Prologue: The Second Choice Life
People always think suicide notes are dramatic. Mine wasn’t.
Just one line: “Don’t blame my parents.”
That was years ago. I botched it, obviously—ended up alive,
stuck with the same boring bullying,
the same suffocating classrooms,
the same teachers who looked at me like I was the problem for fighting back.
After that? I stopped caring.
I laughed when my parents laughed, smiled when my little sister wanted me to smile, played the role of “normal son.”
But behind it, I was just counting down the years until they were gone.
Then it would be me, my savings, and an RV to circle the world in until the money ran out.
If it did, I’d just drive off a cliff.
Simple plan.
To pull it off, I worked. Everything.
Janitor. Cashier. Delivery boy. Contractor grunt. Anything that paid. I never climbed higher, never took promotions.
Promotions meant responsibility. Responsibility meant attachments. Attachments meant pain.
So I stayed low. A ghost in the workforce. The guy who covered shifts when others called in sick. The “second choice.” Always good enough to rely on, never worth remembering.
Women? Too much trouble. The only ones who ever came to me were already taken, looking for someone to cry to.
That’s how I got the nickname: Second Choice. The guy you flirt with when your boyfriend isn’t around. Never the one you pick first.
The joke was on them, though. I didn’t want to be picked.
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By the time I was thirty, I had enough saved for the RV. Not that I bought it yet. Maybe I was waiting for my parents to pass.
Maybe I just… wanted them to think I was happy a little longer.
That night, I was supposed to leave early. Go home, crash in my tiny apartment, maybe scroll through RV listings online.
But a coworker called in sick. And like always, I was the second choice.
So I stayed late, mop in hand, humming to myself in the empty office when my phone buzzed.
Caller ID: GOD.
I snorted. “Damn scammers are getting creative these days.” Ignore.
It rang again. Same number. Ignore.
The third time, I sighed and picked up. “Yeah, hello? Trying to sell me salvation?”
The voice was calm. Too calm.
“My apologies. You were going to die in five minutes. But since you ignored my earlier calls… you now have twenty seconds.”I rolled my eyes. “New scam tactic? Tell people the exact time of their death? What’s next, monthly subscriptions?”
Then the world blew up.
Fire. Screams. The building ripped apart like paper.
And when the dust settled, somehow, impossibly—everyone survived.
Everyone but me.
When the flames faded, I expected nothing. No heaven, no hell. Just nothing.
Instead, I opened my eyes to white. Endless, blinding white.
And a man sitting across from me at a desk, sipping tea like he was on break. His nametag—no joke—read: GOD.
“You weren’t supposed to die today,” he said, calm as a bored accountant.
I rubbed my temples. “Yeah? Tell that to the explosion.”
He set his cup down. “If your coworker hadn’t called in sick, you’d still be alive.”
I barked a laugh. “So what, if he was here, he’d be dead instead?”
God shook his head. “No. He would’ve stepped outside for a smoke break. The blast wouldn’t have touched him.”
I stared. “Are you kidding me? The guy who lives on energy drinks and nicotine gets a pass, but I get vaporized because I picked up overtime?”
God shrugged, completely unbothered. “Unfortunate, but true.”
Silence stretched between us. Finally, he sighed. “To compensate, I’ll reincarnate you. Memory intact.”
I raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? Don’t people usually get more than that? Cheat skills, holy swords, divine blessings?”
His eyes narrowed. “I already tried to save you. You ignored my call.”
My jaw dropped. “You mean—? You could’ve—?!”
“Yes,” he cut me off. “You could’ve lived. But no, you thought it was a scam.”
“…You called me with caller ID: GOD. What was I supposed to think?!”
His teacup clinked against the saucer as he leaned forward, glaring.
“What did you want? For me to send an angel down in a flaming chariot, personally dragging your dumbass out of the building?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it again. “…Okay, fair point.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re exhausting. Fine. One extra thing.”
His eyes glowed. My vision warped, flickering with strange translucent text and numbers. A faint HUD blinked into existence over my sight.
“There. You can see the hidden conditions of skills. Use it, don’t use it, I don’t care. Just don’t complain to me when you screw up again.”
I blinked, staring at the glowing text:
[Skill HUD Activated]“…You really are salty about that missed call, huh?” I muttered.
God’s only reply was sipping his tea again.
And then, without warning, the white void swallowed me whole.