Waking Up in Alternate World

Inigo's eyes snapped open.

"Shit I have a deadline to meet—" 

He paused his words as he noticed something different. He wasn't in his large opulent office nestled in the top of a billion-dollar skyscraper, instead he was in a cramped bedroom with heat radiating around him as the afternoon sun streamed through the windows and landing directly on his body.

"What the heck is this?" Inigo muttered as he looked down to check on himself. Instead of having an athletic build body, what he had was a thin version of himself when he was in his college days. It was dampened with his sweat as it was really hot and the only cooling system that the room had was a barely functional electric fan. 

Wait—electric fan? Who uses electric fans in this age? What is this place? 

Suddenly—he heard a notification chime underneath his ass, and it was vibrating. He grabbed what's under his butt and what he found was a phone—a chunky, plastic device with a tiny screen and a full QWERTY keyboard. 

Inigo turned the device in his hands, feeling its cheap, creaky plastic casing. The screen was so small he had to squint just to read the text. No holographic display, no instant voice commands, not even a simple AI assistant.

This was ancient technology.

His fingers instinctively moved to the side of the phone, searching for the biometric scanner—only to find nothing. Instead, there was a flimsy plastic back cover with a removable battery. A removable battery.

"What kind of prehistoric relic is this?" he muttered in shock.

The phone vibrated again, the small screen lighting up with a text message.

[Boss Harold]: Oi, Inigo! Don't forget your shift at the café. You're already late. If you don't show up in ten minutes, don't bother coming at all!

A sense of dread filled his chest. Boss Harold? Café shift?

No, no, no—this wasn't just some weird dream. This was real.

He quickly sat up, scanning the room again. It was a small, messy space with peeling paint on the walls and an old wooden desk cluttered with books and an outdated laptop. A single oscillating electric fan creaked back and forth, barely doing anything to fight the heat.

Slowly, he stood up, his legs feeling oddly weaker than he remembered. He caught sight of himself in the small mirror nailed to the wall—his face was thinner, younger, with dark eyebags that screamed "overworked college student." 

"Waahhh…"

Inigo exclaimed as he instinctively took a step back and tripped over a stack of books near the bed, nearly falling onto the floor. He caught himself at the last second, gripping the edge of the desk for support.

This wasn't right.

He had already lived through his college days, and they weren't like this. He had never worked a café job, never lived in a room this cramped. And yet… this body, this face—it was undeniably him. A younger, malnourished version of himself, but still him.

Inigo ran a hand through his damp hair, his fingers trembling slightly. His mind tried to make sense of everything, piecing together whatever scraps of logic he could grasp.

"Okay, okay, let's think," he muttered, forcing himself to breathe. "I was born in 2030… but everything around me screams 2010s… that doesn't add up. That doesn't make any sense."

The Blueberry phone, the ancient laptop, the electric fan, the wooden desk—even the air smelled different, lacking the sterile, climate-controlled precision of 2060. Instead, it was warm, slightly dusty, mixed with the faint scent of old books and cheap detergent.

His head pounded as he tried to process it all.

If this was a dream, it was the most vivid, realistic one he'd ever had. If this was some kind of simulation, it was flawless. But the more he looked around, the more he realized… this wasn't a dream.

He walked toward the window, pulling aside the curtains. Outside, an ordinary street stretched before him—tricycles, old sedans, people walking in casual 2010s fashion. No self-driving cars. No holographic billboards. No AI drones patrolling the sky.

His hands clenched into fists.

"This is real."

But how?

Moments later, he felt a pain throbbing in his skull, sharp and sudden, as if someone had plunged a red-hot needle into his brain.

"Argh—!" Inigo groaned, clutching his head as a flood of images, sounds, and emotions surged through him.

Memories—not his, but his.

Scenes flashed before his eyes like an old, glitchy video reel:

A young boy, Inigo, standing beside a frail old woman, her hands rough from years of hard work.

A small, dimly lit house with creaking wooden floors, where every peso was carefully counted.

His little sister, no older than ten, tugging at his sleeve, her stomach growling but her face trying to hide the hunger.

His parents—gone. Separated. Living their own lives, too busy with their new families to care.

And their grandmother, Nanay Lina, the only one who never left, never abandoned them. The woman who worked from sunrise to sunset, bending over steaming pots in a local carinderia, just to put food on their table.

His body trembled as he absorbed the memories, the sheer weight of them pressing down on his chest like an iron fist.

This Inigo—this version of him—was poor.

Poor.

Not the "struggling startup phase" kind of poor. Not the "temporary financial setback" kind of poor. But real poverty, the kind where every meal was uncertain, where bills were a looming shadow, where the fear of being unable to pay rent was a constant battle. 

And yet, despite all of that, Nanay Lina never complained.

She took on the role of both mother and father, raising two kids who weren't even hers to raise. She sacrificed her own comfort, her own rest, just to make sure they had a future.

Inigo felt a lump in his throat. His chest ached as if the emotions of the original him were still lingering, pressing against his heart. Before he realized it, a single tear slid down his cheek.

Not out of sadness, but out of pity.

Not for himself—but for her.

This woman, this grandmother—she had done everything for him and his sister, without expecting anything in return.

And in return, what did this version of Inigo give her?

A life of constant struggle, of barely scraping by, of endless worry about whether she could afford the next semester's tuition or put enough food on the table.

His hands clenched into fists.

No.

That wasn't happening anymore.

Not if he could help it.

He wasn't the same Inigo Pascual from this world.

He was a man who had built an empire. A man who had created billion-dollar games, revolutionized an industry, and stood at the top of the world.

And if this world was going to throw him into a life of hardship, then he would rewrite his own fate.

For himself.

For his sister.

For Nanay Lina.

His Blueberry phone vibrated again, snapping him out of his thoughts.

[Boss Harold]: 3 minutes. You coming or not?

Inigo wiped his tear away, exhaling slowly.

This world might have stripped him of his wealth, but it didn't take away his knowledge.

He was going to make money. A lot of money.

And the first step?

Surviving this damn café shift.

With that, he grabbed his bag, took one last deep breath, and rushed out of the room.