The shrill sound of my phone arm slices through the silence, pulling me harshly from sleep. My eyes flutter open reluctantly, the dim glow of the early morning seeping through the thin curtains. I gnce at the clock—still early. Good.

  Dragging myself out of bed feels heavier than it should, as if invisible weights cling to my limbs. I stumble toward the bathroom mirror, pausing briefly. The reflection staring back at me is almost unrecognizable: gloomy eyes, murky with exhaustion, framed by lifeless features. I sigh, forcing myself to look away. This emptiness isn't new; it's a familiar companion that refuses to leave.

  My name is Ryota Hayes. This is the third life I've been given. Despite the endless cycles, the persistent ache of emptiness has followed me like an unshakable shadow. This life, so far, hasn't proven any different from the ones before. Yet I continue, driven by nothing but routine and sheer necessity.

  The warm water of the shower offers a brief respite, washing away some of the lethargy that clings to me. I dry off mechanically, slipping into my new high school uniform. The fabric feels stiff and unfamiliar against my skin, symbolizing yet another beginning, another forced restart.

  Descending the stairs quietly, my eyes scan the hallway and the living room. Empty bottles, cans, and traces of spilled alcohol litter the floor, evidence of another night of my mother's self-destructive habits. The bitter smell lingers in the air, mingling with the stifling atmosphere of our fractured home.

  I live here with my mother and my younger sister. They both despise me, a constant reminder of the man who abandoned us. My father, a once-admired model, decided to leave my mother—a successful businesswoman—for someone even more influential. Though she fought hard for custody, his departure left scars that run deep in all of us, particurly fueling my mother's resentment towards me. I became their emotional punching bag, a target for their anger and frustration.

  To survive, I've learned to wake up early, slipping away silently to avoid confrontation. Each morning, I meticulously clean up the evidence of my mother's nightly escapades. I know the consequences all too well—failure to leave the house spotless invites harsh punishment, another bruise hidden beneath my uniform.

  As I quietly clear the remnants of st night's chaos, I brace myself for another day—my first day of high school—already weighed down by burdens no one else sees.

  After finishing the cleaning, I quietly sat at the table, eating a modest breakfast—just cold rice with a raw egg stirred in. In this house, it’s better to keep things simple. To stay invisible.

  I made sure to wipe the counter clean again before leaving. One speck of dust, one mispced cup, and I'd be on the receiving end of another outburst—if not worse.

  My bag was already packed. I slipped into my uniform: dark pants, pressed shirt, bzer. Buttoned to the top, as expected of a boy. Neat. Proper. Respectable. I stepped outside before the sun had fully risen. The sky glowed faintly with morning light, and the street was quiet. A rare kind of peace that didn’t exist at home.

  On the way to school, my steps were slow, steady. The wind carried the scent of damp leaves and the metallic stillness that always comes before autumn rain. My mind drifted, as it always does.

  When I first regained the memories of my past lives, I thought it was a blessing. The start of something new. Back then, we were happy. A family, held together in warmth.

  But I should’ve known better. Happiness never sts long in any life.

  I was nine when everything fell apart.

  That was the year my father—well-known in modeling circles for his soft-spoken charm and delicate looks—was caught cheating.

  Mother confronted him in a rage, her voice echoing through the house with the kind of authority only a woman like her possessed. She was a respected businesswoman, sharp-tongued and relentless.

  “Was what I gave you not enough?” she demanded. “You live in my house, I feed you, I support this family—what more do you want?”

  Father didn’t even argue. He simply looked away, trembling. I remember how small he looked under her gre. “I just… I just wanted more opportunity,” he whispered. “Someone who could… help me feel seen.”

  That was the beginning of the end.

  Their arguments became daily occurrences. Doors smmed. Gss shattered. My father, once always smiling and doting, began to pull away from us. The warmth in his voice faded. He stopped singing in the kitchen.

  My sister—only seven at the time—took it the hardest. She looked up to Father like he was a safe haven in the storm that was Mother’s harsh world. I tried to comfort her. I’d sit beside her, tell her stories, distract her with memories of better days.

  But none of that mattered.

  When I turned ten, they divorced.

  And everything unraveled.

  Mother, of course, got custody. She always had the power, the money, the reputation. Father didn’t even fight for us. He left without a word, whisked away by a more successful woman from the entertainment industry—bolder, richer, more everything.

  From that day, the house became something else.

  My mother and sister began to treat me like a ghost. No… not a ghost. A stain.

  A reminder.

  Of him.

  Of the man who disgraced the family.

  As my sister grew, so did her resentment. Her words became sharper. Her eyes colder. She didn’t hold back—because in this world, girls didn’t need to.

  And I...

  I kept my head down. I tried to be quiet, respectful, obedient. Everything a boy should be in this society.

  But nothing worked.

  Even with my past lives’ memories—even with everything I once was—this life offered no refuge. I thought maybe, just maybe, I’d find peace here. But instead, I found myself reliving the same pain in a different frame.

  Just another sad chapter in a story that refuses to change.

  I kept walking.

  The further I got from home, the more the tension in my shoulders eased—only a little, but enough to breathe properly.

  The buildings around me stood tall, sharp in design, yet softened with subtle curves and aesthetic choices that blended both traditional Japanese architecture with Western influence. There were tiled rooftops beside high gss windows, sliding doors set into structures made of concrete and steel. Wood and stone, neon and paper nterns—all coexisting in strange harmony.

  Just like its people.

  This world… it’s different. Not just socially, but historically. It diverged a long time ago—not like my first life in the West, or my second one in Japan. This world’s history moved down a completely different path.

  Borders blurred. Cultures merged.

  Not because of war or diplomacy, but because of something far more surreal.

  Psychic power.

  All women are born with it. Not everyone possesses the same strength or control, but compared to men, it’s not even close. They’re faster, stronger, sharper—capable of bending objects with a flick of their hand, influencing minds, or tearing things apart without touching them.

  Why? I don’t know.

  Maybe no one does. It’s just the way this world is.

  With such a gap in natural power, society evolved around it.

  Women became the protectors, the providers, the leaders.

  Men? We were left to fill the other role—to support emotionally, to comfort, to obey.

  That’s why boys are raised to be modest, soft-spoken, reserved. We're taught from a young age to be careful with how we present ourselves, to avoid drawing too much attention, to uphold our chastity and dignity.

  Because we’re the ones to be protected now.

  The irony is sickening.

  In my first life, I gave up everything for my goals. In my second, I gave up everything for love.

  In this one...

  I’m not even sure what I’m allowed to give.

  I pass a group of girls on the sidewalk, their uniforms a little bolder than mine—skirts shorter, jackets worn open, confidence practically radiating from them. They talk loudly, casually. One of them whistles when she notices me, but I don’t look up. I keep my eyes down, my pace steady.

  They ugh and move on.

  It’s normal.

  Men are supposed to be reserved. If I looked back or said something, I’d just be accused of being shameless.

  That’s the kind of world this is.

  And it’s only my first day of high school.

  What a joke.

  I finally arrived at the school gate.

  Katsuragi High School.

  The structure stood firm and modern, its facade a mixture of polished stone and tinted gss, softened with accents of traditional wooden framing near the main hall. Cherry trees lined the outer walkways, their leaves already beginning to shift from green to amber, catching the morning light as if clinging to summer’s st breath.

  Groups of students were gathered near the gate and courtyard—most of them girls. Laughing, talking openly, exuding a kind of natural boldness that echoed the world’s rules.

  The boys, by contrast, stood quietly in small clusters or alone, like me. Posture straight, uniform neat, voices low. Their shoes clean. Their gazes lowered unless spoken to.

  I walked past them and made my way to the first floor bathroom. It was still early enough that the halls weren’t too crowded. Inside, the tiles were spotless—of course. In a society where image and order meant everything, especially for boys, appearances had to be perfect.

  I stepped in front of the mirror.

  Even though I already knew what I’d see, I still hesitated before lifting my gaze.

  There I was.

  Ryota Hayes.

  Lifeless, murky eyes. Pale skin. A bnk expression that even I no longer recognized.

  My hair had grown a little longer than the school allowed. Not enough to get punished, but just enough to hide the upper part of my face. It brushed just above my eyebrows, shadowing my eyes.

  I kept it like this on purpose.

  If my mother saw my face too clearly, she’d grimace. Sometimes she’d sp me. Once, she said, “You look too much like him. That smug, ungrateful bastard.”

  So I let it grow. Just enough to blur myself.

  I adjusted my colr, patted down the creases in my bzer, and turned to leave.

  The gymnasium was where the opening ceremony would be held.

  On the first day of high school, students usually gather for a formal introduction to their school life—speeches from the principal, staff, and sometimes the student council. Boys are expected to sit straight and quiet, hands on their ps. Girls may be more rexed, since they're often the ones carrying expectations of leadership.

  Once the ceremony ends, students meet their homeroom teachers and head to their cssrooms for guidance, orientation, and seat assignments. Some schools even assign seats by personality compatibility—how ironic.

  I stood quietly in the gym with the other boys.

  I could already feel eyes on me. Some curious. Some dismissive. Some already judging.

  The girls near the front were chatting and ughing while the teachers arranged papers.

  I knew my pce.

  Head down.Hands folded.Expression neutral.

  This is how it always begins.

  Not with excitement.

  Not with hope.

  Just with another silent day where I try to survive.