The wail of sirens cut through the night air, fshing red and blue lights illuminating the dingy apartment complex. Kaito stood with his arms crossed as police officers cuffed the unconscious gangsters, dragging them out one by one. His knuckles still ached from the fight, a dull reminder that this body wasn’t built for combat.

  The officer in charge, a grizzled man with a thick mustache, finished scribbling in his notepad. "You’re saying your son fought them off on his own?" He looked at Kaito’s father, who still seemed too stunned to respond.

  "Yeah," the old man muttered. "He… he’s never done anything like that before."

  Kaito could feel the weight of their stares. Guess I wasn’t much of a fighter before, huh? He sighed, looking at the unconscious thugs. The one whose knee he shattered was still groaning, and the leader, the guy he had cracked in the ribs, was gring at him as the cops hauled him away.

  The gangster spat blood on the ground and smirked, his swollen eye barely open. "You have no idea what you’ve just done, kid," he rasped. "You think we’re small-time? The Iron Serpents don’t forget. You’re dead."

  Kaito’s fingers twitched, a flicker of his old instincts screaming at him to end the problem here and now. But he wasn’t a mercenary anymore—at least, not in the same way.

  "Yeah, yeah," Kaito said, rolling his eyes. "Take a number."

  The gangster chuckled darkly as he was shoved into the police car. "Enjoy your days, kid. You don’t have many left."

  Kaito watched them drive off before rubbing his face. Fantastic. Not even a full day in this body, and I already have a gang out for my head.

  His father put a hand on his shoulder, hesitation in his grip. "Kaito… what happened tonight? How did you—"

  "I was just tired of watching them push you around," Kaito cut in. It wasn’t exactly a lie. "They won’t be coming back for a while."

  His father gave him a long, unreadable look before nodding. "Let’s get some rest. It’s been a long night."

  The next morning, Kaito’s body felt like it had been hit by a truck.

  "Shit," he muttered, rolling over in bed. Every muscle screamed in protest. His knuckles were raw, his ribs ached, and even his legs felt like jelly. His old body had been a weapon—honed through years of training, hardened by battle. This one? It was a weak, underfed teenager’s body that had just been pushed past its limits.

  He sat up, groaning as his joints popped. Guess I can’t just go around throwing punches like before. This body isn’t used to it.

  Dragging himself to his feet, he shuffled toward the bathroom. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror—bruises had started to form around his ribs and arms. His face looked just as worn, but his eyes... his eyes were different.

  Even though he was in this weak frame, the gaze staring back at him was that of a soldier.

  He shook his head and got dressed. If I’m really stuck in this life, I might as well figure out what kind of mess this kid left behind.

  School.

  Kaito sighed. It had been years since he’d set foot in a cssroom. Now, he was about to walk into a world where fights weren’t settled with guns and knives but with words and social hierarchy.

  And somehow, that felt more exhausting than battle.