The sky pressed down like a bruise waiting to split open. Rain bubbled in the clouds, heavy and inevitable, the kind that promised to drench everything it touched without mercy.
Rion Jokabe sat on the bench with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his belly straining against fabric that had stopped fitting months ago. The nausea rolled through him in waves—greasy, persistent, the aftertaste of fried chicken and poor decisions coating the back of his throat. He'd eaten at that spot on the corner. The one with the flickering sign and the cashier who never made eye contact. Chicken so cheap it tasted like regret, and he'd swallowed it anyway because it was there and he was hungry and what did it matter?
His stomach churned.
He closed his eyes. Opened them. The bridge stretched out ahead, concrete and steel cutting across the water below. He'd been here before. Not just today. Many times. Always at night, always alone, always with the same thought circling his head like a vulture.
Just step over.
He'd considered it. Seriously. Standing at the edge, looking down at the dark water, wondering if the fall would hurt or if the cold would take him first. Wondering if anyone would notice. If anyone would care.
He'd hesitated.
Every single time, he'd hesitated.
I've always been weak,he thought, staring at the railing. But not this weak. I've always been shit, but not this shit.
The thought didn't sting anymore. It was just fact. A reality he'd worn smooth with repetition until it fit like a second skin. He was weak. He was shit. He was the kind of person who sat on benches in the rain feeling sorry for himself and did nothing about it. The kind who ate garbage food and let his body rot from the inside out. The kind who thought about jumping and never did.
The nausea spiked.
He leaned forward, pressing a palm against his stomach, breathing through his nose. The chicken sat in his gut like a stone. Like punishment. Like exactly what he deserved.
Maybe I should.
The thought arrived quiet. Almost gentle.
Maybe this time I should just do it. Stop hesitating. Stop pretending there's something worth sticking around for.
But even as he thought it, something else stirred beneath the static. Small. Faint. A flicker of something that might've been hope if he squinted hard enough.
What if it could be different?
Not likely. Not probable. But possible. Technically. In some distant hypothetical future where he wasn't a waste of space and oxygen, where he actually did something instead of just existing in the worst way possible.
What if?
Rion sighed and turned away from the bridge.
Stupid. The whole thing was stupid. He wasn't going to jump. He was going to go home, sleep it off, wake up tomorrow and do the exact same shit all over again because that's what he did. That's all he'd ever done.
He took a step.
The rain came down in sheets.
No warning. Just sudden, violent downpour that soaked through his jacket in seconds. He swore, pulling his hood up, squinting against the water streaming down his face.
Something clattered against the concrete.
He looked down.
A key.
Small. Brass. Lying on the ground directly in his path like it had fallen from his pocket. Except he didn't recognize it. Didn't remember carrying it.
He bent down.
His foot slipped.
Not dramatically. Not with time to react. Just instant loss of traction, his weight shifting wrong, the wet concrete offering nothing to catch himself on.
Rion stumbled backward.
His heel hit the edge of the bench. His arms swung wide. The railing was behind him—too far behind him—and the rain made everything slick and fast and inevitable.
He went over.
The world tilted. Spun. His stomach lurched as gravity took over and the bridge dropped away beneath him. He saw sky. Water. Sky again. His body tumbled through empty air, weightless and helpless, and the only thought that cut through the panic was sharp and clear and almost funny.
I didn't even decide.
The water hit him like concrete.
Cold punched through his chest. His mouth opened on reflex and the river poured in, choking, freezing, dragging him down into darkness that swallowed everything.
He couldn't breathe.
He couldn't think.
He couldn't—
---
Sunlight.
Aggressive. Unfiltered. Burning through his eyelids like someone had aimed a spotlight directly at his face.
Rion gasped and jerked upright.
Park bench beneath him. Grass nearby. Trees overhead swaying in a breeze that was warm and dry and completely wrong.
What—
His hands moved first, patting his chest, his arms, searching for water that wasn't there. He was dry. Completely dry. His clothes were different—lighter, cleaner, like they'd been pulled fresh from a drawer he'd never owned.
In his right hand was a letter.
White envelope. Unsealed. His name written across the front in handwriting he didn't recognize.
Rion stared at it.
What the hell?
He looked around. The park was small. Neat. Benches lined a paved path, a vending machine hummed near a cluster of trees, and beyond that he could see buildings—tall, modern, completely unfamiliar. A woman jogged past, ponytail bouncing, not sparing him a glance.
Everything was normal.
Everything was wrong.
He stood.
The movement came easy. Too easy. His legs didn't protest. His stomach didn't pull. His body obeyed without the usual negotiation of weight and resistance and shame.
He looked down.
Different hands. Thinner fingers. Arms that were lean instead of soft, covered in skin that was smooth and unblemished and *his* but not his.
No.
He grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled it away from his chest. Flat. Firm. The belly that had strained against every piece of clothing he owned was gone. Just gone. Replaced by a body that looked normal. Average. Healthy.
Rion's breathing quickened.
He touched his face. Sharper jaw. Different contours. Strands of hair falling into his eyes—longer than he'd kept it, darker than he remembered.
This isn't—
He spun, searching for something familiar. Anything. A landmark. A sign. A reason.
The letter crinkled in his grip.
He stared at it. At the envelope with his name written in someone else's hand.
His fingers shook as he pulled the paper free and unfolded it.
Five words. Handwritten. Clear.
"One chance."