Mimi knew, very early in life, that something about him was different.

Not special in the shiny, praised way—no teachers clapped when he spoke, no adults leaned down and said “you’re gifted.” It was quieter than that. He noticed pauses in conversations. The half-second delay before a smile. The way voices lifted when people lied or softened when they felt guilty. At five years old, he learned that adults said “maybe” when they meant “no.” At seven, he learned that fairness was a word people used only when it benefited themselves.

At ten, he stopped believing in it entirely.

Mimi lived an ordinary life in a very un-ordinary way. He was poor, the kind of poor that made hunger feel like a roommate instead of an emergency. He learned to drink water slowly to make his stomach feel full. He learned which days the market threw out bruised fruit. He learned to sit still in class so teachers wouldn’t notice his torn shoes.

“You’re so quiet,” an adult once said.

Mimi smiled politely and thought, 'Because talking doesn’t change outcomes'.

He watched people. Patterns came easily. Who would be helped. Who would be ignored. Who would survive.

He was not one of the chosen ones.

Still, he endured. He told himself that endurance was a form of intelligence, too. If he survived long enough, maybe something would change. Maybe he would escape poverty. Maybe hunger would become a memory instead of a daily calculation.

That maybe followed him into the street on the day he died.

It was hot. The kind of heat that pressed against the skin and made breathing feel heavier than usual. Mimi had bought a small bottle of water with the last of his coins. He stood near the sidewalk, tilting his head back, grateful for even this small mercy.

But then

He drank too fast.

The water went down wrong—sharp, sudden, stealing air instead of giving relief. Mimi coughed instinctively, but the cough didn’t work. His chest burned. His throat locked.

People noticed.

“Oh—he’s choking.”

“Someone help him!”

“Is he okay?”

Hands hovered. Voices overlapped. Panic bloomed like noise without direction.

Mimi tried to breathe. Nothing happened.

'Ah, he thought distantly. So this is how it ends'.

No heroic sacrifice. No tragic illness. Just water, of all things.

Someone slapped his back too hard. While another person shouted for space, and someone else froze completely. The world tilted, sounds stretching thin and far away, like he was underwater again—but this time without air waiting at the surface.

As his vision dimmed, Mimi felt something unexpected.

Not fear.

Annoyance.

'What a stupid way to die'.

His mind raced even as his body failed. He thought of unfinished calculations. Of all the patterns he’d noticed but never used. Of hunger that had shaped his entire life.

'I never even got out of poverty yet,' he thought bitterly.

The pavement was cold when he fell.

No one caught him.

The last thing Mimi felt was regret—not for dying, but for dying without ever escaping the life that had starved him.

Then everything went dark.

Hunger was the first thing he felt.

Not the mild discomfort he felt from his old life, but something sharper, louder—like his body was screaming before his mind fully woke up. His stomach cramped painfully, small and weak, demanding attention immediately.

Mimi gasped—and air rushed in easily.

He froze.

'Air?'

His eyes flew open.

The ceiling above him was cracked and stained, unfamiliar in every way. The light was dim, slipping through broken boards. Dust floated lazily in the air. He tried to move—and immediately felt wrong.

Too small.

Too light.

His hands came into view, thin and trembling. Child’s hands.

“No,” he whispered.

The voice that came out was soft. Young.

His heart pounded violently as memories slammed into place—not his own, but borrowed. A name surfaced like it had always been there.

Roy.

“I’m… Roy?” he muttered.

He sat up too fast and nearly blacked out. Hunger clawed again, vicious and demanding. His body swayed left and right.

Five years old, he realized suddenly.

Panic threatened to rise, but Mimi—no, Roy—forced it down. Panicking wastes energy. He didn’t have any energy to spare.

Then, the memories came properly.

A novel.

One he’d read once, casually, killing time. He remembered it now with terrifying clarity. A story about wealth, power, and fate. About a trillionaire CEO. About a fake child and a real one. About a forgotten Omega boy and his runaway mother who starved quietly in the background.

This body.

This life.

In the original plot, Roy, this body died young. Slowly. Painfully. Hunger and illness. His mother followed not long after.

Roy pressed his small hands into the thin blanket, breathing hard.

“So that’s it?” he whispered. “I get a second life just to die again?”

The room felt colder, very cold.

He remembered the male lead. The Alpha heir.The fake son. The perfect family. The happy ending that had never included Roy.

A weak laugh escaped him.

“No,” he said quietly.

His stomach growled viciously as if agreeing with what he said.

“If fate thinks I’ll just lie down and starve again,” Roy murmured, eyes sharp despite his weak body, “then fate is about to be very disappointed.”

He didn’t need to rewrite the whole story. He didn’t need revenge. He didn’t even need happiness.

He just needed to survive.

And this time, he wouldn’t wait politely for death.

Later

Roy looked at his mother, or at least this body's mother

He watched Luna like she might disappear if he looked away.

She moved softly, carefully, as if afraid of disturbing the world around her. Her clothes were worn thin. Her hair was tied back with shaking fingers. When she smiled at him, it was full of love—and guilt.

“Roy, are you hungry?” she asked quietly.

Roy swallowed.

“Yes,” he answered honestly.

She flinched, then smiled wider, too wide.

“I’ll find something,” She said quickly. “Mama will find something, okay?”

She left before he could respond.

Roy listened to her footsteps fade, then to the silence that followed. He knew that silence because he had experienced it before. It meant she was skipping another meal. Again.

She came back with half a stale bun.

“Here,” she said, placing it in his hands. “Eat slowly.”

Roy stared at it.

“Did you eat?” he asked.

Luna laughed nervously. “Of course! I’m not hungry.”

Lie.

Not a malicious one. A desperate one.

Roy broke the bun in half and held it up. “Let’s share.”

Luna froze. “Roy—”

“I won’t eat if you don’t,” he said calmly.

She hesitated, then sat beside him, eyes shining. They ate together in silence.

The building they lived in barely deserved to be called shelter. Broken walls. Cold nights. Leaking roof. Roy catalogued everything automatically. Risk factors. Survival chances.

He understood now.

Luna hadn’t run away for money. She hadn’t been greedy. If not, she would have stayed and she would have definitely been rich, but She was afraid. Afraid of power. Afraid of being crushed. Afraid of a world too big and cruel.

And because of that fear, they were here.

Roy leaned against her side.

“I’ll be okay,” he said softly.

Luna hugged him tightly. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Roy closed his eyes.

'Don’t be sorry', he thought. 'Just stay alive'.

This time, he wouldn’t survive alone.