"Hurry, Carlos!"
"Peter could be back any second!" A panicked voice rang out through the dimly lit penthouse, laced with urgency.
Peter stopped cold at the doorway, the voice slicing through him like a blade.
It was Elena's—his girlfriend's voice.
A rough chuckle followed, dripping with arrogance.
"So what if that loser shows up?" a man sneered.
"If he does, I'll make him kneel. Hell, let him watch."
Rage twisted Peter's expression as the heat of betrayal crashed over him. His fingers clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms.
With a thunderous crack, he kicked the door open.
The scene before him burned itself into his vision.
Elena was on all fours, eyes rolling back, lips parted in mindless pleasure. The man behind her, tangled in her hair, froze mid-motion on the bed.
Their haze of lust shattered the moment they saw him standing there, fury radiating off him in waves.
A tidal wave of anguish and rage threatened to consume Peter.
His chest heaved, breath ragged, and before he realized it, hot tears streaked down his face.
"Elena…" His voice was raw, each syllable scraping against his throat.
"Why?"
For a brief moment, something flickered in her eyes—guilt?
Or maybe panic?
But just as quickly, it vanished, replaced by cold indifference.
"The project's over, isn't it?" she said, voice flat.
"There's no point in pretending anymore."
A choked sound clawed its way out of Peter's throat.
His entire world had just crumbled, and yet she stood on her fours, utterly unmoved.
"I gave you everything," he whispered, his voice trembling.
"Every damn thing. And this is what I get?"
"Well, well," Carlos drawled, his voice dripping with contempt.
"Looks like the mutt learned to bark."
Elena tried to speak, but Carlos hammered into her from behind, her body jolting with each rough snap of his hips.
His smirk never left Peter's shattered expression as she gasped, her moans climbing higher, louder—obscene in their pleasure.
"Oh—oh God—!" Her fingers twisted in the sheets, her back arching as Carlos pounded her harder, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the room.
Peter stood paralyzed, his mind numb.
His entire existence had just been upended, shattered in front of him.
"Wh-what are you—" His voice fractured.
"What the hell is this?"
Carlos slammed into her again, barking a laugh.
"What does it look like, dumbass?"
"Here's a clue: It's called hardcore. Hahaha!"
Elena's head whipped around, her eyes widening at Carlos's words.
"Carlos—!"
But Carlos seized her chin, yanking her into an open-mouthed kiss—tauntingly—right in front of Peter.
Peter's world splintered.
When they broke apart, Elena turned to Peter, her lips swollen, her chest heaving.
"It's over," she said flatly.
"Between us… it wasn't working."
"Not working?" Peter's voice shook with incredulous rage.
"You're fucking another man in our home, and that's your excuse?"
Carlos groaned, his rhythm stuttering.
"Fuck—yeah, take it—" His hips jerked erratically, then stilled as he emptied himself inside her with a low, satisfied growl.
"Relax, champ," Carlos taunted, wiping himself off.
"She's breaking up with you."
"Breaking Up?" Peter's fists clenched.
"Elena, tell me this isn't real."
"You're leaving me for this piece of shit?"
Elena sat up, Carlos's release still leaking from her as she met Peter's broken gaze.
"Peter," she sighed, as if explaining to a child.
"Carlos can give me the life I deserve,"
"And also he's the son of Winston Cox."
"Do you have any idea what that means?"
"For my father's company?"
"For me?"
"He's everything you'll never be—ambitious, powerful, worth something."
Each word was a scalpel to Peter's chest. His lungs burned.
He'd loved her.
Trusted her.
Every sacrifice, every breath—all for her.
And now?
Now she looked at him like he was trash.
Peter let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head.
"Everything I'm not, huh?"
"That's one way to put it." His voice hardened, sharp as broken glass.
"But, be Frank!"
"You're just a slut."
"You bastard!" Carlos lunged for him, rage twisting his face, but Elena caught his arm, holding him back.
Peter's lips curled into a sneer.
"This was the plan all along, wasn't it?" His voice trembled with fury.
"Your father backing me and you, seducing me—it was never about us."
"It was all about the Green Stone Project, isn't it?"
"Fourteen years of my research, and the moment it succeeds, your father slaps his name on it, fires me, takes everything I worked for... and now, here you are, screwing this gigolo in my bed like it's a damn victory lap."
"Say that again." Carlos's eyes flashed dangerously. "I dare you."
Peter met his gaze, something wild and unhinged flickering in his eyes.
"Gig... olo."
Carlos snapped.
With a roar, he leaped from the bed, swinging a fist.
The punch crashed into Peter's jaw, snapping his head to the side.
But Peter barely flinched before driving his own fist into Carlos's ribs—hard.
The impact sent Carlos stumbling back, gasping in pain.
Peter moved to strike again, but before he could take another step, a hulking security guard materialized out of nowhere.
A vice-like grip seized Peter's arm, yanking him backward. Then—
CRACK!
The force of the slam sent shockwaves of pain through his body as his back met the wall.
He collapsed to the ground, clutching his stomach, gasping for breath.
His vision swam, but through the haze, he saw them—Elena and Carlos, calmly putting on their clothes, their gazes locked on his broken form.
Elena's face flickered with something—guilt, maybe—but she said nothing.
Carlos, on the other hand, crouched down, fingers grazing Peter's bruised jaw like he was admiring his handiwork.
A slow, smug smirk stretched across his face.
"You don't get it, do you?" His voice dripped with condescension.
"In this world, power and money are all that matter."
"And guess what?"
"Money buys power."
"I've got more than enough of both." He let out a cruel chuckle.
"As for you?"
"You're nothing."
Peter's hands curled into fists, his knuckles white.
"Well... not exactly nothing," Carlos mused, tilting his head.
"You've got talent."
"And, damn, I'll give it to you—you've got a freakishly good memory."
"But beyond that?" His smirk widened.
"You're just a glorified beggar to people like us."
Peter's blood roared in his ears.
Every fiber of his being screamed at him to fight, to tear this bastard apart, but the weight of his own powerlessness crushed him.
Carlos's smirk turned into a sneer.
"You're just a nobody, Peter." His voice dipped lower, laced with venom.
"A nobody clinging to numbers and a pathetic little obsession with the past."
"That's what makes you so pathetic."
Peter's gaze flickered towards Elena, but she wouldn't meet his eyes.
Carlos leaned in, his voice dripping with mock sympathy.
"This is what happens when you forget your place, dog."
Peter groaned, his body screaming in protest, but his lips curled into something between a grimace and a grin.
"I'm... surprised you can still smile after the beating I gave you."
Carlos's expression twitched, his smirk faltering for just a second.
Then—
THUD!
A fist slammed into Peter's gut, stealing the breath from his lungs.
He doubled over, choking on air, but forced himself to lift his head.
Carlos loomed over him, rubbing his knuckles, eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
"Peter Kane," he murmured, shaking his head. "You just don't know when to shut the hell up."
Peter spat out a breathless laugh, his gaze meeting Carlos's with unwavering defiance.
"You always did say I had a death wish."
Carlos adjusted his cuffs with a smirk, then casually gestured to the guard.
"Take him outside and kill him."
"Can't have some loser staining my father-in-law's reputation."
Peter spat blood onto the floor, his vision hazy but his rage burning hotter than ever.
"I'll kill you, Carlos," he growled, his voice raw with fury. "To hell with all of you."
Carlos scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "Make it look like an accident."
The guard hauled Peter up from the ground like he was nothing more than a sack of trash, dragging him toward the door.
Carlos and Elena followed, their footsteps echoing in the silent hallway.
The moment they reached the parking lot, two more guards joined in.
The beatings resumed, fists and boots slamming into Peter's ribs, his stomach, his face.
Pain flared in every nerve, but he refused to cry out. Instead, he locked eyes with Elena, searing his hatred into her soul.
She looked away.
Carlos chuckled as he crouched beside Peter's battered body.
"You really don't know when to quit, do you?" He stood up and stretched before turning to the guards. "Throw out this dog."
He barked out a laugh, flipping Peter the middle finger.
Peter struggled to move, but his body no longer responded. His limbs were numb, the agony overwhelming.
"You'll regret this," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Both of you."
The guards didn't care.
Two of them hoisted him up and hurled him onto the asphalt—right into the path of a roaring bus.
HOOONK!
Peter's bloodied eyes snapped open at the deafening sound.
Headlights flooded his vision, growing larger, faster.
He had no time to move, no time to react—
BANG!
The impact was brutal.
A white-hot explosion of pain ripped through his body as he was flung through the air, his limbs twisting unnaturally before he crashed onto the pavement.
His skull cracked against the concrete.
The world blurred.
Somewhere in the distance, laughter rang out.
"Damn!"
"Did you see that?" Carlos howled, doubling over. "The bastard actually flew!"
"Man, I didn't think it'd be that funny!"
Peter heard it all.
His body lay twisted and broken, blood pooling beneath him, his breath growing shallower with each second.
His fingers twitched weakly.
'So this is it.'
'This is how I am going to die.'
'Not even with a chance to fight back.'
'Just discarded.'
'Like trash.'
Carlos stepped into his fading vision, hands in his pockets, grinning down at him.
"Elena," he said smoothly, "let's go for round two."
Elena hesitated for a fraction of a second—then followed.
Carlos smirked down at Peter one last time.
"You really are like a dog, you know that?"
"Dying on the street, like some pathetic stray."
"Goodbye, loser."
Peter's vision darkened.
The last thing he felt was hatred.
The last thing he saw was Carlos's smug face.
And then—
His eyes opened.
....
'Wait… what the hell?'
His last memory was crystal clear—the bus, the blaring horn, the bone-crushing impact, and the agonizing final moments before his world faded to black.
'I thought I died.'
'So why am I here?'
He tried to get up, and he braced himself for pain, expecting the unbearable agony that should've come with getting turned into roadkill.
But—nothing. No pain.
Not even a dull ache.
In fact… he felt good.
Too good.
His brows furrowed.
'Where's the doctor?'
'Where are the nurses?'
Slowly, he sat up.
His body moved easily, no stiffness, no injuries.
He blinked, taking in his surroundings.
A bed. His bed. But something was off.
The blanket, the desk, the old wooden dresser—all of it felt eerily familiar.
His heart pounded as he scanned the room.
Books were scattered everywhere. Loud music blasted from a speaker in the corner. And then—
His eyes darted to the dim glow of a laptop screen on his desk, the unmistakable flicker of a porn video playing on loop.
'What the fuck?'
He moved on instinct, groggily reaching to shut it off. But instead of turning off—
It unmuted.
"Aahh! Ahh!"
"Harder!"
Peter froze.
Slam!
He clapped the laptop shut so fast it nearly bounced off the desk. Heart hammering, he stood dead still, ears straining.
'Shit. Did anyone else hear that?'
His gaze darted toward the door, listening.
No footsteps.
No angry yelling.
Good.
But then, something else caught his eye.
The small digital clock beside his laptop.
His stomach lurched.
'No. No way.'
'That's impossible.'
With trembling hands, he grabbed it, staring hard at the glowing numbers.
But that wasn't enough.
He needed confirmation.
He didn't care about the damn porn anymore—he flipped the laptop open again, ignoring the moaning sounds that resumed instantly, his focus locked on the bottom-right corner of the screen.
August 1, 2010.
The air was sucked from his lungs.
His vision swam. His heartbeat roared in his ears.
'No. No, no, no.'
'This has to be a joke.'
'It has to be.'
Stumbling out of bed, he rushed toward the mirror.
His hands braced against the edges of the dresser as he stared at his reflection—
And the breath was knocked from his lungs.
The face staring back at him wasn't his 35-year-old self.
Gone were the lines of exhaustion, the roughness of years spent struggling, the pain of betrayal carved into his features.
Instead, he saw a younger version of himself—one he hadn't seen in decades.
His fingers trembled as they traced his jaw, his smooth skin, his unmarked face.
His mind reeled, screaming for an explanation.
'Did I… just regress?'