After the shower, Henry carefully dressed himself in what he considered his best outfit—not that the wardrobe was much to boast about. The closet of David Storm was depressingly bare, but at least a few pieces hadn't been worn to rags.
Now, standing in front of the bedroom's full-length mirror, Henry adjusted the lapels of a sleek black coat. Beneath it, a striped black-and-white T-shirt added just enough flair to make him look less like a washed-out busker and more like someone who might actually belong on a stage. His white trousers contrasted sharply with the coat, creating a bold, if somewhat daring, effect.
He dragged his fingers through his shoulder-length hair, pushing the damp strands back behind his ears. Unlike his old self—who had to fight against an unruly mop of curls—this body's hair was naturally straight and smooth, falling just to the right length to give him a slightly rebellious, rockstar vibe. He smirked.
"Not bad," he muttered, tilting his head at his reflection. "At least this guy had the decency to buy some decent clothes. Honestly, I was expecting washed-out jeans and faded shirts, considering how he simped all his money on that Jessica chick. Guess he wasn't a complete idiot after all."
Henry chuckled quietly. At least he could work with this. Presentation mattered, and even if he wasn't dressed in high-end brands, he looked presentable—someone who could stand before an audience without being laughed off the stage.
With a final look in the mirror, he slipped his phone into his pocket. The screen lit up: 7:05 a.m.
The preliminaries were set to begin at ten in Crystal Bay City. From here, it would take about an hour by train, so if he left now, he'd still arrive early. That suited him fine. On Earth, Henry had always been the kind of person who arrived before time. Punctuality was a habit drilled into him from his office job—one of the few things he was proud to carry over into this life.
"Better early than late," he murmured. "This time, I'm arriving on my terms."
---
The corridor outside his apartment was dimly lit, the overhead bulb flickering weakly as if struggling to stay alive. Shadows clung to the cracked walls, and the floor creaked under his weight.
Henry frowned. "It's already daylight outside. Why the hell does this place look darker than my old office cubicle? This place isn't haunted, right?"
The uneasy joke did little to calm him.
When he stepped out into the open street, the full reality of his neighborhood hit him in the face.
Now that he could see it clearly in daylight, the slum looked far worse than it had the night before. Piles of garbage festered in the corners. Wires dangled like spiderwebs above his head. The smell—a nauseating cocktail of rot, gasoline, and sewage—was thick enough to taste.
He grimaced. "Good morning, hellhole."
Vendors were already shouting at one another, their hoarse voices echoing down the narrow streets. Cars honked impatiently, motorbikes weaved through traffic, and children ran barefoot across cracked pavement. It was chaos incarnate.
Each step felt heavier as he moved deeper into the noise and grit. The weight of poverty pressed on him, and for a fleeting moment, Henry wondered how the previous David had endured this for so long.
Then, as he turned a corner, he froze.
A group of men loitered near a dilapidated building, their low laughter rumbling through the air. Tattoos crawled across their arms, muscles bulged beneath sleeveless shirts, and the air around them carried a sharp, metallic tension—like the aftermath of a bar fight.
The largest among them, his face a patchwork of scars, slammed his fist into the brick wall. The sound echoed through the alley like a gunshot.
Another man—older, with tattoos climbing up his neck and smoke curling from his lips—leaned lazily against a lamppost, his posture radiating ownership of the street. The cigarette in his hand glowed faintly red as he exhaled a perfect ring of smoke.
Henry instinctively lowered his gaze. His heartbeat spiked. Don't make eye contact. Just keep walking.
But he felt their eyes on him—the weight of their silence, the unspoken threat in their smirks. One of them tugged at the leash of a pitbull that growled softly as Henry passed.
For the first time that morning, Henry exhaled in relief when the alley finally emptied behind him. He knew better than to judge people by appearance. Back on Earth, he'd had friends with tattoos—some of the kindest souls he knew.
But that didn't stop the unease. Maybe it was the scars. Maybe it was the way those men carried themselves—coiled energy beneath casual movements, eyes that had seen too much.
Truth was, Henry had always been like this, even before the transmigration. On Earth, he'd been the kind of man who'd quietly slip out of a bar the moment a fight looked imminent. His friends used to joke that he had a sixth sense for bad vibes—an uncanny instinct for trouble before anyone else noticed.
And right now, that sense was screaming.
He exhaled slowly, unclenching his fists inside his pockets. "Easy, Henry. They're just people like anyone else. You don't know their story."
Still, the unease lingered, like a pebble stuck in his shoe—small, but impossible to ignore.
The road stretched endlessly before him, cracked and uneven. Every step reminded him of how far he still had to go.
Get out of here, he thought fiercely. Earn money. Find a way out. Escape before this place eats you alive.
At last, he reached Ironvale Subway Station, its gleaming modern structure a strange island of order amid the chaos. The cool, air-conditioned space and clean tiles felt like a different world.
Henry boarded the train and leaned his forehead against the window, watching the scenery blur by—slums fading into suburbs, suburbs rising into glass and steel.
An hour later, the train slowed into the metropolis of Crystal Bay City.
---
The sight took his breath away.
The morning sun painted the skyline in gold. Towering skyscrapers glinted like blades. Billboards flashed with color. Streets were clean, manicured, alive.
From his borrowed memories, he recalled that Crystal Bay was one of the most populous cities in the nation—over sixty million people spread across three massive counties: Eastborough, Kingsfield, and Marroway.
It was a city blessed by geography, hugged by the Azure Ocean to the east and the Gulf of Veyra to the west. The air was crisp, the sky startlingly blue. With warm winters and mild summers, it was nicknamed "The Garden City of the East."
But it wasn't just beautiful—it was powerful. Financial, cultural, and technological giants were rooted here: Novacredit, Newtube, MedEx, Microhard, and more. Crystal Bay was wealth and ambition incarnate.
Last year, WorldLife Magazine had named it the cleanest city in Soren. Just this May, TIM Magazine had ranked it the wealthiest in the country—and third richest in the world.
Henry stepped onto the busy street and inhaled deeply. The air was different here—not of smoke and rust, but perfume and potential.
"Someday," he whispered, his eyes gleaming. "Someday I'll stand among them. Villas, cars, prestige—I'll have it all. This system… this is my ticket."
---
Ten minutes later, his taxi pulled up before the Celestial Theatre in Silverstrand Beach District—a landmark of national pride.
Originally opened in 2003 as the Grand Arc Theatre, it had been renamed after the Celestial Group purchased naming rights. With a capacity of five thousand, it was the beating heart of the nation's entertainment scene—where the legendary Williams Awards were held each year.
Henry's breath caught. The structure was magnificent—sleek, futuristic, almost alive. It reminded him of the Dolby Theatre back on Earth, only grander, more radiant.
The plaza outside was buzzing. Contestants were scattered everywhere, fixing their hair, adjusting outfits, some pacing nervously. Security guards in luminous green vests maintained order, their mirrored glasses reflecting the crowd.
Fans crowded the barriers, waving posters and banners—most of them for the Big Three: Rock Media, Skyline Entertainment, and NovaStar Records. One name dominated all others: Liam McCain.
Henry's eyes narrowed at the sight of Liam's face plastered across banners and billboards—the same arrogant smirk from the company office. Nephew of the McCain patriarch, backed by Rock Media. A silver spoon and a golden ticket rolled into one.
"Fans?" Henry scoffed under his breath. "Half of them are probably paid actors."
For a moment, the ember of revenge flickered in his chest—but he smothered it. He wasn't some reckless protagonist who could challenge the elite and walk away unscathed.
Gather strength first. Revenge later. A gentleman's revenge is never too late.
At the east gate, two burly guards stood watch, crisp in black uniforms, their physiques fit for bouncers at a luxury club.
"Hold up. ID?" one barked.
Henry smiled politely and lifted his phone, displaying the digital entry pass.
The guard scanned it; the device beeped green.
"Participants through that door," the man grunted, pointing toward a staff-only entrance.
Henry nodded, took a breath, and walked forward.
The massive glass doors of the Celestial Theatre parted before him like gates to another world—his future waiting beyond them.