Chapter 1: Nine Heirs, Infinite Do-Overs

Picture this: you’re sitting around with friends, and someone throws out a wild idea—imagine your soul jumps into a famous historical figure. You get infinite do-overs, reloading saves and restarting, just to see how many tries it’d take to pull off what they did.

It’s exactly the kind of debate that blows up late at night, passing a bag of chips around a cramped dorm room. Everyone’s got a favorite—Lincoln, Hamilton, maybe even Steve Jobs. But here’s the kicker: if you fail too many times, you’re stuck—like one of those haunted video games you’d read about on creepypasta forums. You’d be trapped in the simulation, no way back to your real life. No takebacks. No respawns.

Then one day, you open your eyes and realize you’ve actually soul-jumped for real. There’s a knock at the door. You blink, disoriented, and a housekeeper calls, “Mr. Whitaker, the Mayor’s son has been cut out of the will. The Mayor asked the youngest councilman to look into the city’s Finance Office, and he wants you to question Carl Zimmerman!” You stare, brain short-circuiting. Wait, what?

You: Who am I? Where am I? And what am I supposed to do? My head is spinning.

Suddenly, a voice drops into your mind—cold as ice, totally deadpan: You’re Harrison Whitaker. You’re in a soul-jump scenario. Complete the “Nine Heirs’ Struggle for the Estate” quest, or you’ll never get back to reality.

You: ...

And just like that, it’s like every meme character you’ve ever seen takes over—Michael Scott, Ron Swanson, Dwight Schrute—you can’t help but mentally curse a blue streak. Me? Fight for the estate? Against nine heirs? Seriously?

You can practically hear Michael’s “No, God! Please, no!” echoing in your head. You want to flip a desk. All you manage is a silent scream. It’s a full-on sitcom meltdown, but the system just ghosts you.

No matter how much you rant, the system’s just radio silence.

Fine. Since you’re here, you might as well settle in. Might as well. Bring it on. Fight for the damn estate!

It’s just family intrigue, right? In your mind, scenes from “Succession,” “Dallas,” and “The Godfather” play on repeat… But then you realize… all you remember are a bunch of catchphrases: “It is what it is,” “Don’t embarrass yourself,” “My head hurts like hell”…

You try to channel your inner Logan Roy, but all you get is a mashup of TV soundbites. The room feels too quiet. The air’s heavy, like the universe itself is holding its breath, waiting for you to move.

Silence. Today, the Fourth Son’s house is steeped in it.

The kind of silence that presses in, broken only by the distant tick of a grandfather clock and the faint creak of old floorboards. You shift in your chair, the old wood creaking beneath you. You half expect to hear the theme from some prestige drama playing in the background.

No matter. You steady yourself. At least you still remember the relationships between the players—that’s something.

And if you don’t remember, it’s fine; you can always rummage through the memories of the guy you’re inhabiting:

The Mayor’s son is the eldest legitimate son. The First Son is the Mayor’s firstborn. Years ago, Samuel Goodwin and Milton Pierce fought like cats and dogs in city hall, all because of the rivalry between these two.

You picture tense city council meetings, arguments breaking out over policy and legacy, the kind of backroom deals that make the local news crawl. Classic city hall drama—grudges, alliances, and the ever-present whiff of scandal.

Goodwin is related to the Mayor’s current wife; Pierce is related to the First Son’s mother. Neither faction is any good. Whenever the city pushes through a policy—say, Pierce pushes a one-year property tax exemption—Pierce’s faction will claim all the credit, and the local officials are expected to show their gratitude.

It’s that small-town politics vibe where everyone owes someone a favor, and every handshake comes with a price tag. You can almost see the smirks and exchanged glances at city hall functions, the whispered promises in the corridors.

Goodwin’s family is filthy rich and treats city staff like servants—berating them, so arrogant that even when his own brother committed a crime and the Mayor wanted him arrested, he still got off with a slap on the wrist.

You imagine Goodwin’s family rolling up to city events in gleaming SUVs, acting like they own the place. Nothing says power like a black Escalade. The Mayor’s frustration is palpable, but the machinery of privilege grinds on.

With Goodwin’s arrogance, when the Mayor fell ill on a business trip, Goodwin tried to push the Mayor’s son into the top spot. That finally got Goodwin arrested—and it cost the Mayor’s son dearly.

You can practically see the headlines: “Mayor’s Son Caught in Power Struggle—City Hall in Turmoil.” Seriously?

But the Mayor still loves his son—everyone knows how attached he is. When traveling, the Mayor would write to his son every day, then complain that the son never writes back.

The image of a powerful man penning daily letters, only to get silence in return, stings with that painfully American sense of family disappointment—the kind that’s both public and private.

So the Mayor’s son being a little arrogant, extorting officials, skimming off city contracts—that’s all overlooked. Even Goodwin’s huge scandal didn’t shake his position. From the memories, you can tell the Mayor has a real soft spot for his son.

It’s the classic story: the rules don’t apply to the favored child, no matter how many people grumble behind closed doors. You can almost hear the city’s collective sigh.

The First Son, though, thinks he’s got a shot and has his people trash-talk the Mayor’s son’s faction every day.

You imagine group texts, snide remarks at after-hours bars, the endless undercurrent of rivalry bubbling beneath the surface.

Thus, the city’s factional strife didn’t die down after Pierce’s death and Goodwin’s downfall; if anything, it’s gotten worse. Who knows how the Mayor feels, watching money from the Finance Office flow to the Mayor’s son and kickbacks from crooked officials flow to the First Son.

The city budget becomes a battleground, every line item a potential landmine. The Mayor’s headaches are more than metaphorical.

But all that’s settled now—the Mayor’s son has already been cut out.

A finality you can feel, like a door slamming shut. The city’s gossip mill is probably working overtime.

Not long ago, the Mayor went on a hunting trip out of state. The Mayor’s son and the First Son went along, as did another brother. That brother died of illness en route. The First Son at least howled a bit; the Mayor’s son didn’t even shed a tear.

The hunting trip—so Americana: rifles, orange vests, cold mornings. The tragedy of a brother’s death, the coldness of one son, the performative grief of another. It’s a tableau straight out of a family saga. The silence after is brutal.

The Mayor immediately remembered years ago, when he was gravely ill—every son looked worried except the Mayor’s son, who acted like nothing was wrong.

The old man’s disappointment runs deep. You can almost feel the chill in the air, the way everyone tiptoed around the hospital room, except for that one son.

The Mayor couldn’t take it and chewed out his son for being cold-hearted.

The kind of scolding that leaves a mark, the sort of family wound that never quite heals.

The Mayor’s son even dared talk back, saying the out-of-state trip was rough and the brother shouldn’t have come in the first place.

A classic case of foot-in-mouth syndrome. You wince just thinking about it—wrong words, wrong time.

The Mayor stared wide-eyed: So now it’s my fault?

You can almost hear the silence that follows, thick and suffocating.

What could the Mayor’s son do? He could only say, “I’d never dare.”

But to the Mayor, it wasn’t that he didn’t dare—it was that he dared too much. He dared to extort officials along the way, dared to seize city contracts meant for outside partners, and after being chewed out, even dared to sneak outside the Mayor’s tent at night to eavesdrop.

You picture the moonlit woods, the sound of twigs snapping underfoot, the tension of secrets overheard. This isn’t just family drama—it’s small-town Shakespeare.

How did he manage to sneak over in the dead of night?

Whether the Mayor’s son had ulterior motives or not doesn’t matter anymore. If he could approach the Mayor so stealthily, he could no longer be the heir.

After that night, the Mayor summoned his council, cut the Mayor’s son out of the will, and ordered the First Son to keep him under strict watch.

A decision that echoes through the halls of power, as final as a judge’s gavel.

…