New York City, Manhattan, Clinton District
A scream ripped through the alley. "Ahh, my eyes!"
Ethan clutched his face, rubbing his eyes like crazy until—wait, hold up—nothing hurt? "No way," he muttered, blinking hard. When he opened them again, the world hit him like a spotlight cranked to a thousand. It was like he'd been stuck in night mode his whole life, and now someone flipped the switch to ultra-bright day.
Back in the day, this kind of glare would've fried his eyes, but now? Staring into what felt like the sun itself, he barely flinched. His head didn't even ache—everything just clicked, processing details sharper than he'd ever imagined.
"What the hell's going on?" Ethan yanked off his glasses. The world blurred for a split second, then snapped back into focus. "Wait, my nearsightedness is gone too?" He blinked again. "Am I dreaming or what?"
He glanced around. The alley was grim—tall, grimy apartment buildings loomed on both sides, built from weird dark-red bricks. Trash was strewn everywhere, sewage trickled along the ground, and a fat black stray cat poked out of a garbage pile. It stared at him, snatched something nasty in its mouth, and bolted. Exposed pipes and rusty staircases dripped water, mixing with the chatter of people outside, the wail of sirens, and—yep—gunshots. It all felt too real, too alive.
"Hang on. Who am I? Where am I?" Ethan's brain stalled. "Wasn't I just… arguing with some jerk online?"
September 15th—a day that might've mattered to someone. He vaguely remembered scrolling through a livestream, people hyping up some tech event, maybe a phone release. Ethan, being Ethan, couldn't stand the hype train. He'd ditched his game to clap back online, going hard from midnight to dawn. Then he'd stumbled downstairs for breakfast, half-dead, bleary-eyed—and now, somehow, he was here. Eyes nearly burned out of his skull.
He scratched his head. "Did I fall asleep walking and end up somewhere random?" Time to figure this out.
Ethan started toward the alley's exit when three huge guys swaggered in from the street, cigarettes dangling from their lips. They spotted him—and he spotted them.
"Yo, look at this guy!" the skinny, tall one grinned, stepping closer. "Hand over your cash, now!"
"Huh?" Ethan tilted his head. "Since when do muggers roll up in my town?" Then he squinted. "Wait, are they filming something? Why's everything so… slow?" These dudes moved like they were stuck in molasses—walking, talking, all at half-speed.
"Money! Give it!" The leader barked again, switching languages like he'd rehearsed it.
Ethan snorted. "Dude, it's 2020—who carries cash anymore?"
The guy didn't get it. "Money! Now!"
"Come on, be real. Want me to Venmo you or what?" Ethan reached for his phone—never leave home without it, right?
"Stop!" The tall one yelled, voice sharp. "Hands off!"
Ethan frowned, pulling his hand back and scanning the alley. His eyesight and hearing were unreal now—he could hear a pin drop a mile away—but no cameras, no selfie sticks. Were these clowns serious?
If it was a prank, it sucked. Just yell something dumb into a lens and call it a day—why drag it out? But normal people don't move like they're underwater. Then one of the others yanked a silver revolver from his jacket.
"Quit yapping—waste him and take his stuff!" The gun swung toward Ethan.
A chill hit him hard. Under his freakishly sharp vision, that revolver gleamed like death itself. This wasn't a prop. "Oh, crap—"
Bang! The guy fired. Ethan jerked to the side, the bullet grazing past him.
He wasn't some ninja or martial arts pro, but against someone moving this slow? Dodging was cake. Years of gaming had honed his reflexes—he wasn't just some scrub; he'd climbed leaderboards for a reason.
Bang! The shot slammed into a trash can behind him. Ethan glanced back—0.5mm-thick metal, punched clean through. Real gun. Real bullets. These psychos were actually trying to kill him.
Adrenaline hit, but instead of panic, his mind went ice-cold. Three on one—how do you play this? Check your options, weigh the odds, use what you've got. No point freaking out—stay sharp, move fast, survive. Maybe even turn the tables.
The trio were big, bulky—probably all show, no stamina. Ethan, though? A gamer who barely saw sunlight. Hand-to-hand was a losing bet. The only shot was that revolver.
He lunged.
It sounds dramatic, but it was over in a flash. The shooter was still gaping at his missed shot when Ethan closed the six-meter gap. A normal sprint takes a second flat, but to these guys, Ethan was a blur. The dude fired twice more—Ethan ducked, weaved, slippery as hell. Then he was in close. A quick twist, a yelp, and the gun was his.
"Holy crap—it's not them slowing down, it's me speeding up!" Ethan's heart pounded, but he was grinning now. His senses were jacked—vision, hearing, reflexes, all cranked to eleven. His brain was chewing through info like a supercomputer.
"Am I a superhero now? Could I top the gaming charts, go pro?" Poor kid instincts kicked in—superpowers meant esports glory, right? What else was he good for?
Gun in hand, Ethan steadied himself. The three thugs froze, one collapsing to his knees. "K-Kung fu or something?" one stammered.
"Shut up!" Ethan snapped. "Hands up, heads down, against the wall—move!"
They didn't get the words, but the wild gun-waving got the point across. They shuffled to the corner, crouching like scolded kids.
"Now what?" Ethan muttered. He'd won, but… then what? Back in his keyboard warrior days, he'd have bragged about popping them off. But with a real gun trembling in his grip? Nah, he wasn't that guy.
"Cops. Gotta call the cops." Assault, robbery, attempted murder—let the law sort it out. He fished out his phone, a beat-up old model, and—nothing. No signal. Emergency calls should work anywhere, locked or broke, but not here.
"What the hell?" He eyed the trio, then tuned into the chaos outside—gunshots, sirens, voices. A hunch gnawed at him. No city he knew sounded like this. And the chatter out there? All English.
Ethan stepped toward the street, heart thumping. He shut his eyes, took a breath, then opened them wide.
The view hit him like a punch: shops plastered with English signs, streets packed with every hair color—blonde, red, brown, black—and every skin tone imaginable. A newspaper fluttered by; he snagged it midair.
Manhattan Daily, January 14, 2008.