The morning sun hung warm and gentle over the city, casting long golden lines across glass towers and crowded streets. The air was filled with the usual harmony of life—vendors opening their stalls, engines humming, early commuters rushing toward their destinations. It was a day like any other, bright and careless, as if the world had no intention of changing.
Along the side of the road, a young man walked at a slow, steady pace, hands tucked in the pockets of his worn hoodie. Evan. Twenty years old. An orphan who had learned too early that the world didn't slow down for anyone—not even for a child without a home. He'd been raised by the city's central orphanage, fed and sheltered, but never truly chosen by anyone. When he turned eighteen, he stepped out of those doors and into the world with nothing but a small bag of clothes and the thin layer of education the orphanage could afford.
Life outside had not been gentle.
He'd stumbled through part-time jobs, each one harder than the last. Dishwashing. Warehouse unloading. Street cleaning. And now, a food delivery rider for a small restaurant—pedaling across the city every day, carrying meals he could barely afford himself. No friends to call, no family to lean on, no girlfriend to complain to. Just a quiet routine, and a growing numbness that told him this might be all his life would ever become.
Today was a holiday, one of the rare days where the restaurant closed, and Evan found himself wandering the streets aimlessly. No destination. No plan. Just moving because standing still felt worse.
He kicked a pebble along the pavement and sighed.
"What a miserable life…" he muttered to himself, not even angry—just tired.
That was when he heard it.
A roar of an engine—too loud, too close, too fast.
Evan turned instinctively, eyes widening just in time to see a massive truck barreling down the road, swerving wildly, heading straight toward him. His heart seized. He didn't think—he threw himself sideways, crashing onto the sidewalk as the truck thundered past, missing him by inches.
His breath trembled. His palms stung from scraping the ground.
"Damn lunatic!" he yelled after the truck, half terrified, half relieved. "I'm not getting isekai'd today!"
He laughed—shaky, disbelieving—but it was a laugh nonetheless. The kind that came only after death narrowly missed its appointment.
Then the air shifted.
A strange prickling crawled up the back of his neck, a cold warning his instincts screamed to pay attention to. Slowly, he looked up.
His mind froze.
From the top of a nearby building, something heavy—massive—was falling straight down.
A piano.
A full-sized piano.
"What—why—how the hell—!?"
He couldn't move in time, still terrified by the truck.
The world turned black as the shadow swallowed him. The last thing that passed through his mind wasn't profound or poetic. It wasn't regret or longing.
It was pure, furious confusion.
"The fuck was a piano doing up there—?!"
And then everything went silent.
---
"Argh…"
A strained, pained sound escaped Evan's throat as consciousness clawed its way back into him. His eyelids twitched, then lifted, and a flood of bright, soft light crashed into his vision like a wave. He winced, shutting them again until the dizziness stopped spinning his world in circles.
When he finally opened them properly, the first thing he noticed was the ceiling—smooth, pastel-toned, quietly elegant. Definitely not the harsh white ceiling of a hospital room. There were no beeping machines, no disinfectant smell, no IV lines attached to him.
He pushed himself up slowly, blinking.
A bedroom.
A large one.
But not one he had ever seen before.
The place felt… divided. Not sharply, but thoughtfully, almost artfully. Like someone had tried to merge two very different tastes into one harmonious space.
On one side of the room, the décor leaned clearly masculine—dark wood shelves lined with adventure novels, miniature model bikes, and neatly folded workout gear on an open rack. A sleek black desk sat beside the window, with a strong, angular lamp and a notebook with bold handwriting scattered across a page. The bed he had just woken up on was pushed slightly toward this side, covered with a thick, warm comforter in deep blue.
But the other side…
Soft colors—creamy pinks, gentle lavender. A plush circular rug shaped like a flower. A small vanity table topped with an assortment of lotions, perfumes, brushes, and neatly arranged accessories. The curtains near that corner were lighter, flowing, and decorated with subtle ribbon-like patterns. A wardrobe with elegant gold handles stood there, its top lined with delicate storage boxes.
The room didn't feel like it belonged to two different people.
It felt like as if someone had tried to merge both the tastes in a single room for only one person.
Of course, Evan had no idea.
To him, it was just confusing.
"What… the hell is this place…?"
He pressed a palm against his forehead, trying to steady the throbbing confusion in his skull. Memories drifted back in unstable fragments—the walk, the truck, the near miss, and then—
The piano.
Falling from the sky.
Smashing into him.
He swallowed.
Logically, he should be dead.
Or at least on a hospital bed, wrapped in bandages and screaming.
But when he glanced down at himself…
He froze.
There were no casts.
No bruises.
Not even a scratch.
His body felt… whole. Too whole. As if nothing had touched him.
Yet at the same time…
Something felt undeniably wrong.
His body didn't feel familiar anymore.
His hands trembled as he lifted them up. They weren't the rough, slightly broad palms he'd grown up with. These hands were slender, the fingers long and well-shaped, the skin smooth like it had never seen a day of labor. Strong, yes—but in a refined way, not the rough strength of someone who'd hauled boxes or pedaled across the city for deliveries.
"What…?" he whispered.
He reached up to touch his face with shaking fingers.
His jawline felt narrower.
His cheekbones higher.
His skin—softer.
And his hair—
He pulled a strand over his shoulder.
Soft. Silky. Longer than he had ever kept it.
"Okay. Okay, what is going on…?"
Panic rising, he quickly looked around, desperate for a mirror. His eyes locked onto the vanity table—the feminine half of the room. A tall, full-body mirror stood beside it.
Without thinking, he threw aside the warm blanket and stumbled off the bed, almost tripping over his own legs as he rushed toward it. His heartbeat hammered like thunder against his ribs. Each step felt heavier with dread.
He reached the mirror.
Stopped.
And stared.
The breath in his lungs vanished.
His heart didn't just pound—
it nearly tore itself out of his chest.
In the reflection stood a stranger.
A young man, yes—still a male body—but nothing like Evan's old self. A different face. A different frame. A different presence entirely.
And Evan could only stare, wide-eyed, shaking, as the reality settled over him:
That wasn't just a new room.
That was a new body.
And he had absolutely no idea why he was in it.
Evan's breath caught in his throat.
The reflection in the mirror didn't feel possible. It didn't even feel real. The young man standing there looked like someone sculpted—delicate yet defined features, fair skin so smooth it almost glowed under the soft light, hair that fell in shimmering strands of pure silvery white, catching the brightness like threads of moonlight.
His eyes were the most shocking—jet black, deep and glossy, like they held far more intensity than someone his apparent age should have. And speaking of age… he didn't look twenty anymore. Not anywhere close. The person in the mirror looked sixteen. Maybe seventeen.
A fantasy novel protagonist.
A noble young master.
Someone born with status or fate or beauty.
Definitely not him.
Evan stumbled back in disbelief, his heartbeat hammering so violently it gave him a headache. His palms flew to his face immediately, touching, pressing, searching for anything—any seam, mask, illusion, something that told him the mirror was lying. But every inch he touched felt real. Warm. Responsive. Smooth in places it had never been smooth before.
"No, no, no… this can't be me…" he whispered shakily, fingers trembling as they traced his cheekbones.
This wasn't just a glow-up. This was a different person entirely.
He kept checking—his arms, his chest, his hair—feeling each unfamiliar line and curve. The panic built steadily, crawling up his spine until he couldn't take the sight anymore. He staggered back to the bed and sat down heavily, the mattress dipping beneath him.
His thoughts tangled into a chaotic mess.
Was this a dream? The afterlife? Some hallucination after the piano crushed him?
But it didn't feel like a dream. The air felt too real. The blanket beneath him felt too warm. His heartbeat too loud. His breath too tight in his chest.
"Why… why is this happening…?" he muttered, burying his face in his hands.
He stared at the floor for several long seconds, trying to force some sense out of everything, but no explanation came. Just more questions. More confusion. More fear.
And then—
A sound.
Soft.
Clear.
Feminine.
Mechanical.
But it didn't come from the room.
It didn't come from outside.
It came from inside his head.
A voice that wasn't his own.
[Welcome, Host. The System congratulates you on your successful transmigration into the new world.]
Evan's eyes flew wide open, breath freezing in his chest.
"What… what the hell…?" he whispered.