Chapter 1: The Second Life Nobody Wanted

Closing the book, Derek’s heart pounded wildly—far from calm.

He snapped it shut with a soft thud, his fingers lingering on the cover, nails digging in, wishing he could drag some of the story’s fire into his own life. The afterglow of the novel buzzed in his veins, a restless cocktail of curiosity and that hollow ache you get after watching someone else’s life spiral through heartbreak and triumph. He sat slouched on his battered couch in his cramped Lansing apartment, late-night rain tapping a syncopated rhythm against the window. The TV was dark, the only light coming from a corner lamp and the eerie blue glow of his phone’s lock screen.

Before his rebirth: cheerfully working himself to the bone for the state government. After rebirth: coldly working himself to the bone for the state government. So, what was the point of being reborn?

He replayed his old routine in his mind—late shifts at the Department of Transportation, takeout in styrofoam, chasing scraps of victory in a world that barely noticed. Even after his so-called second chance, nothing much had changed. The city stayed the same; only his sense of humor grew sharper, his patience thinner. He grunted, half amused, half irritated by the cosmic joke.

He almost laughed, catching himself. Was he really jealous of a fictional heroine’s luck? This is just standard fare for women’s webnovels. If this were a guy’s power fantasy, since you’re already a superhero, even the bugs in the governor’s mansion would get squashed just for showing up.

He smirked, eyes flicking to the cheap superhero poster tacked above his couch. In the stories he’d grown up on, the hero would wipe the floor with anyone dumb enough to cross him. No mercy for the villain’s cronies—or even the bugs, for that matter.

A sudden pressure built behind his eyes, the room’s shadows stretching until they swallowed him whole. Derek’s vision went black—

The room faded out, the world melting like TV static.

---

When he opened his eyes again—

A glowing, vaguely human-shaped orb hovered before him. Within its shimmer, he could just make out an impossibly beautiful figure.

He blinked, squinting against the glare. It was like staring at a campfire through heavy fog, the figure shifting in and out of focus—feminine, ethereal, unsettlingly calm. The air was heavy with ozone and the scent of fresh-cut grass, as if he’d landed in the middle of a summer thunderstorm.

"Sir, why are you taking advantage of someone’s weakness to hijack Aubrey’s body?"

A woman’s voice, clear as a bell, drifted from the light. In her mind, anyone who could take over a body directly had to be terrifyingly powerful.

Derek blinked. "You’re Aubrey?"

His voice sounded higher, different—a half beat off from what he remembered, but fierce underneath. The strangeness of it prickled at the back of his neck.

"Yes."

Aubrey nodded. That was the name of the novel’s female lead. Only now did Derek realize he’d been dropped into the female protagonist’s body. This ball of light before him was the original owner’s spirit. For now, he was in control.

He fought the urge to pinch himself. This had to be a fever dream, right? But everything—from the tightness of the boots on his feet to the faint scent of gun oil and leather—screamed this was real.

If this were a male protagonist story, in this superhero world, he’d at least be able to take over the whole mansion. But now he’d become the female lead. How was he supposed to play this? He couldn’t possibly…

His mind raced, flipping through tropes from a thousand comic books and late-night pulp novels, none of which seemed to fit. The room around him buzzed with nervous energy, the air as tense as a high school locker room before a championship game.

Derek couldn’t help the twitch at the corner of his mouth. That thought was a bit too bold.

He choked back a laugh. The idea of him, in a woman’s body, kicking in the doors of the governor’s mansion was almost too much. He gripped the edge of the table to steady himself.

"Excuse me!"

"Ma’am! The governor’s messenger is here!"

A voice cut through Derek’s thoughts. He was in a military tent. Outside, a messenger in fatigues called out.

He glanced around, taking in the harsh fluorescent lights, the battered metal desk littered with field reports, and the persistent hum of generators outside. A battered coffee pot burbled on a hot plate, steam curling in the cold air, the scent cutting through the gunpowder and sweat. This was a true border camp, straight out of a Midwest National Guard deployment.

Aubrey was the world’s only true immortal—stationed at the border to keep the monsters at bay, making huge sacrifices for the country. Yet politicians were still politicians—they couldn’t let anyone overshadow the governor’s office. The governor had sent eighteen official summons, ordering Aubrey back to the capital.

Derek looked at the neatly stacked command badges before him, muttering, "This opening feels all too familiar."

He let his fingers brush the badges, each one weighty with a sense of duty he’d only ever read about. The room felt colder than before, the kind of chill that seeps into your bones on a Michigan January morning.

If you had no intention of rebelling, this trip back would surely mean death. But if you did rebel—as the world’s only immortal—who could possibly stop you?

The logic was as clear as a Midwest highway on a Sunday morning—no obstacles, just choices. He considered the odds, half-smiling at the sheer audacity of it all.

"Let him in," Derek said.

Not long after, a bureaucrat strutted in, acting like he owned the place.

The guy was pure Midwest nepotism in a suit—paunchy, with thinning hair and the sharp eyes of someone who’d never missed a chance to network at a Rotary Club mixer. His badge gleamed a little too brightly, as if he’d polished it on the drive over just to impress the out-of-towners.

"Ma’am, the governor’s orders."

Though he addressed Derek as ‘Ma’am,’ his eyes were full of disdain. Derek couldn’t figure out what he was so smug about.

The man’s tone was pure condescension, as if he were explaining tax codes to a freshman intern. Derek bristled, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

"Orders? Sorry, you’ll have to be more specific," Derek said deliberately.

He let each word hang in the air, sharp as a lawyer’s objection in a packed county courthouse.

Before the bureaucrat could reply, Aubrey piped up: "Sir, it’s the governor’s official order. It’s probably another summons to the capital. You’d better accept it quickly."

Her voice echoed inside Derek’s mind—nervous, earnest, with the stubbornness of someone who always colored inside the lines.

"Still not standing for the order? If you miss your window, you’ll regret it," the bureaucrat snapped, looking Derek up and down with obvious irritation.

He sneered as if daring her to step out of line. Derek could practically hear the unspoken, ‘I’ll make sure you pay for this,’ in his tone.

Derek gave him a sidelong glance. Level One—basically a nobody.

He catalogued the man the way you’d size up an opponent at a neighborhood basketball game: cocky, but not nearly as tough as he thought.

In guy-centric superhero stories, power usually broke down into four levels: Nobody, Buddy, Boss, and then—Special Guest. Special Guest meant you couldn’t beat the Boss standing behind them.

But women’s stories had their perks. At least you didn’t get the endless cycle of: after beating the young ones, the elders come out, then the ancestors show up, and the whole family vanishes one by one. Plenty of male leads fought all their lives, only to realize they weren’t even as well off as the female leads at the start of a romance novel.

He chuckled inwardly. Maybe he’d been reading the wrong books all this time.

That was Derek’s situation now: dropped in and already a superhero. He’d never had such a stacked hand in his life.

It felt like winning the Powerball without buying a ticket. The world was his, if only he could figure out the rules.

"Who are you?" Derek asked coolly.

He let his voice drop, calm and dangerous as a snake coiled in the sun.

The bureaucrat puffed up. "I’m the foster son of Chief of Staff Milton Price. My name is Greg Price."

Greg’s voice hitched on the word ‘foster,’ as if daring anyone to challenge his claim to power. In small-town politics, connections like that were everything.

Aubrey added: "Sir, Milton Price is a snake. You don’t want to cross him."

She sounded like someone warning you not to buy fireworks from the shady stand outside city limits.

Aubrey was still thinking like a pushover—always by the book, rules above all. But she didn’t seem to realize: if you’re strong enough, you make the rules. Why worry about others making things hard for you?

Derek put on an exaggerated face. "Wow, you’re actually the foster son of the chief of staff?"

He whistled low, as if genuinely impressed, though the sarcasm was thick as syrup.

"Hmph. As long as you know. You heard me. Show some respect—get up and thank the governor."

Greg’s eyes brimmed with contempt. So what if you’re a superhero? Aren’t you still startled? Aren’t you still going to obey?

Greg’s lips twisted in a smirk, the kind of look you’d see from a schoolyard bully who just realized the teacher wasn’t watching.