Only this time, it didn't take.

You gasped, lungs filling with air that smelled of rain and earth and something floral. The cobblestones beneath your cheek were cold and rough. Familiar.

You were in a back alley in the Capital. The same alley you'd woken up in your first regression. The same cracked drainpipe. The same moss creeping up the faded brick wall.

You turned your head just enough to see a boy, maybe late teens, with black hair and kind eyes, wearing travel-worn clothes. He was holding a half-eaten bread roll, frozen mid-bite, staring at you like you were a ghost.

Behind him, just visible through the alley's mouth, the Capital bustled on, oblivious. Merchants shouting, carriage wheels creaking, children laughing.

And somewhere in this city, Cale Henituse was still a "trash" young master. Choi Han hadn't yet met him. The White Star was still building his power.

You were back. Again.