Thomas's eyes snapped open, and immediately, it went wide.
He found himself not in his luxurious office surrounded with monitors filled with lines of codes for the new game project he was working on, instead he was standing on the rail of the bridge.
Looking down was a river, and it was a high jump from where he was standing. Shocked, he immediately climbed down from the railing and took a deep breath and tried to process what was happening to him.
He clearly remembered the flow of events. He was in the board meeting, discussing business and strategic moves that his company should take in order to stay ahead of the competition and after that, he went to continue writing lines of code for the new game that he confidently knew would break the market. He took a break by napping and then when he woke up, he was there on top of the railing of the bridge.
Did something happen when he was napping? Or is someone playing a prank on him using virtual reality? Wait—this is not even a virtual reality. The sensations that he is experiencing right now were too vivid. It's impossible for the latest, even experimental models to achieve such realism.
So if this is not virtual reality then what is this?
Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain throbbing in his head like he was having a migraine. He fell down on one knee and clutched his head with his hands trying to fight the pain but it was worse to the point he couldn't stop himself from groaning loud.
Seconds after, memories from another person started mixing with his own memories. The memories belonged to a man named James Pascual, a 20-year-old game developer based in the Philippines, whose life had spiraled into despair.
Thomas clutched his head tighter as the torrent of James's memories flooded his mind—nights of working on passion projects that never saw the light of day, the long commutes through crowded streets, eating instant noodles for days to save on costs, and the most painful of all: watching the love of his life leave him for a richer man.
Damn… this guy had it rough.
As the pain started to dull, Thomas remained seated on the cold concrete, panting and sweating like he just ran a marathon. He looked down at his hands—calloused, slightly thinner than his own. A quick pat over his chest and face confirmed it: this wasn't his body. This wasn't his life.
He wasn't Thomas Anderson anymore.
He was James Pascual.
And for some insane reason, he had just taken over the life of a man who was seconds away from ending it.
Thomas stood up shakily as he looked around.
Based on the memories of James, he was in the Philippines, and if his memories are right, the date was June 18, 2010. Basically, a return to the past, but it wasn't that simple time travel as James's memories don't have any information about the company named Anderson Gaming Corporation, a popular gaming company based in the US and was founded in the 1970s.
It was founded by his grandfather and virtually every game developer knew the existence of that company, otherwise it doesn't exist here. But later he would confirm that once he returns home, to James's residence, which is not far from here.
Before heading there, he looked down to his new body once more. He pondered momentarily. Is this going to be my new reality? Residing in the body of a complete stranger…
He let out a breath. Well, stranger or not, this "James Pascual" gave up. But he won't. His pride wouldn't allow it. So from now on, he would assume a new identity and accept this new reality, no matter how absurd this is.
The walk back to James's apartment was sobering.
The streets were familiar yet unfamiliar—there was no augmented signage, no AI drones zipping by overhead, no silent electric cars humming through intersections.
Just the sticky heat of a tropical country.
Thomas—now James—navigated the streets as muscle memory kicked in, thanks to the fragmented memories swirling in his head. Twenty minutes later, he arrived at a dilapidated four-story building wedged between a sari-sari store and a pawnshop. Rust coated the gates. The stairs creaked like dying animals with every step he took. When he reached the second floor, he hesitated in front of Room 204.
James's room.
He fished a rusted key from the pocket of his tattered jeans, inserted it into the doorknob, and turned.
The door groaned open, revealing a cramped, poorly lit space that smelled of old socks, spilled beer, and despair.
Jesus.
The place was a mess. Empty beer bottles lay scattered across the stained linoleum floor. Cigarette butts overflowed from a plastic cup near the windowsill. A moldy towel hung limply over a busted electric fan that coughed more than it spun. Crumpled instant noodle wrappers were piled up beside a small desk littered with receipts and… bills.
Thomas stepped inside, careful not to trip over a torn backpack. He shut the door behind him, and it clicked with a finality that echoed louder than expected.
He walked toward the desk and sifted through the pile of envelopes.
"Final Notice: Electricity will be disconnected within 48 hours unless paid."
"Water Supply Disconnection Warning."
"Motorcycle Repossession Order – Defaulted Payments."
"Demand Letter – Unpaid Rent. Vacate the premises within 7 days."
"Internet Disconnection Warning!"
"…He really was about to lose everything," Thomas muttered, sitting on the only chair in the room—rickety and missing a leg, propped up by a stack of pirated DVDs.
He scanned the rest of the room. The mattress on the floor had no sheets, just a threadbare blanket and a single flat pillow. Posters of old games—some faded, some ripped—were taped on the wall. One corner had a tiny desk setup: a bulky CRT monitor, a scratched-up keyboard, and a dusty CPU tower that had probably seen better days in the early 2000s.
This wasn't just poverty.
This was depression made manifest.
Thomas leaned back and exhaled sharply. "No wonder he gave up."
—corporate sabotage, billion-dollar lawsuits, even a data breach that nearly ended his empire in 2054. Yet here he was, with the past in front of him like a clean slate hidden under the grime.
And in this squalor, this forgotten room in Manila, he felt something he hadn't in years.
Hunger.
Not for food—but for the grind. For the thrill of the build. Of starting from zero.
"I would fucking create a gaming empire in this world! And live the life I experienced in my past life."
He stood up, brushed off the chair dust from his pants, and faced the dusty old PC.
"Alright, let's see what kind of junk I'm working with."
He reached down, pressed the power button.
The CPU roared like a dying animal, fans whirring like they were trying to lift the entire case off the ground. The monitor flickered, buzzed, and finally lit up with a dated Windows XP startup screen.
Thomas smirked.
"It's not much… but it's something."
He cracked his knuckles.
"Let's get to work."