Transmigrated Into A Billionaire

The window was open.

Heavy snow fell outside, smothering the world in white while the wind pushed loose flakes through the gap and onto the floor, where they melted in silence.

A cold gust swept across the room, carrying that particular bite that only comes with a proper winter storm - the kind that settles into your bones before you realise it has arrived.

Near the window, a man lay motionless on the bed.

A thin crust of frost had formed over his clothes and skin, making him look less like a person and more like something the cold had claimed for itself.

Then his eyes snapped open.

"Damn... why is it so cold in here?"

Luke's voice came out hoarse. He turned his head toward the open window and frowned at the snow still falling heavily outside. "They said it would snow at the end of the week," he muttered. "So why now?"

He pushed himself upright - and stopped.

This wasn't his room.

The layout was wrong.

The furniture was unfamiliar. Even the small details, the shape of the walls, the placement of things, felt like a set built to imitate a life he didn't recognise.

He sat there for a moment, waiting for his mind to produce an explanation that made sense.

None came.

What came instead was something stranger: the cold didn't bother him.

He had expected to shiver - frost had literally formed on his skin - but instead the chill felt almost welcoming, like stepping into shade on a summer afternoon.

It wrapped around him gently, and against all logic, he felt comfortable.

That detail unsettled him more than the unfamiliar room.

He stood and looked down at his hands. The skin was different. The shape was different. Even the small calluses on the fingers sat in the wrong places.

He turned them over slowly, the way you might inspect something you found on the ground before picking it up.

"These aren't my hands."

A mirror lay against the corner wall. He crossed the room and lifted it, and the face that looked back at him was not his.

Before he could process what he was seeing, pain cracked through his skull like something had split it open.

He staggered, grabbing his head, and memories came pouring in - not in any orderly way, but all at once, crashing over each other in a flood of images and voices and feelings that belonged to someone else entirely.

He went down to his knees. The pain felt like it would never stop.

Then, gradually, it did.

Luke stayed on the floor for a long moment, breathing hard.

When the storm inside his head finally settled, he understood.

The memories had sorted themselves into something coherent, and that coherence was almost worse than the chaos.

"So," he said quietly, to no one. "I transmigrated into someone with the same name as me."

He let the silence sit with that for a moment, then shook his head. "No. There's something else."

Names surfaced in his mind - Emily, Sara, Sera - with a weight that didn't feel like a stranger's memory anymore. He knew these names. Not just from whatever had just flooded into him, but from before.

It clicked.

After finishing work one evening, he had done something he rarely did: he'd picked up a novel. It wasn't his usual taste.

The story followed a female protagonist - a woman who rebuilt herself after a broken marriage and climbed to become one of the strongest agents in the Bureau, guided by a System, growing steadily more powerful with each chapter.