J_Win

  No way I am in Philipines… Is this my hell?

  —JANE DOE, INTERNAL MONOLOGUE

  First, there was light—soft, searing, an intrusion upon an endless abyss. Then came the feeling of floating, like drifting in a sea with no shore. Warmth wrapped around me, fleeting yet strangely familiar, and then… unease. A vague, restless sensation gnawed at me.

  Lost? Yeah. I was lost. In every sense of the word. Where the hell am I?

  Before the thought could fully form, something shivered. Not me exactly, but I felt it. A foreign awareness, small and fragile, trembling against the cold. A sharp chill pricked at my—no, its—skin, slicing through the warmth like the first breath of winter. A shock to the system. A newborn’s first taste of life beyond the womb.

  Wait. Newborn’s sensation…?

  Then came the struggle. Thrashing. A desperate gasp for air. My—its—lungs burned, ribs tightening in protest. A cry ripped from a tiny throat, shrill and raw.

  High-pitched. Weak. Almost… cute.

  The world flickered. And just like that, consciousness was swallowed whole by the abyss. Only to resurface in a hazy, dreamlike pce.

  Blurry shapes swam before me, shifting in and out of focus like smudged ink on wet parchment. My vision wavered, distorted, as if I were looking through an incorrectly prescribed lens. I couldn’t make out the details, but I could tell—I was moving. Or rather, time was moving. Days? Weeks? Months? It felt like an eternity since that strange light had enveloped me.

  I could breathe now. I could think now.

  And yet, the strangest part? It didn’t feel like someone else anymore.

  It felt like… me.

  I raised my hands—or at least, the tiny, trembling things that were supposed to be hands. Blurred but unmistakably real. Small. Fragile. But mine.

  I was… reborn? What the actual hell? Where am I?

  Panic cwed at the edges of my mind, but I forced myself to focus. My st memory… I was at school. On the rooftop. Being bullied. As usual.

  Too smart. Too cute. Too much of an eyesore for the higher css to tolerate. Of course they picked on me.

  And then—

  Ah. I died.

  ? ? ?

  RCT. Not Reverse Cursed Technique from Jujutsu Kaisen. I meant Realistic Conflict Theory, the one proposed by Donald Campbell. The theory that expins why grouped people, no matter the time or pce, will always find a way to tear each other apart.

  Campbell argued that hedonistic assumptions—those that cim humans act purely based on pleasure and pain—were too simplistic. Thinkers like John Thibaut, Harold Kelley, and George Homans believed that, at our core, we were just animals chasing food, sex, and comfort. But Campbell disagreed.

  And honestly? He was right.

  Humans might share instincts with animals, but we are not just animals. Like Adam Smith once said: “man is an animal that makes bargains; no other animal does this—no dog exchanges bones with another.”

  We trade. We negotiate. We make decisions not just based on survival, but on what we think is fair. Rationality, morality, greed, resentment—it all pys into how we interact. And sometimes, we’re so complicated that we end up being completely irrational.

  Take the 1954 Robbers Cave Experiment, for example. Muzafer and Carolyn Sherif gathered a bunch of eleven- and twelve-year-old boys from simir backgrounds—white, Protestant, lower-css, two-parent households. They dropped them into a summer camp, split them into two groups, and let them have fun.

  Then they made them compete. At first, it was just friendly games. Then, the researchers rigged the stakes—only one group could win the booties. The other? Nothing. And just like that, things got ugly.

  Tensions fred. Insults turned into fights. Friendships shattered over a stupid, meaningless competition. All because their survival, their worth, was reduced to a zero-sum game.

  Now, why the hell was I remembering all this useless knowledge? Because that’s how I died.

  I was just a regur high school girl—a lower-css one—who somehow managed to nd a spot at a prestigious academy. My golden ticket? A full-ride schorship, earned through years of grinding. I was ecstatic. If I could just make it to graduation, sp that elite school’s name on my résumé, I’d be set for life. High-paying job. Stability. A future.

  Or so I thought.

  See, this wasn’t just any academy. It was a high-css one, filled with high-css people, and to them? I was an anomaly. A glitch in their perfectly curated world. They didn’t just look down on me—they despised me—like I was some kind of alien germ contaminating their pristine social order.

  Not that I was surprised as RCT expins this perfectly. Further studies showed that dominant social groups react violently to even slight disruptions to their status quo. Take 1970s America, for example. White Americans pushed back hard against school integration, not just because of overt racism but because they saw Bck students as a threat—a challenge to their way of life, their goals, their resources.

  It wasn’t just who I was that made them hate me. It was what I represented.

  A lower-css girl getting into their academy, through sheer talent alone? That was dangerous. That meant the system wasn’t as airtight as they believed. That someone like me could rise up and take what was supposed to be theirs. A zero-sum game. And I was pying to win.

  Two years passed. And everything went to hell.

  The academy ran on performance-based merit, so rivalry between students was inevitable. But instead of competing against each other, they united against me.

  It reminded me of the ter stages of the Robbers Cave Experiment—where two rival groups of boys, once enemies, turned into allies the moment a third, greater threat appeared. According to Michael Billig, this third group is the most powerful yet the most isoted.

  In this scenario, I was that third group. And they wanted me gone.

  They couldn’t touch me when the teachers were watching, but the moment no one was looking? It was open season. The bathroom stalls, the rooftop, even my school shoes—they made sure I could never exist in peace. They refused to admit I was better than them. They couldn’t bear to see what they cked. So they made me the outlet, the punching bag.

  If getting rid of me would make their world make sense again, then they’d make sure I disappeared.

  But I endured. Out of spite.

  Every shove, every cruel ugh, every attempt to break me—I smirked through it all. Because while they wasted time tormenting me, I was using every second, every ounce of my limited resources, to grow stronger. I told myself that one day, I’d be the one ughing.

  But in the end… my arrogance became my downfall.

  That day on the school rooftop, it was just another round of the usual routine. Pushed around like a toy, their ughter ringing in my ears.

  “Look, the pig can’t even fight back…!” one of them sneered pushing me.

  More ughter. Cold, hollow, inhuman. It was terrifying how a group of kids my age could be so empty.

  I almost snapped. But if I did, I knew how this would end. They’d cry to the teachers, twist the story, gang up on me in front of the authorities. The lone wolf versus the pack. No one would believe me.

  Then a final shove—harder than before. Maybe they expected the railing to stop me. Maybe they didn’t care. But my foot slipped on the damp floor.

  My bance shattered. The world flipped.

  My body twisted, weightless, plummeting from the fifth floor.

  It wasn’t instant. I felt it.

  I heard the distant screams of students who witnessed my fall—who saw what was left of me, nothing but a broken heap on the ground.

  My body burned. Agony seared through every nerve, yet my jaw wouldn’t move. My limbs wouldn’t respond. My spine—shattered. My brain, disconnected from the rest of me.

  And internally, I screamed.

  I worked so hard. Every single day. Every single year. I was diligent. I was patient. I persevered despite the entire world turning against me.

  And yet—I lost the zero-sum game. I lost everything.

  ? ? ?

  Then, I woke up. Tiny. Weak. Trapped in a strange, fragile body. I could think. I could feel. But my body couldn’t move. All I could do—was cry. And so, cry I did.

  The world around me was a blur, but as my vision sharpened, something felt… off. There were no electrical appliances. No hum of technology. Just an eerie stillness, broken only by the occasional creak of wood.

  I narrowed my eyes, trying to make sense of my surroundings.

  I was in a crib. Dark oak, sturdy, polished to a gleam. The walls—stone, lined with wooden panels etched with intricate floral carvings. My gaze drifted to the windows, their frames adorned with eborate molding. Everything about this pce screamed craftsmanship, the kind long forgotten in mass-produced modernity.

  Then, I looked down.

  Colorful tiles met my sight. Patterns wove together in mesmerizing detail, familiar yet foreign.

  Cado. Ventallinas. Arabesques. Azulejo tiles…

  I recognized them instantly. My father—back when he was still alive—once took me on a trip to the East. And there, in the Philippines, I had seen these very same tiles.

  Is that where I am…?

  I didn’t have time to process the thought. The wooden doors swung open and two figures stepped inside—a man and a woman. And they were… ethereal. White hair. Silver eyes. Abaster skin. They looked like something out of a painting, exuding an air of quiet authority.

  The woman approached first, her gentle gaze settling on me. “Are you okay, darling…?” she asked, her voice soft as silk.

  A delicate handkerchief brushed against my face, wiping away my drool.

  Darling…? Am I…?

  I already knew I had reincarnated. I wasn’t that slow. But these people—these impossibly elegant, noble-looking people—were supposed to be my parents?

  My eyes flickered to their attire—rich fabrics. Intricate embroidery. They wore something reminiscent of 1700s Filipino clothing, yet with the refinement of American craftsmanship. The materials were different, but the designs were unmistakable.

  Before I could process any of it, another figure entered the room. I didn’t bother looking at him until he spoke.

  “Your Majesty, reports from the southern front lines.”

  The white-haired man—my father—nodded before turning his gaze back to me. “I’ll see you ter, angel,” he murmured, pressing a warm kiss to my forehead.

  Then, he was gone. But his words lingered in my mind.

  Your Majesty…? Then that means… My heart pounded. I am a royalty.

  A slow, triumphant feeling curled in my chest. I couldn’t control my facial muscles well yet, but if I could, I would’ve been grinning.

  I had been given a second life. And this time, it was far better than my st. I didn’t know if this was the work of God, but if it was, then for once—he hadn’t treated me like garbage.

  In my previous life, I had spent my days fighting, cwing my way up, only to be dragged back down by the weight of my circumstances. My existence had been fueled by nothing but spite. And like the Filipinos say—a child burned by a candle will always fear the fme.

  But I can have a fresh start now. This time, I will py with fire.

  J_Win