The rain hit the windows like a thousand tiny fists. Liam Cross sat alone in his darkened apartment, illuminated only by the flickering light of his dying monitor. Code and deadlines danced across the screen, but he could barely see them through the blur of tears.
Thirty-four years old. One failed startup. Two bankrupt indie games. No family. No friends. Only regret.
He glanced at the framed photo on his desk—him and his younger brother, Michael. A happier time. Before the accident. Before the guilt.
"If only I had one more chance…"
His phone buzzed. A message from his former co-founder:"Hey. Just wanted to say… you were right. We should've listened. Good luck."
Liam chuckled bitterly. Too late.
A sudden thunderclap shook the sky. The lights died. Darkness swallowed the room—except for a single bolt of lightning that flashed through the window and struck his apartment's power strip.
Pain shot through his body like fire. Liam screamed, his vision going white, then black.
When he opened his eyes, he was no longer in his apartment.
The room was unfamiliar. Smaller. Cleaner. The air smelled fresh, not like the burnt wires and old takeout he was used to. He sat up quickly—and realized his hands were different.
Slimmer. Younger.
He scrambled to the mirror above the desk. What stared back at him wasn't the scruffy, tired face of a 34-year-old man.
It was him—at 18.
"No. No, no, no…" he whispered. "This can't be real."
He turned on the TV. The news anchor was talking about a brand-new Walkman model. No internet. No smartphones. No Netflix. The date flashed on the corner of the screen.
April 5th, 1992.
Liam's heart pounded. "This… this isn't Earth. Or at least, not my Earth."
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.
"Liam, breakfast is ready!" a soft, warm voice called out.
He opened the door. A woman—mid-thirties, kind eyes—smiled at him. "Are you okay? You look pale."
"I… uh… yeah, just had a weird dream," he said, playing along.
Her name was Elena, his aunt in this world. She and her husband had taken him in after his parents died in a car crash. And he had a sister. Nova—six years old and always drawing comics in her notebook.
This is real, he realized, slowly putting the pieces together. I've been reborn. Or transported. Or something…
He looked at his hands again. He had no money. No status. No power.
But he had something far more valuable.
Knowledge of the future.
Liam Cross had failed once. But this time… he would rise. Not just as a singer. Not just a director. Not just a businessman.
He would become the emperor of creativity itself.
End of Chapter 1