Chapter 1: Mondays and Microwave Rice
Aria didn't believe in fate, horoscopes, or anything that required crystals, essential oils, or a monthly subscription.
What he did believe in was the sanctity of silence before 9 a.m., the magic of discounted rice bowls, and the undeniable fact that his electric kettle was probably his best friend.
He was forty.
Forty and single.
Forty and unemployed—again.
Not that he missed corporate life. He'd dodged the hellscape of buzzwords like "team synergy" and "mandatory fun Fridays" with the grace of a seasoned ninja. But still, being forty and jobless in Southeast Asia? Yeah. That wasn't a flex. That was a statistic.
His studio apartment looked like a Pinterest board titled "Minimalism on Accident". One bed. One wobbly table. A laptop that wheezed when Chrome had more than three tabs open. And a rice cooker that had seen him cry more than any living person.
"Congratulations, Aria," he muttered, poking at a sad mix of cold microwave rice and canned tuna. "Living the dream."
Outside, the rain did what it always did in the tropics—drizzle like a faucet with commitment issues. A toddler next door was screaming—probably mid-Kamehameha. And upstairs? The uncle with a vendetta against peace had started dragging furniture again.
Aria opened his bank app.
$5.73.
In USD.
The local currency version looked better… if you didn't think too hard about what those zeroes could actually buy.
He checked his email.
Spam. Spam. Unpaid bill. Another rejection that started with "We regret to inform you" and ended with "we wish you the best."
Translation?
You're broke and we don't want you, loser.
"Fantastic," he sighed, sipping cold instant coffee. "Next up: selling organs or becoming a YouTuber."
His laptop blinked once. Then froze.
Not crashed. Just… froze. As if it too had given up on him.
Aria leaned back in his chair and let out a sigh so deep it could've aged wine.
And then—
Everything went black.
Not just the screen.
The room.
The sound.
The air.
It was like someone hit pause on reality.
He blinked.
Then blinked again.
"What the—?"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Because he wasn't in his apartment anymore.
---
[You Have Been Relocated]
Waking up on a New York sidewalk was not on Aria's bucket list.
But then again, neither was becoming seventeen again.
The world returned in pieces—smells first.
City grime.
Old hot dog water.
Cheap detergent drifting from a nearby window.
He was lying on something soft. A backpack?
Cold pavement pressed against his back, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones like judgment.
Aria opened his eyes to a skyline of fire escapes and dangling laundry. Somewhere, someone was blasting hip-hop. A car horn screamed. A pigeon landed nearby and gave him a look.
He didn't move.
Not out of fear.
Just… confusion.
His body felt wrong.
Not broken—just… different.
Younger.
He sat up slowly, rubbing his face—and paused.
Smooth skin. No beard stubble. No wrinkles. No acne scars. The face he felt wasn't the one he'd known for decades.
"What the hell?" he muttered.
His voice cracked.
Mid-sentence.
Like a teen ordering fries and failing puberty at the same time.
Panic bloomed.
He scrambled to his feet—too fast.
Wobbly. Off-balance. Taller?
His hoodie drowned his frame. Jeans hung a little too loose.
The buildings around him were definitely New York, but something felt… off. The ads. The cars. The fashion. Was this… older?
He checked his pockets.
A folded piece of paper with a shelter address.
A MetroCard.
A New York high school ID.
Name: Aria Saputra.
Face: The one he'd just touched.
"Okay," he muttered, pulse rising. "Body-swapped? De-aged? Abducted by really organized aliens?"
His fingers ran through shorter hair—softer, messier. Black, with a faint wave.
This body… wasn't bad. No back pain. No knee issues. No dad bod.
And then—memories.
Not clear ones. More like leftover feelings from someone else's dreams.
He knew how to write in English. He had cafeteria opinions. He remembered a subway ride and a strong preference for pizza toppings.
But they weren't his.
He sat back on the curb and tried not to hyperventilate.
One step at a time.
Whoever—or whatever—put him here had left a few breadcrumbs.
A name.
A body.
A shelter.
School in four days.
He stood again, dusting himself off.
His stomach growled.
"You and me both, buddy."
---
[Welcome to Broke: Teenage Edition]
He wandered.
The sidewalk was cracked and full of gum fossils. People passed him without a second glance. Somehow, that was comforting.
"Alright," he said to himself, eyeing his arms. "Let's see the damage."
He flexed.
The muscle flexed back.
Lean. Toned. Not bad. Not jacked, but like someone who did push-ups in secret and maybe jogged for fun.
He caught his reflection in a store window and stopped cold.
"…Oh my god. I look like an anime protagonist."
Messy black hair. Big eyes. Sharp jawline. No acne. No forehead creases from years of existential dread.
Seventeen, maybe sixteen if he skipped breakfast and slouched.
Aria blinked at himself.
He'd never been hot before.
Approachably average, maybe.
Raccoon with insomnia, usually.
But this? This was main character energy.
"Whose body is this?"
The memories didn't help.
Random names. Math homework trauma. Vague opinions on cafeteria meatloaf.
Whoever Aria Saputra used to be, he wasn't famous.
Well, too late now.
He turned away from the window—
—and nearly ran into an old man walking a dog.
"Watch it, kid!"
"Sorry!" Aria yelped, bowing instinctively.
The old man stared. "You Japanese or something?"
"No—uh, Indonesian," Aria replied… automatically.
Where had that come from?
It felt like muscle memory. The words felt natural in his mouth. Bahasa Indonesia hovered just out of reach. The smell of spicy sambal and street food flashed in his mind.
"Man," he muttered. "I miss food."
"Go get some, then!" the man barked, already walking away.
Aria turned toward the smell of fried oil drifting from a halal cart. His stomach roared louder than reason.
But he stopped.
Focus.
Four days until school.
A shelter to check into.
A completely different life to figure out.
Still…
No harm in walking a bit.
Down a side street, a mural caught his eye—spray paint of a girl in a red hoodie, midair, a trail of color behind her.
Queen of Queens.
He tilted his head.
Was that… supposed to be someone?
Or...
Wait.