The ceiling was wrong.
That was Ethan's first coherent thought. The ceiling in his apartment had a water stain shaped like Florida. This ceiling was smooth, beige, with a crack running from the light fixture to the corner.
His second thought: I can't feel my left arm.
Panic hit then. He sat up too fast, head spinning, and his arm came with him. Fell across his lap, pins and needles, he'd been sleeping on it. The room swam into focus.
Tiny. Maybe 10x10. Desk covered in junk—empty energy drink cans, takeout containers, a laptop held together with duct tape. Clothes on the floor. Posters on the walls, VR game advertisements, half-peeling. Smelled like stale air and old laundry.
Not his room. Definitely not his room.
Ethan's apartment back in San Francisco was small but clean because his roommate James was anal about that shit. This looked like a depression nest. Like someone had given up on basic functioning.
He stumbled to the desk, nearly tripped over a pizza box, caught himself on the chair. The laptop screen was dark. He tapped the touchpad and it woke up, no password, desktop a mess of folders and game shortcuts.
The wallpaper was a family photo. Four people: a woman maybe late 30s, tired eyes, attempting a smile. A girl, mid-twenties, arms crossed, glaring at the camera like it owed her money. Another girl, teenager, actually smiling. And between them, a young guy who looked like...
Ethan touched his face. Ran his hand along his jaw, his cheek, his nose.
The guy in the photo looked like him. Not exactly—younger, softer around the edges, hair different. But close enough that Ethan's brain stuttered trying to reconcile it.
"The fuck?"
His voice came out wrong. Higher? No, same pitch, different timbre. Like listening to a recording of yourself.
Fragments of memory hit him then, not his memories, disjointed and chaotic:
Mom working two jobs, always tired.
Miranda yelling about rent, about him being useless.
Lily asking him to help with homework, him saying later, later never coming.
Dad's funeral, standing in the rain, Mom crying, him feeling nothing.
VR cafes, headset on for hours, escaping into games he couldn't afford to own.
The landlord pounding on the door, Mom's voice through the wall, promising they'd have it by Friday.
Not his memories. But they felt real. Felt like they happened to him.
Ethan sat down hard on the bed. Hands shaking. This wasn't—this couldn't be—
SYSTEM INITIALIZED
The words appeared in his vision. Not on a screen. In his vision, white text on black background, floating like augmented reality without the headset.
EARTH ARCHIVE LOADED
GAME DATABASE: 45,847 ENTRIES
ANIME DATABASE: 12,334 ENTRIES
MANGA DATABASE: 28,976 ENTRIES
DEVELOPMENTAL TOOLS: ACTIVE
BODY OPTIMIZATION: ACTIVE
WELCOME, USER. YOU HAVE BEEN GRANTED A SECOND CHANCE.
"I'm hallucinating," Ethan said out loud. "Bad shrimp. Food poisoning. Or a stroke. I'm having a stroke."
YOU ARE NOT HALLUCINATING. YOU HAVE TRANSMIGRATED INTO A PARALLEL WORLD. THE BODY'S PREVIOUS OWNER IS DECEASED (NATURAL CAUSES: STRESS-INDUCED HEART FAILURE). YOU HAVE INHERITED HIS LIFE, HIS MEMORIES, AND HIS DEBTS.
GOOD LUCK.
The text faded.
Ethan sat in silence for maybe five minutes. Then he laughed. Then he laughed harder until he was gasping, bent over, hands on his knees.
When he stopped, his face was wet.
"Okay," he said to the empty room. "Okay. Fuck. Okay."
He pulled up the system interface with a thought (which was insane, but everything was insane so why not). Started navigating through it. The database was exactly what it said: every game from Earth. Every anime, every manga, searchable, accessible, with full documentation.
Under tools, he found development suites. Code libraries. Asset generators. An AI assistant that could help him port Earth games to whatever format this world used.
Under body optimization: passive health improvement. Muscle efficiency. Sleep efficiency. Basically keeping him from falling apart under stress.
It was a cheat code. A massive, ridiculous, unfair advantage.
And he had no idea what to do with it.
There was a knock on his door. Three quick raps.
"Ethan? You awake?" Young voice. Lily.
He cleared his throat. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm awake."
"Mom wants to know if you're going job hunting today."
The way she said it. Careful. Like she already knew the answer and was trying not to sound disappointed in advance.
"Tell her... tell her yes. I'll be out in twenty."
Silence from the other side of the door. "Seriously?"
"Seriously."
"Okay." Pause. "Okay, cool. I'll tell her."
Footsteps retreating.
Ethan looked at himself in the cracked mirror on the back of the door. Young face, early twenties. Bloodshot eyes. Stubble that needed shaving. The body's previous owner had really let himself go.
"You fucked everything up," he told the reflection. "Left me a mess to clean up."
The reflection didn't argue.
"But I guess... I guess I've got a chance here. Second chance. Better not waste it."
He spent the next hour going through the laptop, piecing together the life he'd inherited. Ethan Cole, 23, high school dropout, chronic underachiever. His father had died seven years ago (industrial accident at the manufacturing plant where he'd worked for 15 years). Settlement money gone within a year. Mother, Sarah, working two jobs. Sister Miranda, 26, working at the same plant where their father died (the irony wasn't lost). Sister Lily, 17, senior year of high school, straight-A student, scholarship hopeful.
They lived in a three-bedroom apartment in a shitty part of Sector 7 (whatever that meant—he'd have to figure out geography later). Rent was overdue. Utilities overdue. Credit card debt in four figures.
Original Ethan had spent the last five years drifting between part-time jobs, quitting or getting fired, spending most of his time in VR cafes playing games he couldn't afford, using the family's grocery money for cafe fees.
Miranda hated him. That came through clearly in the memories. She'd told him to his face: "You're a waste of space. Dad would be ashamed."
Mom tried to be supportive. Kept saying he'd find his path. But her eyes were tired. So tired.
Lily still loved him. Or loved who he used to be, before Dad died, when he'd been her big brother who gave a shit.
No pressure, then.
Ethan stood up. Found cleanest clothes he could (low bar). Splashed water on his face in the bathroom down the hall (shared with another apartment, lovely). Came out to find Mom in the kitchen.
Sarah looked up from her coffee, surprise flickering across her face. "You're... dressed."
"Yeah. Gonna make some calls. See what's out there."
She blinked. "Job calls?"
"That's the plan."
"Ethan..." She set down her cup. Studied him. "Are you feeling okay?"
"Define okay."
"You haven't looked for work in three months. Last time you said you would, you slept till two and played VR till midnight."
Right. That's who she expected.
"I know. I've been a piece of shit. I'm sorry. I'm gonna do better."
Sarah's eyes went shiny. She looked away, wiping at her face quickly. "Don't make promises you won't keep."
"I'm not."
"You always say that."
"This time it's true."
She wanted to believe him. He could see it. But she'd been burned too many times.
"There's coffee," she said instead. "I'm leaving for work in ten minutes. Make sure you lock up."
"Will do."
She grabbed her bag (worn, patched), headed for the door, stopped. "Ethan?"
"Yeah?"
"If you're serious... there's a VR cafe on Fifth that's hiring. Night shift. Not much, but it's something."
"I'll check it out. Thanks, Mom."
She nodded. Left.
Ethan poured himself coffee (instant, weak), sat at the tiny kitchen table, and started making a list.
Immediate priorities:
Get job (night shift VR cafe?)
Learn this world's tech
Figure out game development here
Make money
Pay rent
Prove I'm not original Ethan
Long list. Better get started.