Alexander Sterling: The Bussines King's Rebirth

"MAYDAY! MAYDAY! WE'VE LOST THE RIGHT ENGINE!" the pilot screamed through the intercom, his voice frantic. "HYDRAULIC CONTROL IS DOWN! THE PLANE IS UNCONTROLLABLE!"

Alexander Sterling never imagined that this seemingly peaceful night would be his last. Just moments ago, he had closed a two-trillion-dollar merger and was heading home. Now, somehow, his private jet had spiraled into a nightmare.

"What happened? What's going on?" Alexander shouted, panic rising in his chest.

From behind the slightly ajar cockpit door, the pilot's voice came through, breathless and strained. "The right engine exploded, Sir! Shrapnel hit the hydraulic system! We've lost pressure!"

"Lost pressure? You mean—"

"We can't control the plane!" the pilot cut in, his voice edged with despair. "Sir, I suggest you—"

BOOM!

Another explosion rocked the aircraft. Alexander stumbled, nearly falling. Through the gaping hole on the right side of the fuselage, he saw crimson flames devouring the wing as it began to disintegrate.

"Sir, this plane is going down!" the pilot screamed. "I can't—I'm losing—"

The pilot's voice died. Through the cockpit door, Alexander saw him pinned to his seat, blood streaming down his face, his hands still desperately gripping the now-useless controls. Beside him, the co-pilot had been sucked out through the shattered windshield, vanished into the abyss of the night sky.

"No!" Alexander yelled, but his voice was swallowed by the deafening roar of wind.

The plane spun wildly. Alarms blared throughout the cabin. Alexander watched the altitude monitor flash, 30,000 feet... 25,000... 18,000...

They were going to crash!

Thick black smoke filled the cabin. The stench of burning fuel and scorched metal seared his nostrils. Alexander coughed, his eyes stinging. He fumbled under his seat for a parachute, but his fingers only found shards of glass that sliced into his palm.

Pain. Blood. Panic. In his final moments of desperation, all he could manage was a whispered surrender.

"Is this really the end, after everything I built?"

Alexander closed his eyes. An image of Victoria's beautiful face appeared in his mind, the woman who was probably waiting for him to come home, unaware they would never meet again.

The plane tilted 180 degrees to the left. Gravity flipped. His body slammed into the ceiling, then the wall, then the floor. His ribs cracked with a sickening crunch. The last thing he saw, the windshield shattering into a thousand razor-sharp shards, flying toward him like a storm of blades.

Agony exploded in his chest. And then, Alexander felt nothing at all.

***

"...help..."

A raspy voice echoed faintly in the distance, like from the end of an impossibly long tunnel.

Alexander opened his eyes with immense effort. His eyelids felt weighted with stones. An unfamiliar ceiling stared back at him, dingy, grimy, with patches of brown mold spreading across the corners.

He tried to move his hand, but all he felt was a terrifying weakness. His left arm was riddled with needle marks, dark, bruised puncture wounds, some still fresh and purple. His skin was pale and jaundiced, his frame gaunt, ribs protruding through a threadbare shirt.

This body... this wasn't his body!

A putrid stench invaded his nostrils, a nauseating mix of stale sweat, cheap alcohol, cigarette smoke, and something more rotten, like a dead rat behind the walls. The room was squalid. The mattress beside him was filthy gray, the blanket torn, the floor littered with cigarette butts and used syringes.

"Where am I? What happened?"

Confusion and alarm gripped Alexander. Then he heard the voice again, not from the tunnel, but from the corner of the room.

"You... you're awake?"

Alexander turned. In the corner, a young woman stood with a frail frame. Her face was pale and gaunt, malnourished. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed with dark circles beneath them, like someone who hadn't slept properly for years. Her hair was tangled, her clothes tattered and torn at the shoulder. On her left temple, a fresh purple bruise was visible, clearly from a blow.

She stared at him with a look of fear and wariness.

"Isabella..." a raspy voice escaped Alexander's mouth. But it wasn't his voice.

Alexander Sterling's deep, commanding voice was gone. What came out now was a hoarse, broken sound, like someone who had spent years screaming and smoking.

And who the hell was Isabella? Who was that name he just uttered?

Alexander struggled to his feet and moved toward her, but her reaction stunned him.

She stumbled backward, one step, two steps, until her back hit the wall. Her eyes widened, her chest heaving rapidly. Like a cornered animal facing a venomous snake.

"Don't... don't come near me!" Her voice trembled, on the verge of tears. "I told you, I'm not giving you any money this time! I have nothing left! I don't even have money for food! You've taken everything, everything!"

Alexander frowned, but his head pounded violently, like a hammer was pounding inside his skull.

And then suddenly, 

A flood.

A flood of foreign memories crashed into his mind like a broken dam. Images, voices, emotions that weren't his, all forcing their way in, filling every corner of his consciousness.

Kyle Morrison.

That name surfaced first. A thirty-two-year-old man. Addicted to crystal meth and heroin. Chronically unemployed. A compulsive gambler who had already sold almost every valuable thing in the house.

Then, more scenes played in Alexander's mind.

Kyle screaming in rage, cursing, hitting, intimidating. Kyle always stealing his wife's hard-earned money for gambling and drugs. Kyle, the man who had been married to Isabella for five years and had never done a single good thing for his family.

Oh my God!

Alexander felt sick. His stomach churned violently, not from his physical weakness, but from what he had just witnessed. He was trapped inside the body of a monster.

Among the memories, he also saw Kyle's final moments. In this very room, he had injected himself with a lethal dose. Afterwards, his face had turned from red to pale, then blue. White foam bubbled from his mouth as he died with his eyes wide open.

Kyle is dead. This body died last night!

Alexander took a deep breath and felt pain in his ribs, pain from the beatings, the kicks, the falls this body had endured. He stared at his own hands. Kyle's hands, thin, filthy, trembling from withdrawal. Dried blood lingered under his fingernails.

This isn't a dream. This is real.

And Alexander remembered, his plane had exploded. Glass shards had pierced his chest. The pilot was crushed. The co-pilot had vanished into the night.

Alexander Sterling was dead. But he was still here, trapped inside Kyle Morrison's body.

In the corner, Isabella still stood frozen. The fear in her eyes slowly shifted to confusion, because Kyle would have already started screaming and throwing things by now. But this time, the man before her just stood still, staring at his hands with a strange expression.

"What... what are you doing?" Isabella whispered cautiously.

Alexander lifted his head. He stared deep into Isabella's eyes, those warm brown eyes he had seen in Kyle's memories, always full of fear.

Now Alexander was confused. How could he explain to this woman that he wasn't Kyle?

"You..." Isabella spoke again, hesitant. "Are you in pain?"

Alexander lifted his head and met Isabella's gaze again, unable to say a word.

Meanwhile, Isabella fell silent as well. The eyes staring back at her felt different, foreign, like they didn't belong to Kyle at all.