Rain blurred the city lights into long streaks of color, smearing neon and fog into a restless watercolor. Derek Morgan walked without aim, shoulders hunched, fingers stuffed into the pockets of a coat far too thin for the cold. The chill gnawed into his bones, but he barely noticed.
The letter he had received that morning was still crumpled in his fist—creased, damp, and hateful.
"We appreciate your submission but find it unsuitable for development at this time."
A lie.
A polished, cowardly lie.
His "unsuitable" design—his compact fusion stabilizer—was now being mass-produced by a military contractor, with his name stripped from every scrap of documentation. It was only one invention among many that had been stolen, repackaged, and marketed by vultures in suits.
Derek gave the world his brilliance.
The world gave him nothing in return.
His wife, after years of support, left him for a coworker who "actually had a future."
His sons, raised with love, called him a foolish idealist.
His establishment colleagues stole his research the moment he shared it.
His government buried his proposals, then sold them to the highest bidder.
The rain clung to his glasses, fogging the corners of his vision. Derek pushed them up, laughing bitterly at his own reflection in a puddle—unshaven, exhausted, the face of a man far older than his forty years.
"You try to help humanity," he muttered, "and humanity tries to bury you."
Thunder rolled overhead, rumbling like an old, tired beast. He was the only person walking this late at night, and perhaps the only one who cared to walk anywhere at all. He didn't have a destination. He wasn't suicidal. He just needed to be away—from the noise, from the guilt, from the disappointment.
Screech.
A sudden flash of headlights.
A horn blaring.
Tires hissing across wet pavement.
Derek turned instinctively—
—but too late.
The delivery van skidded over the curb, metal groaning as it slammed into him.
Pain exploded through his ribs as his body was flung like a rag doll. He felt weightless for an instant—an awful, calm moment—before crashing hard against a steel utility pole.
ZZZZZT—CRACK.
A burst of electricity tore through him, from spine to skull. His muscles locked. His mouth opened in a silent scream as blue sparks danced around him like cruel fireflies. His vision shattered into razor-sharp fragments of color.
The rain hissed as it hit the sparking wires.
Derek felt the world fade, not violently—but quietly. Too quietly.
So this is how it ends…
Not with recognition.
Not with gratitude.
Not even with anger.
Just exhaustion.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
---
He blinked.
There was no pain.
Just a ceiling.
A plain, off-white ceiling with faint water stains near the corners. He inhaled sharply, noticing immediately that his lungs worked differently—lighter, smoother, younger.
His body felt wrong.
He sat up, clutching his sternum, expecting broken bones… but instead felt only weakness.
Lightness.
A frail, unhealthy kind of lightness.
The small room around him slowly sharpened into focus: a cramped dorm room with peeling posters, cheap wooden furniture, and a faint smell of instant noodles. Textbooks and clothes formed messy piles. A laptop hummed quietly on a tiny desk.
This wasn't his home.
This wasn't anywhere he knew.
Derek stood up too quickly and stumbled. His legs trembled under his weight—not the weight of a grown man, but the thin, spindly structure of a malnourished teenager.
He rushed to the desk and touched the black laptop screen, catching a faint reflection.
A young man stared back.
No—a boy.
Eighteen, maybe nineteen.
Jet-black, unkempt hair.
Piercing blue eyes that were beautiful yet sunken from stress.
Sharp cheekbones buried beneath malnutrition.
Thin lips.
A face with potential—potential hidden under exhaustion and hunger.
He was scrawny, almost fragile-looking, collarbones visible beneath the loose T-shirt he wore. His arms were wiry, wrists too thin, fingers long but shaky.
Derek's breath hitched.
This isn't my body.
A knock at the door.
He froze.
The door opened and a young woman stepped in—a lavender-haired girl wearing stylish clothes he couldn't imagine this room's owner affording. She didn't smile.
"Oh. You're up," she said, sounding disappointed rather than relieved.
Derek said nothing.
"I guess I'll just say it now." She crossed her arms, glancing around the messy room like it disgusted her. "We're done."
Derek blinked.
His throat felt dry.
She sighed dramatically. "Derek, look, you're a nice guy. But I can't keep dating someone who's… like this. You're always studying, you never go anywhere, you can't afford anything, and honestly—" She gestured at the room. "I need someone who can keep up with me."
He swallowed something bitter and ancient—betrayal layered on betrayal, across lifetimes.
"I'll come back later for my stuff," she continued flatly. "Let's not make this awkward."
She walked out without waiting for a response.
The room fell silent again.
The name she used.
Derek.
This body's name was the same as his.
He sank onto the bed, the springs squeaking under his slight weight. Pain flashed through his skull—not physical pain, but a rush of memories slamming into him like a tidal wave.
The original Derek Morgan's life unfolded before him:
A small-town scholarship student.
Poor.
Overworked.
Bullied by rich students.
Mocked for his cheap clothes.
Ignored by professors unless they needed errands.
In a loveless relationship with a girl who saw him as a stepping stone.
Hungry more often than fed.
Struggling.
Lonely.
Their lives—forty years apart—mirrored each other more than he wanted to admit.
Different worlds.
Different bodies.
Same cruelty.
Derek lifted his head slowly.
The fragile teenager in the mirror now had something the original lacked—an icy sharpness in his blue eyes. A shadow forged from betrayal, layered with exhaustion and crystalline clarity.
His voice, when he spoke, was low and steady:
"No more giving. No more trusting. No more being used."
He stood and approached the desk. The laptop lit up automatically, displaying a news feed.
A headline scrolled across the screen:
"Pentagon Memorial Day Approaches — Twenty Years After the 9/11 Attack."
Derek frowned.
Pentagon? Not the Twin Towers?
Another headline:
"JFK Museum Announces Events for President Kennedy's 108th Birthday."
His eyes narrowed.
JFK… alive?
Assassination—never happened?
This wasn't his Earth.
Some events were identical.
Some reversed.
Some rewritten.
Parallel. Alternate.
Derek exhaled deeply.
A new world.
A new identity.
A new chance—one he would not waste.
A thin, cold smile touched his lips.
"I gave my last world everything. It buried me."
He cracked his knuckles and woke the laptop fully.
"In this world… I take what I want."
Outside, the rain softened, as if acknowledging the birth of someone new.
Someone colder.
Calmer.
Sharper.
Unbound.
Derek Morgan opened a blank document.
Time to build his future—one stolen idea at a time.