Jack Sullivan's life ended on a Chicago street, under a sky spitting sleet and a delivery truck that didn't see the red light. He'd just clocked out from the Regal Cinema, his usher's vest reeking of popcorn and despair, his feet dragging through another double shift. Twenty-seven years old, a film school dropout, still dreaming of directing while mopping soda stains. The truck's horn blared, headlights flared, and Jack's last thought was a bitter figures before the world went dark.
Now, he was awake. Or something like it.
Jack blinked against a sliver of sunlight slicing through warped blinds, his head pounding like he'd headbanged through a Metallica concert. He was sprawled on a sagging couch in an apartment that looked like it had lost a fight with a wrecking ball. Mildew stained the walls, a leaky faucet dripped like a metronome, and a stack of unopened bills teetered on a coffee table.
This wasn't his Rogers Park shoebox. No "Pulp Fiction" poster, no half-dead fern his ex forgot to take. Just this world's Jack Sullivan's life, wearing his face.
"What the actual hell?" Jack muttered, sitting up. His reflection in a cracked mirror showed the same scruffy beard, same blue eyes, same faded Blackhawks hoodie—exactly the same as the guy who got flattened in Chicago. Twenty-seven years old, no different. Memories crashed in like a badly edited montage: another Jack Sullivan, same name, same face, a washed-up director in this dump of a world.
A grainy short film, "The Last Bus", a pretentious mess about a guy and a ghost on a Greyhound. It flopped hard—critics shredded it, calling it "self-indulgent drivel."
This Jack was a joke, drowning in debt, with no friends, no family, no nothing.
The memories settled, vivid and heavy, like he'd lived them himself.
He snorted, leaning back. "Reborn, huh? Big deal."
He'd read those novels—guy dies, gets a second shot, cries about his old life. Not him. His old life sucked: dead-end job, no girlfriend, no legacy. Nothing to miss, no one to mourn him. If this was a do-over, fine. He'd take it and run. "Same crap, different universe," he said, smirking.
This world felt familiar—same cars, same internet, same lousy coffee—but the details were off.
No "Titanic", no "Star Wars", no "Before Sunrise". Hollywood here churned out brain-dead flicks like "ThunderSquad" and "Love Puppy". People were different too—his old boss didn't exist, his ex was a ghost. It was his world, remixed, like a bootleg DVD with the wrong subtitles.
A phone buzzed on the table—an off-brand slab that screamed cheap, just like this Jack's life.
The screen flashed Landlord: Pay Up.
Jack grimaced, the memory of unpaid rent already nagging from this world's baggage. "Yeah, yeah, I know I'm broke," he muttered, tossing the phone down.
Final Notice: $1200 Due or Eviction glared from the bills on the table.
Same old mess, just a new address.
Ding!
A cold, robotic voice cut through his skull: "Sign-In System activated. Claim your daily reward."
Jack froze, his breath catching. "Okay, that's new," he said, pinching his arm. Pain—sharp, real.
A golden interface flickered before his eyes, like a video game HUD or some sci-fi fever dream.
Rows of glowing chests pulsed, one labeled Today's Reward in shimmering script.
He squinted, half-expecting it to vanish like a bad jump scare, but it stayed, steady as the drip-drip of the faucet.
"No way," he said, voice cracking. "This is "Tron" crap."
His heart raced, eyes gleaming as he stared at the chests. "What's in there? Cash?Superpowers? Am I about to punch planets like some comic book god?" He cackled, adrenaline spiking, and jabbed at the glowing chest.
The interface shimmered, gold light bursting out, painting his face in warm glow.
A virtual item materialized on the screen—not a physical book, but a digital icon, shimmering with ornate text: "The Complete Works of William Shakespeare".
A notification popped up in bold:Congratulations! You have obtained "The Complete Works of William Shakespeare"!
Jack blinked, jaw dropping. "What the—Shakespeare?" He leaned closer, half-laughing, half-choking. "Is this a joke? Is it, like, a secret ninja manual with that name?" He tapped the icon. Instantly, a system window unfolded:
Item: "The Complete Works of William Shakespeare". A renowned collection of plays and sonnets. Master these works, and their words will flow from your tongue! Upon use, the full text will be permanently etched into your memory.
[Use] [Exit]
Jack's face fell. "You gotta be shitting me." Shakespeare? Actual Shakespeare?
Not some hidden spellbook or ancient martial scroll, but a dusty old book?
He googled "William Shakespeare" on his phone—nothing. No hits, no Wikipedia, no high school English class torture. This world had no Shakespeare.
Great, but what was he supposed to do with this?
"Thanks, System. Real useful," he growled. "I'm not directing "Hamlet"in this dump."
Fuming, he hit [Exit] and jabbed at another chest.
The system flashed: Daily sign-in allows only one chest. Please try again after 00:00 reset.
"Screw you!"
Jack snapped,slamming the coffee table. The bills wobbled mockingly.
He glared at the open chest's icon, "The Complete Works of William Shakespeare"taunting him. With a grunt, he hit [Use].
A blaze of gold light erupted from the virtual interface, slamming into his forehead. The room went silent, the glow fading like a dream.
Jack staggered, clutching his head. Then it hit—words, thousands of them, flooding his brain like a tidal wave.
To be or not to be, Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?, All the world's a stage. Plays, sonnets, every syllable carved into his memory, clear as if he'd memorized them for years. He could recite "Macbeth" backward, word-perfect.
"What the actual hell?" he muttered, shaking his head.
"This is useless! I'm not in some Renaissance fair!" If it had been "Harry Potter", he could've sold it—this world had no Rowling either. But Shakespeare? "Where's the poetry slam? I'll win first place," he sneered, sarcasm dripping.He paced, eyes catching a flier on the fridge: Indie Film Fest, Last Chance to Submit! Below it, a Post-it in his handwriting: Pitch to Marty, 3 PM tomorrow. Marty—Martin Kessler, a low-rent producer who'd laughed off "The Last Bus" but still took Jack's calls, probably out of pity.
The memory of Marty's smug grin made Jack's jaw clench. Another shot at pitching, another chance to bomb.
He dug through a drawer, finding a crumpled card: Jack Sullivan, Director, Midnight Static Productions.
This world's Jack was a failure, just like him.
The phone buzzed again: Landlord: Pay by Friday or you're out.
Jack's stomach churned. He knew the stakes—$1200 or the street, same as the memories screaming in his head.
He grabbed the laptop, googling "movies." The results were a parade of schlock: "ThunderSquad", a cyborg cop snooze; "Love Puppy", a rom-com with a talking dog.
This world's Hollywood was a soulless machine, its indie scene a pit of wannabes like him. But that gap—it was his shot. Something real, something raw, could break through.
Jack sat, glaring at the system's fading interface.
"My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun," he muttered, mocking the sonnets now stuck in his head.
But an idea sparked. A low-budget romance, like "Before Sunrise"—two people, one night, a city backdrop. He could shoot it cheap, weave in Shakespeare's words for lyrical dialogue no one here knew.
It'd feel fresh, original. If he nailed the pitch to Marty, he could save his apartment.
He grabbed a notebook, sketching a scene: two strangers on a pier, stars above, words weaving love from nothing.
"Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments," he scribbled, picturing a soft-focus shot, hands brushing. His pulse quickened. This could work.
Jack stepped outside, the LA air thick with exhaust and ambition. A neon billboard for "ThunderSquad" loomed, its cyborg hero as bland as oatmeal.
He ducked into a coffee shop, the barista—a lanky guy named Diego—eyeing him warily. "You're that "Last Bus" guy, right? Heard it tanked."
"Thanks for the reminder," Jack said, ordering a black coffee. "Got anything stronger? Like hope?"
Diego chuckled, sliding him a cup. "Word is you're pitching to Marty Kessler tomorrow. Good luck, man. That guy's a shark."
Jack nodded, clutching his notebook.
The system's chest glowed faintly in his mind, a nagging mystery.
Was it real? A glitch in his brain?
Whatever it was, he'd use it.
Shakespeare or not, he was done being a nobody.
He'd make this world beg for his director's cut.