It was 5:00 PM in January 2025, and my hands gripped the steering wheel tightly as I wove through the chaotic streets of Delhi.
The city buzzed around me—horns blaring, rickshaws darting, the air thick with dust and life. I'd just finished my lecture at Delhi University, my voice still ringing in my ears as I replayed the way I'd explained the interference of light.
I could still see the students' faces, how they'd leaned forward, eyes wide, hanging onto every word about waves crashing into each other, creating patterns of light and shadow.
It had been a good day—one of those rare moments where I felt I'd truly connected with them.
At 25, I was the youngest professor in the university's history, a title I'd earned through blood, sweat, and more sleepless nights than I could count.
MIT had been brutal—years abroad surrounded by equations, coffee-stained notebooks, and the relentless pressure to prove myself.
But it had paid off. Now, driving home, the tension of the day started to melt away. The car's engine hummed beneath me, a steady pulse cutting through the madness of the streets.
I let my mind drift back to the chalkboard, to the diagrams I'd drawn—constructive interference, destructive interference, light bending and twisting in ways that felt almost alive. It was beautiful, like poetry written in math.
That calm shattered in an instant. A small figure stumbled into the road ahead—a child, maybe seven or eight, completely unaware of the danger.
"F*ck!" I yelled, my voice cracking with panic. My foot slammed the brake, my hands jerking the wheel hard.
The tires screeched, the car bucking as it fought to stop. My heart pounded in my chest, a wild, frantic rhythm. I could feel every muscle locking up, every nerve screaming as I tried to avoid the kid.
They froze, big eyes staring at me, then bolted to the side just as the car lurched to a halt. I let out a shaky breath, relief flooding through me like a wave. I'd done it.
They were safe.My hands were still trembling as I reached for the door, ready to step out and check on the child. I needed to see they were okay, to calm the storm still raging in my chest.
But before I could move, a deafening roar swallowed the world.
A truck—huge, unstoppable—came hurtling toward me from the other direction. There was no time to think, no room to maneuver. Instinct took over, and I braced myself, my arms tensing against the wheel.
Then came the crash—a sickening explosion of metal and glass. Pain ripped through me, sharp and blinding, before everything went black.
My glasses slipped down my nose, my head slumped against the seat, and the world disappeared.When I opened my eyes, I wasn't in the car anymore.
I wasn't even sure I was me anymore. The ceiling above me was unfamiliar—cracked plaster, a faint yellow stain in one corner. My head throbbed as I sat up, blinking against the dim light filtering through a small window.
Where was I? I swung my legs off the bed, my bare feet hitting a cold wooden floor, and stumbled toward a calendar pinned to the wall.
The date stared back at me: February 29, 2002.
My breath caught in my throat. Twenty-three years in the past? That couldn't be right. My heart started racing again, a different kind of panic creeping in.
I turned to a small mirror on the dresser, and the face looking back wasn't entirely mine.
Black hair, fair skin, a sharp jawline—handsome enough, I suppose, but unfamiliar. I touched my cheek, watching the reflection mimic me, and a strange, sinking feeling settled in my gut.
Who was this? How was I here? Before I could process it, a sharp pain stabbed through my skull, and a flood of memories hit me like a tidal wave—not mine, but his.
His name was Jatin Sharma.
He was 21, a fresh MSc Physics graduate from Oxford University. This was his home in Rewari, Haryana, a small town far quieter than Delhi.
He'd come back here three weeks ago after finishing his studies abroad. His life unfolded in my mind like a movie I hadn't asked to watch.
His parents had died in a car accident seven years ago when he was 14, leaving him with his grandfather—a stern but kind man who'd been the principal of a university he'd founded 15 years back.
Jatin had done his bachelor's there under his grandfather's watchful eye before heading to Oxford for his master's.
But the day after he'd returned home, his grandfather passed away—old age and a long illness finally catching up.
The original Jatin had been devastated. After the rituals, he'd collapsed last night, his heart giving out from grief and exhaustion.
And somehow, I'd woken up in his body today.I leaned against the dresser, my hands gripping the edge as I tried to steady myself.
This was real. I'd died—or at least, the me from 2025 had—and now I was here, in 2002, in someone else's skin.
My mind raced, piecing it together. The accident, the truck, the darkness—it all felt so distant now, like a dream I couldn't shake. But this? This was solid.
The creak of the floorboards, the faint smell of dust and old wood, the weight of this new body—it was all too real to deny.
I took a deep breath and straightened up, staring at myself in the mirror again.
"Okay," I muttered, my voice sounding strange in this throat.
"I'm Jatin Sharma now. This is my life." The words felt clumsy, but saying them out loud helped anchor me. I'd always been good at adapting—MIT had taught me that much.
If this was my second chance, I wasn't going to waste it.My thoughts turned practical, sharp. I'd sell everything—the house, whatever property his grandfather had left behind.
I'd move abroad, somewhere like the US or UK, where I could start fresh. I knew the future—big companies like Google, Apple, Amazon, they'd skyrocket in the coming years. Bitcoin, too—I could buy in early, let it sit, and be set for life.
A small, wry smile tugged at my lips. Maybe dying wasn't the worst thing to happen to me.
This could be a golden ticket, a chance to live smarter, richer, better than I ever had before.I was halfway through mentally mapping out my investments when a voice cut through the silence—clear, mechanical, and completely out of place.
[Congratulations, Host… You are bound by the Best Principal System. To activate the system, own a university and become the principal for activation of the system.]
I froze, my head whipping around the empty room.
"What the hell?" I said aloud, my voice louder than I meant it to be.
"A system? What system?" My pulse quickened again, a mix of confusion and curiosity bubbling up. The voice didn't respond, leaving me standing there, staring at my reflection like it might have answers.
A system—like some kind of game or program? I'd read sci-fi novels, sure, but this was insane.
And yet, after everything—dying, waking up in 2002, taking over someone else's life—it didn't feel entirely impossible.I rubbed my temples, the headache from earlier lingering like a dull echo.
"Own a university," I muttered, testing the words.
"Become a principal." That wasn't part of the plan. I'd been a professor, sure, but running a whole university? That was a different beast.
Still, the voice had called me "Host," like I'd been chosen for something. What did it mean? What would this "Best Principal System" even do?I sat back on the bed, the springs creaking under me, and let out a long, shaky laugh.
Here I was, a dead man in a stranger's body, plotting to get rich off cryptocurrency, and now some mysterious voice was throwing a wrench into it all.
My hands ran through my—Jatin's—hair, the texture foreign under my fingers. I could feel the weight of this new life settling on me, heavy but strangely alive with possibility.
Whatever this system was, I'd figure it out. I always did. For now, though, I just needed to breathe, to let this bizarre reality sink in—one impossible step at a time.