My death wasn't exactly what you'd call heroic.

  There was no blinding flash of light. No voice of God. No dramatic background music swelling at just the right moment. I was just a thirty-something guy from Nusantara, heading home from work with my head full of mortgage payments and that one work group chat that never, ever shuts up.

  The rain was falling in that lazy, half-hearted way. The streets were slick. And some random truck—clearly way bigger than my entire life's ambition—decided that day was my expiration date.

  'It hurt!'

  One second I'm standing there on the sidewalk, the next my body's flying through the air like a discarded ragdoll. The pain came fast but left even faster, replaced by this strange, hollow silence.

  The last thing I saw before everything went dark? Faces. People I'd taken out in my past life. On orders. Things I'd done because I was told to. They all showed up, staring at me with absolutely no expression, like they were collecting a debt I could never repay.

  Darkness. Then... nothing.

  ***

  When I opened my eyes again, the world didn't greet me with heaven or hell.

  It greeted me with the sharp smell of medicine, rough fabric pressed against baby-soft skin, and the sound of crying that—I quickly realized—was coming from my own mouth.

  I'd been reborn.

  Took me a while to wrap my head around that one. Babies don't exactly get a lot of thinking time. Most of my energy went into crying, sleeping, and—with impressive professionalism—soiling my diapers.

  But in between those limited activities, my consciousness stayed intact. All thirty years of memories as a grown man were still there. The existential exhaustion. The past trauma. That annoying habit of over-analyzing every little thing.

  This world? Almost identical to Earth. Too similar to be coincidence. The language I heard around me sounded like Spanish mixed with some local dialect I couldn't quite place.

  The map on the clinic wall—I caught a glimpse when a nurse carried me past—showed a coastline that screamed Latin America. The year? No clue yet, but the way people dressed, the basic medical equipment, that old radio crackling in the corner... all pointed to one thing: early 1900s.

  My working theory was simple: I died, got transferred to a world that was basically the same, just rougher around the edges, younger, and definitely hadn't invented the internet yet.

  Ironic, really.

  ***

  I grew up as a weird kid.

  Not weird like I could shoot fire from my hands or talk to ghosts. Just... too calm for someone my age. When other babies cried because they were hungry or the light was too bright, I'd stare at the ceiling thinking about how fragile the whole concept of identity actually was.

  When other two-year-olds were learning to walk and falling on their faces constantly, I moved carefully, like an old man terrified of breaking a hip.

  My mother, Sofia, would laugh softly whenever she noticed.

  "This one," she'd say, stroking my head, "he's like an old man trapped in a little body."

  I wanted to answer. 'You have no idea, mom. And you definitely wouldn't believe how many bodies I've seen in my past life.'

  But of course, all that came out were baby noises nobody wanted to hear.

  My father was rarely home. When I finally got old enough to piece together our family situation, one thing became crystal clear: the man was a general. Not just any general either. His uniform was always spotless, his posture like forged steel, the way he stood made you feel like the world should rearrange itself around him.

  But here's what threw me off—our lifestyle.

  Our house was simple. Not "oh look at the humble politician" simple. Genuinely simple. No servants lined up waiting for orders. No fancy furniture. Our plates had chips on the edges, the wooden chairs in the living room creaked every time you sat down, and my mother sewed some of our clothes herself. For a general's family? Almost suspicious.

  My conclusion, again, was practical: my father was the real deal. Clean. Straight. Allergic to unnecessary luxury. The type of guy who, if you gave him gold bars, would probably turn them into training ammunition.

  I respected him. Not because he was my dad, but because he wasn't corrupt. Back in my old world, corrupt officials and officers were practically a daily occurrence.

  As I got older, my... let's call it "giftedness" started showing. Not because I was actually smarter than other kids, but because I'd already lived thirty years. I knew how to read faster, spot patterns, and most importantly—when to keep my mouth shut.

  I learned fast that being too obviously smart was dangerous. So I played it subtle. Asked the right small questions. Gave answers slightly better than average, never perfect. Enough to make teachers nod approvingly, never enough to draw real attention.

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  Sometimes I'd deliberately screw up. That's an art form in itself.

  I had an older sister, Isabella, and a younger sister, Eleanor. Isabella was the serious type—basically a mini version of our mom. Eleanor? Complete chaos in human form. Loud laugh, constant running, always dragging me into trouble I never asked for.

  "You're too quiet, big brother," Eleanor announced one day, yanking my hair. "No fun at all!"

  I patted her head gently, spouting nonsense. "Someone has to maintain the cosmic balance."

  She stared at me blankly, then burst out laughing like the little goofball she was. Light comedy, side effect of an extreme mental age gap.

  ***

  The thing happened when I was ten.

  Strange afternoon. Sun hanging low, light streaming through the living room windows in that golden hue that makes floating dust look like fragments of history. My father sat in his big chair, me on his lap. He wasn't saying anything. His hands were huge, heavy, still.

  He was zoning out.

  I could feel the tension in his body. Former adult here, with battlefield experience and just enough workplace-trained empathy to recognize this wasn't ordinary daydreaming.

  I stayed quiet. Waiting.

  Five minutes. Ten. Just the clock ticking and Eleanor yelling in the backyard.

  Finally, without looking at me, my father spoke. His voice was heavy, like it was coming from the bottom of a well.

  "Mateo. Do you know what's happening in our country right now?"

  I shook my head, though he couldn't see it.

  "The President's sick. Has been for a while. But nobody's had the guts to tell the people the truth." Long pause. "Now he's almost gone, and everyone's ready to kill each other for his chair."

  I didn't answer. Internally, though, my mind was already working. Latin American country, early 20th century. Political instability. Strong military. Weak civilian sector. Familiar pattern. Troublesome...

  My father continued, same flat tone, like he was reading a weather report. "Some factions want my support. Some want me to stay out of it. Some want me dead."

  His hand clenched briefly, then relaxed.

  I knew I should stay quiet. Ten-year-olds don't belong in conversations like this. But the words slipped out before I could stop them.

  "If a country is like a train," I said quietly, "what happens when the engineer falls asleep?"

  My father went still. But his body tensed.

  I pushed on, playing innocent. "Do the passengers just sit there nicely until the train crashes? Or is there a point where someone has to pull the emergency brake, even if it's noisy and dangerous?"

  He looked at me. Eyes narrowing, searching my face for something. I put on my best "clueless child" expression.

  "Who told you that?" he asked.

  "No one, Father. Just... something I read in a book."

  Long pause. I could hear my own heartbeat. Then I nudged just a bit further. Lighter tone this time, almost joking:

  "My teacher at school says sometimes rules are made for normal situations. But if things aren't normal... maybe the rules should take a little vacation too?"

  Small smile. The smile of a kid who doesn't know anything.

  My father didn't smile back.

  He stared at me for a long, long time. So long I started wondering if I'd pushed too far.

  But then he slowly rubbed my head. His hand was rough, covered in calluses. But the gesture was gentle.

  "You're a strange kid, Mateo," he said.

  "Strange, bad?"

  No quick answer. His eyes drifted to the window, to the sky turning orange.

  He looked back at me.

  "Not bad. But you're still a kid. Even though... sometimes... sometimes I forget you're still small."

  I didn't know what to say. Honestly? For the first time since being reborn, I actually felt like a little kid. Small and helpless.

  A few weeks later, everything changed.

  That morning, 5:30 AM, I woke up to the sound of doors slamming. Not once—multiple times. Heavy boots on wooden floors. Men's voices, fast and tense.

  I crawled to the window. Front yard: three military jeeps parked in semi-chaos. Armed soldiers at every corner.

  My mother appeared in the doorway. Pale face.

  "Get dressed. Now."

  "What's wrong?"

  "Not now."

  They rushed us to the living room. My father was already there, full uniform. Two senior officers beside him. Maps spread on the dining table, covered in pencil marks.

  He glanced at us briefly—me, Isabella, Eleanor, Mom—then back at his maps.

  "Sofia, take them to the safe house," he told an aide. "Route two. Don't stop until you get there."

  Mom grabbed his arm. "Ricardo..."

  He turned. Face the same as always. Hard. But his eyes... his eyes were different. Something there I'd never seen before.

  "Go, Sofia," he said quietly. "I'll catch up."

  Lie. I knew it was a lie. The way he said it was too smooth, too final.

  But we went.

  Inside the military truck, bouncing along damaged roads, I sat silent between Isabella—gripping my hand like a vice—and Eleanor—half-asleep, clueless about everything.

  Nobody spoke.

  ***

  The safe house turned out to be some old building on the city edge. Thick walls. Small windows. Heavy security. Radio always on in the corner, like a mechanical heartbeat pumping without emotion.

  Day one. Day two. Day three.

  No news. Just routine reports from guards who always said, "Everything's fine, ma'am."

  I knew that was bull. The way they said it—too fast, too automatic.

  Third night, I couldn't sleep. Sat by the radio, slowly turning the dial, searching for outside broadcasts.

  Next morning, 5:30 AM, I found it.

  The announcer's voice trembled between fear and awe.

  "...the old government has officially fallen. President Valdez was pronounced dead at 2 AM. Power has been temporarily assumed by the Military Council. General Ricardo Guerrero, former Army Chief of Staff, delivered a national address one hour ago. The speech emphasized national stability and security during this transitional period..."

  I stood frozen.

  Behind me, Sofia—mother appeared. Her face went from the radio to my eyes, then back to the radio.

  She didn't say anything. Just sat in the wooden chair beside me, took my hand, held it.

  Her grip was warm. But her hand shook.

  "He's alive," I whispered.

  My mother nodded. "Yes."

  But her tone wasn't confident. And I knew why. In the world I knew—my old world, this new one—coups never ended with "alive." Coups were just the beginning.

  On the radio, the announcer continued:

  "...several opposition factions have reportedly been detained. The capital's security situation is under control. Citizens are advised to remain calm and..."

  I turned it off.

  Head full. Too full.

  Reflections came uninvited. I remembered that afternoon conversation. The train. The sleeping engineer. The emergency brake.

  My chest felt strange. Like something squeezing from inside.

  "This isn't my fault," I muttered.

  She looked at me. "What, dear?"

  I shook my head. "Nothing, Mom."

  But inside, another voice whispered: Is it really?

  I remembered those faces again. The ones from my past life. They never really left. And now, in this new life, accidentally or maybe intentionally through some twisted fate, I might have just been a tiny spark in a massive coup.

  Or maybe just coincidence. Maybe...

  But my mind kept circling back to one point: the words I'd said that afternoon. Words I thought were just kid nonsense. But my father wasn't the type to be influenced by nonsense. Or was he...

  I sat there, gripping my own hands.

  My father was now the ruler of this country. And for the first time since being reborn, I felt genuinely scared. Not because of the situation. Not because of the coup. Not because I might die.

  But because of one simple fact:

  In my first life, I was a tool. Hands that killed in the name of the state. In my second life, without meaning to, I might have just helped create a new executioner. And that executioner was my own father.

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