Part 1

Bortinto was a city that never slept. Everywhere Philip looked, towering skyscrapers stared back, their windows blinking like cold, unfeeling eyes. Neon lights flooded the streets, reflecting off puddles that had formed from the relentless drizzle. Pedestrians rushed by in a blur, preoccupied with their phones or the next big meeting. For all its glamour, Bortinto was also a colossal pit where anyone without powerful connections could lose themselves in the daily grind.

Philip knew this all too well. He had grown up here, watching housing costs soar with every passing year, trapped in a cycle of endless bills. Despite his best efforts and genuine talent, he could never truly catch a break. Every success felt fleeting, and every obstacle seemed insurmountable.

That afternoon, his life capsized. He clutched a crumpled severance letter in his jacket pocket, a stark reminder that his position as a portfolio associate at Oscadial Capital was over. Officially, the HR manager had explained that the company was "reorganizing" and needed to trim costs in order to expand its sales division, but rumors had been circulating for weeks that they planned to hire someone far better connected—someone who could bring in wealthy new clients. It didn't matter that he had helped them turn a tidy profit with his careful stock picks; in the end, a name with enviable social ties was apparently worth more.

So now Philip stalked the rain-slick streets in a numb haze. He had no family left—his parents were gone, victims of a catastrophic accident some years back. His modest apartment was barely affordable even with a steady job. And then Tara, his girlfriend of three years, had dropped the final blow that morning.

"We can't keep living this way," she said, eyes sad but resolute. "I need some security, Philip. I'm sorry."

She was gone before he could protest. One moment, she was his only emotional lifeline; the next, he was alone. He tried to convince himself he understood why she left—Bortinto was a ruthless place, and nobody wanted to risk sinking alongside someone barely staying afloat.

He still had friends, though: Robert, Mia, and Tom from university, who insisted he come out for a drink at Granger's Taproom that evening. Walking into the bar, Philip spotted their familiar faces at a corner table. The low hum of patrons' conversations and the warm, yellow glow of antique lamps offered a brief respite from the city's neon gloom.

Mia was the first to greet him. She held a glass of soda in one hand, her other arm draped protectively around her purse. He knew Mia was married now—he had missed his chance with her long ago, back when they were younger and filled with possibility. If only he had picked up on the small hints she dropped, and if only she had believed she was worthy of him. It felt like a lifetime ago, and yet the pain still lingered in the subtle way her eyes flickered over him.

"Hey, Philip," she said softly. "Robert told me about the job."

He gave a half smile, sinking into a rickety chair across from her. "Yeah. Guess I'm the star of my own tragedy tonight."

Robert tried to lighten the mood by ordering a round of beer for everyone, while Tom launched into a story about how his boss had nearly electrocuted himself on a broken coffee machine. The laughter was sincere, but beneath it, Philip felt his worries gnaw at him. He had never been so aware of how precarious his life in Bortinto was.

Once they finished their drinks, Mia followed Philip outside to say goodbye. Standing under the bar's worn awning, they listened to the rain drum against the pavement.

"Philip… I'm sorry about everything," she murmured, voice tinged with regret.

He shrugged. "Life just does what it does, I guess."

"Please… call me if you need anything," Mia said, lowering her gaze. He thought he saw sadness in her eyes, an echo of what could have been, but he only nodded. She had a husband now, a new life.

Philip left the group soon after, stepping into an almost deserted street. He wandered aimlessly, head bowed against the drizzle. The neon signs of Bortinto flickered ominously, as if mocking his predicament. If only he had been born somewhere else—somewhere less demanding and more appreciative of genuine talent—maybe he could have thrived. He couldn't help thinking that money, connections, and the right opportunities would have saved him from losing everything.

He closed his eyes, pausing under a sputtering street lamp. The city hummed around him, relentless and indifferent.

"If only I had another chance," he whispered, breath fogging in the cold. "A new life where I can make a real difference… where I could help people, love freely, and find meaning."

He said it in the silence, not expecting an answer. Yet even as he opened his eyes, a delivery van roared around the corner, tires struggling to grip the slick road. An ear-splitting horn. A blinding flash.

And in a single deafening heartbeat, Philip's world went black.

Part 2

When he came to, the first thing Philip noticed was the bed. It was enormous, covered in heavy quilts that smelled of lavender and old cedar. A high ceiling loomed overhead with beams of dark wood, and daylight streamed through tall, curtain-draped windows. He inhaled sharply, heart thudding as he realized this was no hospital room. Everything looked… historic, like stepping into a 19th-century painting.

He swung his legs over the side of the mattress, only to gasp at the sight of his own body. Before, he had been fairly lean, a testament to countless nights at the gym when he still had money for membership. Now he appeared younger but decidedly bulkier, with a belly that jiggled more than he cared to admit. Had someone snuck a fat suit on him while he was unconscious?

"This has got to be a prank," he muttered, patting his rounder midsection. He had died—he was sure of it. So how was he… alive, and in a body that felt heavier and out of shape?

Just then, the door swung open. An older woman stepped in, gray streaking through her tightly pinned hair. She wore a long black gown and a simple white apron, somewhere between a housekeeper's uniform and a governess's attire.

"Young Master Philip," she said, voice brimming with relief, "thank goodness you're awake. We feared the worst after that incident by the pond."

He blinked at her, mouth gaping. "'Young Master Philip'? Are you talking to me?"

"Yes," she replied, eyeing him warily. "I am Lydia, your governess and the head housekeeper here at your estate. Surely you remember?"

Philip stared, his head filling with memories that did not belong to him. This body had also been called Philip, the grandson of a duke in some place called Yorgoria. He had turned to excessive drinking and lavish eating once his engagement was canceled by the lady's family. After that, humiliation and heartbreak consumed him. Yesterday—or maybe the day before—he had wandered out in a daze and fallen into a pond, effectively ending his life… until, evidently, the universe decided to drop modern Philip's consciousness into him.

Deep inside, he felt pangs of heartbreak that were not his own. Lady Rosetta. The canceled engagement. Rumors of shady business deals that tarnished this Philip's reputation. Even the memory of her face—radiant, raven hair framing lively brown eyes—made his heart clench painfully.

"What… happened to me?" he asked, swallowing the lump in his throat.

Lydia frowned. "We were told you became distraught after the news of Lady Rosetta's withdrawal. Your heartbreak ran so deep that you, well…" She hesitated, eyes softening. "Perhaps it's best you rest. Your health is more important than dredging up sad memories right now."

"I… I see," he managed. "Thank you, Lydia."

She nodded, setting a tray of warm tea and biscuits on a small table by the window. "Try to eat something, Master. You haven't had a proper meal since yesterday. You'll find your clothes in the wardrobe. But if you feel any dizziness, ring the bell on the nightstand."

Philip forced a smile, hoping he did not look as panicked as he felt. "I'll be fine. Thank you."

As soon as Lydia left, Philip tested his legs by taking a few cautious steps. This body was indeed younger—maybe early twenties—but heavier than he was used to. Each movement felt a tad awkward, as though his center of gravity had shifted. His mind spun with the implications. If he had prayed for a second chance, did the cosmos have to stick him in a body whose previous owner had already wrecked its reputation?

He decided he needed information, so he waddled—there was no better word for it—into the corridor, searching for something resembling a study or an office. The estate was cavernous, with high-ceilinged hallways, ornate sconces, and large portraits of forebears with stern faces. A thick carpet muffled his footsteps, reminding him of every fancy manor scene he had ever seen in period dramas, except this was apparently real.

He finally found a small study, the door ajar. Inside were shelves of leather-bound tomes and a heavy mahogany desk stacked with ledgers. The scent of old paper hit him like a wave. Despite feeling out of his depth, curiosity spurred him forward. He picked up a ledger labeled "Estate Accounts," flipping through the first few pages.

"Oh, so that's how it is," he muttered, eyebrows climbing. The math was scrawled in an old-fashioned language. Miraculously, he could read it—maybe that was part of the bizarre soul transfer package deal. His initial optimism that he might be inheriting some grand fortune evaporated as he studied the figures. Income? Barely enough to cover basic upkeep. Debts? Plentiful. Profit margins? Nonexistent.

"You have got to be kidding me," he groaned, letting the ledger thump shut. Here he was, stuck in some 19th-century realm, presumably with fancy titles and a big house, but no actual wealth. Worse, the social stigma from the broken engagement had left this original Philip mired in shame.

Leaning against the desk, he rubbed his eyes in frustration. "My second chance, and I'm broke. Again."

He heard a quiet shuffle in the doorway and turned to see Lydia plus an older steward, a tall, thin man with spectacles. Both looked alarmed, as though they expected him to keel over.

"Young Master," Lydia began gently, "I told you to rest. Do you need anything?"

The steward cleared his throat. "Would you like me to bring you a fresh ledger, sir? You seem… concerned."

Philip waved them off, trying for a reassuring smile. "I appreciate it, but I think I just need to lie down for a moment… or maybe walk around a bit. Catch my breath."

Lydia and the steward exchanged anxious glances. "As you wish, Master," Lydia said, her voice heavy with maternal worry.

Without waiting for them to escort him, Philip stepped past and wandered down the hall. The estate seemed to stretch on forever. Stained-glass windows in some corridors, delicate vases on small tables, intricately carved wooden doors everywhere. Each step reminded him of how out of shape this body felt—his thighs jiggled, and he was already breathing a bit heavily.

He reached a door that he assumed led back to his bedroom. His focus was scattered; he opened it without even knocking. At once, golden afternoon sunlight spilled in, framing the figure of a tall, graceful woman standing near a decorative vanity table.

She turned at the sound of the door and offered him a smile so enchanting that Philip nearly forgot his own name. She was stunning, with blonde hair cascading over her shoulders and a flawless complexion. Her pale blue eyes locked on him, and he felt his pulse stutter. Had he walked into some illustration from a historical romance novel?

Philip managed only to open and close his mouth in a vague approximation of speech. The woman possessed the kind of figure that made him momentarily forget he was in a strange world and severely in debt. She wore a form-fitting gown that highlighted her curves, and she towered with an air of poised confidence. For a heartbeat, he wondered if this could be Lady Rosetta, the fiancée who had jilted him. But a flicker of memory told him Rosetta had darker hair, so this had to be someone else entirely.

The silence stretched, and she seemed amused by his reaction. Her gentle smile deepened, but she said nothing, merely tilting her head in polite interest. He tried to form a coherent sentence: "I… uh… sorry, I thought this was my room."

Her eyes glimmered with a kind of good-natured curiosity, as if she was deciding whether or not to forgive his intrusion. Philip felt his face warm. Who knew a person could flush that fast?

When she continued to remain silent, he gave a stiff, awkward bow—his attempt at some measure of courtesy. "I'll just… be going," he managed, then backed out, shutting the door so hastily that it rattled in its frame.

Leaning against the hallway wall, he exhaled slowly, heart drumming. So much for forging a dignified start in this new life. Now he was not only broke, out of shape, and carrying another man's heartbreak, but he had also possibly just barged into a lady's private quarters. Well done, indeed.

He took a moment to collect himself, remembering how grand the woman's smile had been. As mortifying as that encounter was, he had to admit it was a far cry from the anonymity and dismissal he'd faced daily in Bortinto. At least here, people acknowledged him—even if they were worried he might do something drastic again.

He thought of the swirling rumors surrounding Lady Rosetta and how the original Philip had taken his own life over it. The heartbreak, the debt, the humiliation. Before he could wade further into gloom, he reminded himself that he had wanted a chance to prove his abilities. Maybe saving a ruined estate in Yorgoria was that chance. Sure, it involved a few hundred extra pounds and a shredded reputation, but when had he ever done things the easy way?

As footsteps approached from behind, likely Lydia's again, he straightened his waistcoat and tried for a more confident stance.

"This time," Philip muttered under his breath, "I'll find a way to succeed. And maybe, if luck is on my side, I'll figure out who that mysterious lady was before making a complete fool of myself again."

In the corridor's arched window, he caught a glimpse of himself—round cheeks, rumpled hair, uncertain eyes. It wasn't the version of Philip he remembered, but it would have to do. Whatever drama, debt, and romance awaited him in Yorgoria, he would face it with every scrap of determination he could muster.

If this was his second chance at life, he might as well seize it. Debt or no debt. Lost love or brand-new complications. A sarcastic thought flitted through his mind: at least a big estate came with plenty of rooms to hide in, should everything go downhill. And if his old luck followed him here, he had no doubt he'd need them.

Yet, for the first time since losing Tara and that ill-fated job, he felt something stir in his chest: a faint spark of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this bizarre twist of fate would let him become the person he had always dreamed of being, in a world that had no idea what was coming.

He took a single step forward, feeling the floorboards creak beneath his heavier frame. One step toward a new future, whatever that might be.

He smiled, albeit wryly. Onwards it was.