Sleep didn't come to Mike Ross.
It circled him instead—slow, predatory—waiting for the moment his guard slipped.
The apartment was quiet in the way cities never truly were. Sirens whispered somewhere far below. Pipes clicked inside the walls. The refrigerator hummed like a thing pretending to be harmless. Mike lay on the bed fully clothed, shoes kicked off but suit jacket still on, staring at the ceiling as if it might confess something.
Pearson Hardman.
The words repeated in his head, not with excitement, but disbelief sharpened into caution.
'I cannot believe that my wish of been a lawyer will be granted this way' Mike thought.
This wasn't how life worked. Doors didn't open like that. Systems didn't bend. Men like Harvey Specter didn't gamble their careers on strangers who smelled like sweat and bad decisions.
Unless—
Mike's chest tightened.
Unless this was the bill coming due.
His heart skipped once. Then again.
At first, he thought it was panic. He'd felt panic before—after his parents' funeral, after the dean expelled him, after the hospital called about his grandmother's test results. Panic was sharp. Noisy. Chaotic.
This was different.
This was pressure.
The room felt smaller. The air thicker. His thoughts slowed, then fractured, like glass under stress.
Mike sat up—
—and the world tilted.
The ceiling rippled, bending inward as if gravity had changed its mind. Sound stretched. The hum of the refrigerator dropped into a low, animal growl. His breath came out wrong, too loud in his own ears.
Then the memories hit.
Not gently.
Not one at a time.
All at once.
Gunmetal gray.
That was the first thing he saw—not imagined, not remembered, but known. The weight of a pistol in his right hand. The familiar bite of cold steel against skin that had held it a thousand times before.
Blood on concrete.
Not his.
A warehouse by the docks. South Brooklyn. Night. Men shouting in Russian, Spanish, English layered together like a bad choir. Orders given without raising a voice. Fear recognized instantly, exploited ruthlessly.
Power.
Not loud power. Not flashy power.
Absolute power.
Mike gasped, clutching his head as another wave crashed through him.
A table. Long. Scarred. Surrounded by men who would kill for a nod. For a look. For silence. Ledgers open. Cash stacked. Territories discussed not in maps but in streets, bars, judges, precinct captains.
New York.
Not the postcard version.
The real one.
He saw himself—older, broader, eyes colder than ice left too long in whiskey. A man who didn't threaten, because threats implied uncertainty. A man who understood that loyalty was a resource, fear a currency, and mercy a calculated expense.
Mike fell to his knees.
"No," he whispered.
But the memories didn't care.
They kept coming.
A wedding ring removed and placed carefully on a nightstand before walking into violence that wouldn't allow distractions.
A mother's voice on the phone, trembling, asking if he was safe.
A courtroom—not as defendant, but observer—watching prosecutors lie badly and judges pretend not to notice.
Years compressing into instincts.
Then—
The betrayal.
It was quiet. It always was.
A friend. A brother. The one who had stood beside him when they had nothing. When power was just an idea whispered over cheap beer and bad plans.
A wire.
A meeting that felt wrong for reasons he ignored because trust had become habit.
Red and blue lights exploding out of darkness.
Hands raised. Guns dropped.
Not fear.
Disappointment.
The last thing he felt wasn't rage.
It was clarity.
Of course it was you.
A prison cell. Concrete. Time.
A needle.
Cold spreading.
Darkness.
Mike screamed.
The sound tore out of him raw and animal, ripping through the apartment and vanishing into the city like it had never existed. He collapsed forward, palms flat on the floor, breathing hard as if he'd run miles instead of crossed lives.
The memories slowed.
Then—something changed.
They didn't fight him anymore.
They aligned.
Mike's mind—his photographic memory, his impossible recall—didn't reject the foreign life. It indexed it. Organized it. Filed it with terrifying efficiency.
This wasn't possession.
This was integration.
Two minds overlapping, finding common structure.
The boy who learned patterns to survive.
The man who learned patterns to rule.
They fit.
Mike laughed softly, hysterically, the sound breaking halfway into a sob.
"Oh," he breathed. "Oh, this is bad."
He pushed himself up, staggering toward the bathroom mirror.
The face staring back at him was still young. Still Mike Ross. Brown eyes. Clean-cut. No scars. No blood under the nails.
But the eyes—
The eyes were wrong.
They weren't afraid.
They were assessing.
Mike leaned closer, gripping the sink.
"Okay," he said aloud, grounding himself. "Okay. Let's take inventory."
His voice didn't shake.
" I am in a boy's body who totally not know anything what's he is up to"
That scared him more than anything.
"weed , hahaha, that's staff is old story in my time. But what a mess this boy's life is…"
Knowledge surfaced—not as prophecy, but recognition.
Harvey Specter.
Louis Litt.
Jessica Pearson.
Donna Paulsen.
This wasn't just his life.
This was Suits.
A television show he had half-watched years ago, back when life was simpler and consequences felt theoretical. The memories aligned with eerie precision. Plotlines. Secrets. Timelines.
Season One.
" No way, is this the mike ross of suit's main character . then is it a reborn or a transmigration . any way's he has already accepted the offer for law associate in the farm"
He was already inside the first act.
Mike straightened slowly.
This wasn't a second chance.
This was a loaded board.
The law degree secret. The inevitable pressure. Louis's obsession. Trevor's betrayal waiting down the line. The exposure risks. The emotional traps.
And beyond that—
The city.
NYPD. Politics. Money. Media. Power structures layered like sediment, just waiting for someone who understood how to dig without collapsing the whole thing.
Mike exhaled.
The gangster—the man he had been—didn't speak in words. He didn't need to. His presence was a pressure behind Mike's thoughts, a steady, cold competence that whispered only one thing:
Survive first. Then expand.
Mike nodded to his reflection.
"Harvey thinks he hired a genius," he said quietly.
"Louis will thinks he smells a fraud."
"Jessica thinks she controls the board."
A slow smile formed.
"They're all right," Mike said. "They're just early."
He turned off the bathroom light and walked back into the dark apartment, every step steadier than the last.
"let's sleep I have seen much worst situation's" mike thought
Outside, New York kept breathing—unaware that something old, patient, and very familiar had just returned.
And this time—
It had a law firm.