The Gangster Boss in a High Schooler's Body

Waking Up in a Stranger's Skin

Darkness. Only darkness enveloped Ah Beng. No water, no pain, no roaring river current. Only a dense, absolute void, like a dreamless sleep stretched across unmeasurable time.

Ah Beng couldn’t tell how long he had been trapped there—it could have been a second, or a hundred years. All he felt was his soul drifting, light and weightless, devoid of bone and flesh.

Then all at once, a sudden pull.

Like a massive fishhook snagging his gut, Ah Beng felt his soul sucked away at breakneck speed.

He shot through a corridor of blinding light that forced his eyes shut. Strange sounds echoed, whispers he couldn't decipher, followed by a loud crash that shattered the silence.

Splash!

Cold water hit his face.

Ah Beng gasped violently. His lungs burned, but not from river water—from air. Fresh air violently filling his chest. He coughed uncontrollably, tap water spewing from his nose and mouth. His body trembled, but something was wrong. The vibration of his frame felt off. Lighter. Smaller.

Ah Beng blinked rapidly. Blinding late-afternoon sunlight cut through the gaps of the fingers he raised to shield his face. But the moment his gaze fell upon his hands, his heart—or whatever was currently beating inside his chest—nearly stopped.

Those were not his hands.

The hands before him were small, frail, with slender fingers that had never gripped a firearm or smashed into a man’s jaw. No dragon ink. No scars. The skin was pale and pristine, bearing only a few ballpoint scribbles on the back of the hand—class notes, not tattoo ink.

'What ... what is this?' Ah Beng muttered, his voice coming out high-pitched, youthful, and laced with sheer panic. It sounded nothing like his usual heavy baritone that sent shivers down his crew’s spines.

"Oh, look who’s finally awake! Thought you were out cold for the day, Darren!" a mocking voice jeered from above.

Ah Beng snapped his head around. Standing around him were five teenage boys in secondary school uniforms.

One of them—the largest of the bunch, heavy-set with bleached-blonde hair—was still clutching an empty blue plastic bucket. The water from that bucket had clearly just drenched his face.

Darren? Who the hell was Darren?

Ah Beng tried to push himself up. His body felt completely clumsy. His legs wobbled as they tried to support a weight far lighter than what he was used to.

He looked down and caught sight of the same secondary school uniform they were wearing. His white shirt was soaked, clinging to a flat, skinny chest. This was the body of a teenage boy. Sec 3 or Sec 4 at most.

"Look at that, Darren’s talking to himself like he’s possessed!" the blonde kid mocked, bursting into laughter. His lackeys joined in with smug cackles.

Ah Beng shook his head, struggling to make sense of it. This had to be a dream. It was definitely a dream.

'I’m still in the river. I’ll wake up any second now and feel that ice-cold water again.'

Yet the sharp sting in his cheek as he bit down on the inside of his mouth proved otherwise. This was real. Every single detail was real. The scent of wet grass, the chirping of sparrows in the tree near the parade square, and the contemptuous sneers from the five punks before him.

"Come on, wake him up nicely, don’t be so harsh," one skinny student sneered. "Pity the guy, later he starts crying again like yesterday."

"Crying?!" Ah Beng’s eyes flared. His sharp gaze locked onto the skinny kid with raw murderous intent. His old instincts surged instantly—the way he used to look at subordinates who stepped out of line.

Instead of flinching, the five boys only laughed harder.

"Whoa, look at him trying to act tough! Just one bucket and you dare glare at us? What a loser!" the blonde kid stepped forward and shoved Ah Beng’s shoulder hard.

Ah Beng’s frame—Darren’s frame—stumbled back two steps, nearly losing balance. Ah Beng felt just how fragile his bones were now. A single shove from this tubby kid almost took him down. This wasn't the body of a fighter. This was the body of a victim.

"You dare push me?" Ah Beng hissed, his tone shifting into the low, dangerous threat that used to make men run for their lives. But his youthful voice was too thin, too high-pitched, making the threat sound like a whimper.

The blonde kid turned to his crew. "You hear that? Darren’s threatening me!" He whipped back around and landed a heavy punch right into Ah Beng’s gut.

Thud!

The fist slammed into his solar plexus. Ah Beng gagged, his knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the wet ground. It felt like being hit by a cart.

Ah Beng’s fingers clawed into the grass, gripping it tightly, saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth from the impact.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" the blonde kid taunted. "That’s just one. Want another?"

Ah Beng looked up. His eyes watered—not out of fear, but from explosive, blinding rage. In his past life, not a single soul ever dared punch him in the gut and walk away breathing. But his hands right now had no power. His muscles were nonexistent. He had no weapons. He had no crew.

He had nothing.

"What are you boys doing?!" A woman's voice suddenly cut through the air.

The four boys turned. A female teacher wearing thick glasses was jogging over from the school building, a panicked look plastered on her face.

"Quick, run!" the blonde kid whispered. The five of them scattered instantly, leaving Ah Beng—or Darren—kneeling alone on the parade square in his soaked uniform, his stomach throbbing with pain.

The teacher rushed to his side. "Darren! Are you alright? Did they hit you again?"

Ah Beng remained silent, his breath ragged. He stared at his hands once more. Tiny hands that had never held authority over anything. Then he looked at the puddle of water on the ground—left behind by the bucket that had drenched him—and within that murky reflection, he saw an unfamiliar face.

The face of a secondary school student with thick, messy hair, large, innocent eyes, and hollow cheeks bruised purple. A face that looked nothing like his. A weak face. The face of a punching bag.

Ah Beng stared at his reflection, digesting it all. After dying, drowning, and being reborn into someone else's body—a simple question echoed in his mind.

'Who am I now?'

He was still Ah Beng. The soul of the street boss feared across half of Singapore was still intact inside this chest. But this body? This body belonged to Darren. A pathetic student who couldn't even defend himself. And if Ah Beng wanted to survive in this new world, he had to learn to live inside this completely alien skin.

But one thing was certain.

Ah Beng clenched his small fists. His fingers trembled with fury. The eyes in the reflection turned razor-sharp, no longer innocent—but consumed by vengeance and resolve.

'Did I reincarnate?' Ah Beng thought in utter confusion, staring at his fair, slender, and utterly frail fingers.

'God, why the hell did I reincarnate into the body of a bully victim? Where’s my real body?'

Ah Beng collapsed onto the dirt in agony. Not in defeat, but in bitter protest against the Creator—why on earth was he given a second chance at life inside the skin of a high school kid?

"Darren! Darren, can you hear me?" The teacher shook Ah Beng's shoulder.

Ah Beng stood up.

The teacher narrowed her eyes. "Darren, come to the sick bay, we need to get you checked."

Ah Beng stood straight and shoved the teacher's hand away.

"Sorry, my name is Ah Beng, not Darren!"