Akshran always thought he'd control the terms of his death.

The room was suffocating in its sterility—white walls, harsh fluorescent light, the faint, medicinal stench that clung to every surface. His arms strained against the leather restraints that cut into his wrists, but there was no escape. The metallic clang of the steel door echoed behind him, locking out whatever freedom existed beyond it. He could almost laugh at the absurdity.

They had him.

His breath was shallow, more out of exhaustion than fear. He had prepared for this moment, rehearsed every possible outcome in his mind, every move they might make. But now that it was happening, the futility of it all hit harder than any interrogation room ever could.

The glass panel on his left reflected his weary face—a face he barely recognized. Dark circles under his eyes, bruises on his cheekbones, the bloodshot whites betraying sleepless nights and endless questioning. He felt less like a criminal mastermind and more like an old dog waiting for the inevitable.

His ears picked up the faint murmur of voices behind the glass. Observers, studying him, deciding his fate. They had been watching him for days, waiting for him to break, to confess. It was almost amusing. What could he possibly confess to them that would make any difference? Akshran had no secrets left to give.

The door clicked open, the hinges groaning as if sharing in his resignation. Detective Greer strode in with that familiar look of smug satisfaction etched on his weathered face. Greer, who had spent his career chasing Akshran through every shadowy corner of the law, who had sacrificed his family, his health—everything—just to bring him down.

"You don't look so clever now, do you?" Greer's voice had a sneering edge, his eyes narrowing in mock sympathy. He took his time, circling the table, letting the silence draw out. "All that brilliance. All those years of manipulating everyone around you… and here you are."

Akshran said nothing. His eyes followed Greer's slow movements, but his mind was elsewhere. They thought they had him, that they'd won. But they didn't know the truth—no one did.

"You were always one step ahead," Greer continued, leaning over the table, his breath hot and acrid. "Always pulling strings, playing your little games. You thought you could get away with it all. Thought you could outsmart everyone, even me."

Akshran's lips twitched, but the smile never formed. If only Greer knew. There were no games left. No more schemes, no more strings. Only this—cold, sterile inevitability.

Greer took something from his coat pocket, and Akshran's eyes locked on it. A small, sleek syringe filled with a thick, black liquid. It glistened ominously in the artificial light, and the room seemed to grow colder.

"This… is mercy," Greer said softly, holding the syringe between his fingers like a final judgment. "A quick end. Cleaner than what you deserve. But it's what the higher-ups want. No public trial, no media circus. Just silence. You'll disappear, just like that."

Akshran's heart raced, not from fear, but from the sudden realization that this was it. All the plans, all the contingencies, everything he had done—it led to this. A needle. An end. His pulse hammered in his ears, louder than Greer's words. He could feel the sweat running down his spine, the icy chill of impending death crawling across his skin.

Greer didn't wait for a response. He plunged the needle into Akshran's arm, the liquid burning as it flooded his veins. It was a sensation unlike anything Akshran had ever experienced. Fire. It raced through him, hot and consuming, spreading like molten lead from his arm to his chest, up to his throat. His breath hitched, and his muscles tensed against the restraints.

For a brief moment, panic clawed at him. Not fear—Akshran had faced death before—but something deeper, more primal. The loss of control.

His vision blurred. The room tilted, spinning wildly as the light above him flickered erratically, its harsh glare fading in and out like the last gasps of life. His chest tightened, each breath more shallow than the last, his lungs refusing to cooperate. Akshran gritted his teeth, refusing to give Greer the satisfaction of seeing him suffer.

But it was no use. His body was betraying him.

Greer's face swam before him, the edges of the detective's smirk fading into a distorted mess. Akshran tried to focus, tried to hold on to one last shred of clarity. But the darkness was creeping in from the edges of his vision, relentless and suffocating.

His hands twitched. His throat closed. The fire in his veins turned to ice.

This is how it ends, he thought. After everything.

And yet… something stirred in the depths of his mind. A faint, flickering presence. A voice—no, a whisper. It was barely audible, more sensation than sound, but it was there. Pressing against his consciousness. Urging him to listen.

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Turn right.

Akshran's mind jolted. He was slipping away, consciousness dissolving like sand through his fingers, but that whisper—it was clear. It pulsed through his dying mind, insistent.

Turn right.

The darkness enveloped him completely now, the light from the world above fading into nothingness. His last breath rattled in his throat, his body collapsing inward.

But the whisper persisted.

Turn right.

Akshran's final thought, before the abyss claimed him, was not of regret or fear. It was a question. What waited for him if he listened?

Then, the world went black.

The world rushed back in with a jolt.

Akshran's body slammed into the ground, dirt filling his mouth and nostrils as his breath hitched in shock. For a moment, he couldn't make sense of anything—the pain, the heaviness in his limbs, the pounding in his chest. He was lying face-down in mud, and the stench of stale bread mixed with sweat filled the air.

"What—?"

His mind reeled. Just moments ago, he had been...dying. His body had failed him, the darkness had claimed him. He remembered the searing pain, the final breath—and then...

"Turn right!"

The voice rang out in his head, sharp and clear, the same one from before. Reflexively, Akshran rolled to his right, his body moving on its own. Something whizzed past his ear—a blade, close enough to slice a lock of hair from his head. It embedded itself into the wooden post next to him with a dull thud.

Akshran gasped, his senses catching up with reality. He wasn't in that sterile room anymore. He was... outside? His limbs felt foreign, too small, too light. His breath came in short, panicked bursts. He pushed himself up onto his knees, his hands scraping against the rough cobblestones beneath him. A sharp pain radiated through his ribs—he'd been hit.

He glanced down. His clothes were ragged, barely more than scraps of cloth hanging off a wiry frame. His hands—smaller, dirtied—were not his own. His heart thudded faster in his chest, confusion and disbelief settling in as his mind raced to piece together what had happened.

A cart lay overturned a few feet away, bread scattered across the street like discarded treasures. People were yelling, men armed with daggers and clubs closing in, their eyes filled with rage. He had stolen the cart. And now they were trying to kill him.

Akshran blinked, trying to grasp the madness around him. He was no longer a criminal mastermind on death row. He was... a child.

"You little rat!" One of the men snarled, stomping toward him, brandishing a club. "Thought you could get away with it this time, huh? We've got you now!"

Panic seized him. Akshran staggered to his feet, his body protesting with each movement. There was no time to think, no time to question the impossibility of it all. He had to move. Instinct took over, driving him forward.

The boy he had become had been running—running from these men, from death. Running for his life. And now, Akshran was too.

The boy's memories began to trickle into Akshran's mind, merging with his own in fractured pieces. This child—a notorious thief, no more than thirteen years old—had been living on the streets, surviving through cunning and deception. He was infamous for his elaborate schemes, for taking what others thought impossible to steal. Bread, jewels, weapons—it didn't matter. If it was worth something, he could find a way to get it.

But the boy had made enemies. And today, those enemies had caught him.

Akshran's feet pounded against the cobblestones as he sprinted down a narrow alleyway, the echo of boots behind him growing louder. His heart raced, each breath burning his lungs. He could hear them shouting, the sound of metal scraping against stone as they gave chase.

"Turn left," came the whisper again.

His body obeyed without hesitation. He darted down a side street, skidding on the wet ground as he nearly crashed into a stack of barrels. He kept moving, each turn leading him deeper into the maze of streets, but his pursuers were relentless.

His new body was fast—far faster than his old one. Despite the pain and exhaustion, the boy's instincts were sharp. But there was something else too. Something in the way his mind processed every turn, every option, calculating the best route to escape. It was as if the boy's criminal instincts were fusing with Akshran's own methodical mind, creating a dangerous combination of intellect and raw survival instinct.

But it wasn't enough.

Suddenly, the alley ended in a dead end. A brick wall loomed ahead, tall and impassable. Akshran's heart sank, his breath catching in his throat. There was nowhere to run.

He turned around, backing up against the wall as the men closed in, their grins wide with cruel satisfaction. One of them, a burly figure with a scar running down his cheek, stepped forward. The club in his hand gleamed in the low light.

"This is the end, boy," he growled, lifting the club. "No more tricks."

Akshran's mind raced. Think. Think!

The man swung. Akshran ducked, the club slamming into the wall with a sickening crunch. 'This body isn't mine', Akshran thought desperately. 'I don't know its limits.' His fingers fumbled along the ground, searching for anything—anything he could use.

But as he looked up, a sharp pain exploded in his side. The scarred man had kicked him, sending him sprawling to the ground, gasping for air. The world blurred, but Akshran's mind remained focused. He wouldn't die again—not like this.

He tried to stand, but another blow knocked him down. This time, it was a dagger—a sharp, searing pain in his side, as one of the men stepped forward, driving the blade into his flesh. Akshran's scream tore through the alley, his body convulsing.

For a moment, everything stilled. His vision dimmed. He was dying again.

The world began to darken around him, just as it had before.

But the whisper returned, louder this time.

"Turn right."

With what little strength he had left, Akshran twisted his body to the right, rolling out of the way just as another blade slashed down where he had been lying. The pain shot through him, but it wasn't enough to stop him now.

He saw it then. A small, narrow gap in the wall—barely wide enough for his small body to fit through. It was a way out. A chance.

He didn't think. He moved.

Dragging his injured body, Akshran squeezed through the gap, the brick scraping against his skin as he forced himself into the darkness beyond. The men's curses echoed behind him, but their heavy footsteps didn't follow.

Akshran collapsed on the other side, breathing raggedly. The blood from his wound soaked into the dirt beneath him, but he was alive.

His mind whirled, trying to process it all. Reincarnated. He had died, and now... he was in this world.

He wasn't just anyone.

He was a notorious thief.

And now, this new life had begun.