged one wall—two burners, a miniature refrigerator, a sink, and about two square feet of counter space.
Several boxes were stacked in the center of the room, labeled in handwriting I didn't recognize.
Two doors led off the main room. The first opened into a bathroom small enough that I could touch all four walls without fully extending my arms. The toilet, sink, and shower stall existed in a space-efficient arrangement that would require some getting used to.
The second door revealed a bedroom just large enough for a futon and a small desk. A closet built into one wall offered the only storage.
I returned to the main room and sat cross-legged on the tatami, trying to process my new reality. This was... normal. Modest.
I pulled out my phone and opened the banking app. The balance showed 6,000,000 yen.
Six million! I did a quick mental calculation and felt my excitement deflate. About $40,000 USD. Not nothing, but hardly the fortune I'd initially thought. In Tokyo, one of the world's most expensive cities, it might last me a year or two if I lived frugally.
Better than being broke, but not exactly set for life.
Even in my cosmic second chance, I wasn't being handed everything on a golden platter. I'd still have to work, still have to hustle.
Maybe Management had a sense of humor after all.
I started unpacking the boxes, finding clothes that matched my new body's measurements perfectly—mostly casual wear, with a few nicer outfits suitable for auditions or performances. Basic household necessities. A laptop. A decent acoustic guitar.
In the bottom of one box, I found a folder containing my new life's documentation: birth certificate, education records from a high school in Hokkaido, medical history. According to these papers, I'd been raised in an orphanage after my parents died in an accident when I was five. I'd shown musical talent early, performing in local venues throughout my teens.
A complete fabricated history, detailed enough to withstand scrutiny.
Also in the folder: confirmation of my audition tomorrow morning at Strawberry Productions, along with a map showing the location.
My phone rang, startling me. Unknown number.
"Hello?"
"Kagami-kun!" A man's voice, brisk and businesslike. "Ichigo Saitou from Strawberry Productions. Checking to make sure you made it to Tokyo safely."
"Yes, just got to the apartment."
"Good, good. Found everything okay?"
"Yeah, all set." I glanced around at the half-unpacked boxes.
"Excellent. Looking forward to meeting you tomorrow. One pm sharp, don't be late. Our address is in your confirmation packet."
"I'll be there."
"Get some rest, kid. Tomorrow's a big day." He hung up before I could respond.
I walked to the windows, looking out at Tokyo sprawling before me. At least the view was nice. Somewhere in this city, a cosmic entity called Management was watching me, waiting to be entertained by my "journey."
In my previous life, I'd clawed my way to moderate success, fighting against poverty, bad luck, and an industry designed to exploit artists. Now I had a new game plus.
And all I had to do was become a star. Simple.
I laughed, the sound echoing in the empty apartment. Then I did what any sane person would do after dying and being reborn in a parallel universe.
I ordered ramen, got some soda, and got thoroughly, comprehensively full.
Tomorrow, I'd become Toshiro Kagami, future idol.
Tonight, I wash away the person I used to be.