Don Hugo Pabebuncano didn't climb to the top by accident. Every step was guided, every move he made was an instruction.
Here was a man who paid shell companies millions to hide ninety-five percent of his wealth—yet what little remained visible still made him the world's second-richest person.
The young woman was still asleep in his bed when he woke up. Ashley something. Rivers, maybe? Knowing people's names was useless.
He stepped over her expensive hand bag on the floor and felt electricity shoot through his seventy-year-old body. This is weird. Really, really weird.
Sex with someone fifty years younger should have left him exhausted for days. Instead, he felt like he could run another marathon. Ashley looked dead to the world while he felt better than he had in decades.
He walked to his desk where his most precious possession waited: a yellow handheld device that looked like something from the 1980s. The screen flickered to life.
[LEVEL UP: REQUIREMENT MET]
Don Hugo's face broke into a grin. For thirty years, this little game had dictated his life. Sleep with this person. Acquire that company. Destroy that rival. Every command had pushed him higher, each task completed was another step up on the ladder. It was his secret source of wealth.
The latest mission had been insane: Sleep with Ashley Rivers—supermodel, women activist, social media queen, the kind of woman who had more followers than some countries had citizens.
Mission accomplished. She was the proof of it, naked beneath his expensive sheets. Done the very thing she was always advocating against on her social media platforms.
"What level could possibly be higher than owning half the world?" he whispered to himself. Then he glanced at the mirror and froze. Everything was blurry, like looking through frosted glass. This was strange, he was old but he had not lost his sight yet.
Even stranger, his smart home system stayed silent. Usually JEMMIE would be chirping by now: "Good evening, Don Pabebuncano. You have a schedule with the president of Mayvel. May I suggest chamomile tea?" Today, nothing. Like his own technology had forgotten he existed.
After a shower that felt refreshing instead of draining, he dressed quickly. His custom Brioni suit hung loose on his frame, it was supposed to be fitting him, but whatever. Ashley was still unconscious, which spared him the awkward after sex conversation. This wasn't romance, just business. He grabbed the device and left for an evening walk.
The moment he walked through his gate, some teenager on a skateboard nearly plowed into him.
"Watch it, dude," the kid said without slowing down.
Dude? Hugo's jaw dropped. When was the last time someone under forty had spoken to him without genuflecting first? Hell, when was the last time anyone had spoken to him without lowering their eyes in deference?
As he walked down the street, more people pushed past him like he was invisible. A jogger. Someone walking a small dog. A man shouting into his phone. Not one person looked twice. Not one person recognized him.
His vision kept deteriorating. He could barely make out shapes now. Patting his pockets, he realized he'd left his phone at home. Only the game device remained. With the phone, he could have called for assistance.
By the time he stumbled into a convenience store, everything was just blurred shadows and light.
"Excuse me," he said to the figure behind the counter. "Do you sell optical lenses?"
"Twenty bucks." The voice belonged to a young woman who sounded monumentally bored.
"I'll take them."
Silence stretched between them.
"Um... you gonna pay or what?"
Pay? The word struck him like a slap. Don Hugo Pabebuncano asking about prices was like asking the Pope about his dating life. His name alone was currency in most states.
"Don't you know who I am?"
The girl looked at him like he was gum on her shoe. "Yeah, I know who you are. You're Mark Lidorf."
Mark Lidorf. The name slammed into his consciousness like a freight train. But somehow it felt right, like slipping into clothes he'd worn his whole life.
"You lost your glasses again? Seriously, Mark, this is getting ridiculous." She slapped a pair of cheap readers on the counter. "But I'm calling your dad to pay for these."
Hugo's hands trembled as he put on the glasses. The world snapped into sharp focus.
In the security mirror behind the register, a teenager stared back. Maybe seventeen, skinny, tousled brown hair, unblemished skin, eyes wide with shock. On the mounted TV above, a news anchor's voice cut through: "BREAKING NEWS: Billionaire Hugo Pabebuncano found dead at his estate this morning, age 70. Authorities suspect natural causes..."
Hugo—no, Mark—felt the floor drop out from under him. He looked from the TV to the mirror, then back again.
That's my body on the news. My house. My life. But this... this is me now. How is this even possible?
The device in his pocket grew warm. He pulled it out with shaking hands. The screen pulsed with an eerie glow:
[CONGRATULATIONS: MAXIMUM LEVEL ACHIEVED]
[PLAYER'S PREVIOUS PROGRESS RESET TO ZERO]
[NEW GAME: BEGIN]
Of course. What was the ultimate level-up if not this—a complete reset? He was seventeen again. A blank slate. A new empire waiting to be built from nothing.
First, though, he needed to figure out who the hell Mark Lidorf actually was, what happened to him, how and why he'd been chosen for this second life.