Picture a man. Not just any man, but a vision of absolute, untouchable wealth wrapped in bespoke Italian wool. He strides through the cavernous lobby of a skyscraper that screams "old money," cutting a path toward the private elevator. He looks sick. And by sick, I mean the kind of cool that makes regular people trip over their own feet just watching him pass.

  Flanking him is a phalanx of bodyguards. These aren’t your average mall cops; these are mountains of muscle carrying guns. And let’s be clear—not just guns. I’m talking about fucking big guns. Military-grade hardware that suggests we’re invading a small country, not just going to a board meeting.

  And yeah! Surprise, surprise. That guy is me.

  I am Aryan Sharma, the goddamn owner of Arcane, the most well-known, feared, and respected enterprise on the face of this miserable planet.

  Now, if you were to ask where a titan of industry like myself is going with such a heavily armed entourage, I might ask you: Why should I tell you? Why should I ruin the suspense by admitting that I’m heading to a massive, history-altering meeting to make this world a better place?

  (Wait. I guess I just spat it out. Huh. I will always be myself. Goddammit! Why the hell do you always speak it out, you piece of trash? You had one job! Keep the mystery! Mhhm, sorry for that language, folks. Let’s get back to where I was before I ruined my own intro.)

  The elevator dings. The doors slide open.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  "So," I announced, strutting into the boardroom, "in this meeting, we’re gonna talk about something really secret." (Which, as noted, I spat out just a bit earlier. Still cursing myself for that. Professionalism, Aryan. Get a grip.)

  The room was filled with suits—powerful men and women, sharks in their own right, staring at me. I walked to the head of the mahogany table and slammed my hand down. Under my palm lay a single, unassuming pen drive. I slid it forward, showing it to everyone like it was the nuclear codes.

  "This pen drive," I declared, my voice echoing off the glass walls, "consists of videos and photos with which I can control the governments of every single country on Earth."

  The silence was heavy. You could hear a pin drop. Finally, a trembling voice from the back spoke up. "What... what does this contain, exactly?"

  "Good question," I said, whipping a pen out of my pocket and pointing it directly at his face to emphasize my brilliance. (I glanced down. Ah, shit. It wasn't a fancy fountain pen; it was a stylus. Way to kill the vibe, Aryan. Whatever, roll with it.)

  I kept the stylus leveled at him. "This drive contains high-definition photos of the illegal doings of the filthy rich—people sitting in this very room—close associates of politicians, and the politicians themselves. Corruption, bribery, the whole nine yards. And videos included."

  I grinned, waiting for the applause, the fear, the begging.

  Tch.

  And then... darkness.

  I fell down. Just like that. Unconscious before I hit the floor.

  And if you’re asking me what happened... well, I was shot in the head. Yeah, some government agency motherfucker shot me. Right in the goddamn head. Sniped from a mile away or something.

  Huh! Curse you, government people. You ruin everything. What can I even do now? Like, I’m dead, y’know? Brain matter on the mahogany. Game over.

  So, how am I talkin' to you right now? That’s a question, isn’t it? It’s a pretty valid one, considering my current lack of a pulse.

  The answer is... (Drum beats, please)

  My soul has been called by the Goddess of Reincarnation.

  (Ta dah!)