The hospital room was silent. Too silent.
Alex sat up in the bed. His leg was in a cast, but the pain was distant, like a radio playing in another room. He looked at his hands. They were young hands. Smooth. Strong.
But the mind behind them felt old. Ancient.
"Who am I?" Alex whispered.
The question hung in the air.
He closed his eyes.
Life One.
He saw Danein Blake. The mud. The rain. The broken dreams. A striker who never quite made it. A man who died with regret in his heart and mud in his mouth.
Life Two.
He saw Leon Fischer. The ten-year-old boy who woke up with a second chance. The boy who learned to pass, to move, to think. The boy who became the Professor.
Life Three.
He saw Alex Finch. The Wonderkid. The Ballon d'Or winner. The World Champion. The boy who had everything.
But now... the lines were blurring.
Was he Danein? Was he Leon? Was he Alex?
Or was he just a ghost in a machine?
He looked at the window. It was dark outside. London was sleeping.
