the right man in the wrong place can make all the difference

Cevver was twenty-three years old, failing his physics degree, living with his parents, and spending most of his days scrolling through bad news on his phone while his friend Ibrahim tried to drag him to the billiards hall. He was not a hero. He was not a genius. He was not even particularly interesting. He was just tired—the kind of tired that sits behind the sternum and does not go away after sleep. One evening, he forgot a pot of water on the stove, lit a cigarette, and the gas ignited. That was the end of him. Then he opened his eyes. He was in a woman's arms. His own hands were small—translucent nails, soft fingers, a body that could not hold its own head up. He cried because he had no other way to speak. He slept because his body had never been awake before. And over the following months, as his hands learned to grasp and his tongue learned to shape sounds, the memories of his old life returned.The night in his bedroom. The professor's tired eyes. Ibrahim laughing at his own joke. The smell of cigarette A wish a half formed, whispered to a dark ceiling came back to him. I wish I could go back and start all over again.Now he is Hector. He lives in a world with no electricity, no internet, no cheap beer. but There are swords and magic and firee arms , fire arms ! , spirits and citadels, a race of people who believe they are chosen by God, and a strange polite man who watches from the edges of things . cevver does not know if his wish was granted by accident or design or all of this is just a dream He does not know if this is a second chance or a longer punishment.But he is alive. He is starting over.And this time, he is determined not to waste it