Pain was the first thing he knew—a cold, sharp ache burrowed deep in his chest, as if glass splinters had lodged against his very soul. The world flickered in and out of shape. One moment, there was only the echo of screeching tires, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, the startling clarity of headlights. Then, oblivion.
Except… it wasn't.
Because now there was a different kind of pain—a throbbing dullness at his temple, a rawness in his throat. A stench of sweat and whiskey clung to him like a shroud. He struggled to breathe. His lungs were on fire, and the air itself felt heavier, denser, thick with something sour. He tried to move his arms, flush with panic, but his body responded sluggishly, each movement unfamiliar—as if he was fighting against heavy current.
He opened his eyes.
Light stabbed into his skull. Faint yellow, wavering—lamplight. Not the sanitized fluorescence of his office. No, this light was weak, broken by dust motes swirling in the stagnant air.
He lay on a rotting sofa that reeked of years-worth of mildew and secrets. He blinked, vision swimming as if submerged. Shadows darted at the edge of his sight, forming the shape of a woman—slender, silent, pressed into the farthest corner of the room, watching him with terror-widened eyes.
He pressed his hands to his face—ridges of calluses, scarred knuckles, the hard bite of split skin. He sat up shakily, a sharp jolt radiating from his ribs. His head spun, but memories pressed close: a city skyline, boardroom glass, laughter hollow and brittle, an accident, and then—
The present. The terrible, reeking, aching present.
"Wh—where am I?" His own voice startled him. It was low, gravelly, with an edge of slurred violence—a voice that belonged to someone he'd never wanted to know.
The woman flinched, her eyes flicking to his fists. She was young—far too young for the lines etched into her skin. Bruises colored her cheekbones. Her dress, once cream-colored, was stained and patched. She pressed herself further into the shadows, hands trembling around a threadbare blanket.
He tried to recall his name. For an endless heartbeat, nothing came but fractured mirror images. Then, like a jagged stone skipping across water, the answer struck: Charles. Charles Everett. CEO. Visionary. Dead.
No. That wasn't true anymore.
He lurched to his feet, every joint protesting, and glimpsed a battered mirror across the cluttered room.
His reflection stopped his heart.
The man who stared back was a stranger—a hulking brute with tangled hair, jaw flecked with stubble, eyes bloodshot and storm-dark. His lip was cut. One cheekbone was swollen. His shirt, too tight around the shoulders, was buttoned wrong and stained. Cheap. His every feature told the same story: a man battered by years of whiskey and rage, muscles earned from labor rather than leisure, eyes dulled by lost dreams.
He reeled in horror—stepping back, nearly tripping over an empty whiskey bottle that clattered across the cracked floorboards. The woman—Eleanor, a sound deep in his subconscious whispered—let out a frightened gasp.
A memory tore through him: knuckles slamming into wallboard, her voice pleading from the next room, accusing shouts, the sound of glass breaking, and—god, her sobbing—pitiful, small.
He staggered away from the mirror, sweat cold against his skin. "No," he muttered, voice raw. "This can't—this isn't right."
But everything, every bitten tongue, every ache in his bones—every bruise on her brow—insisted otherwise.
His heart hammered. With shaking hands, he grabbed at the nearest thing—a faded newspaper lying on the planked table. He scanned the date: 1934.
He let out a breathless, rasping laugh. Outside, rain lashed against warped windowpanes. Distant thunder rumbled like the world itself was cracking.
"I'm dead," he whispered. "I'm supposed to be dead."
He turned, forcing himself to meet Eleanor's unblinking eyes. Guilt roared inside him—guilt alien and yet somehow his own. In another life, she might have smiled at him. Here, she seemed carved from ice, ready to flinch at the slightest movement.
He took a slow, careful breath. "I—I won't hurt you," he managed, voice choking. The words sounded absurd in this mouth, this voice—a promise made on shattered ground.
She said nothing. Tears shimmered in her lashes, but she did not cry.
He looked around—at the threadbare curtains, the sagging furniture, the peeling wallpaper. His new life was a mausoleum to despair.
He tried to recall her—Eleanor, his wife now, though he did not deserve her. Their courtship: stolen glances, timid laughter, her hand in his. Then, memories stained with blackness—fury, punishment, shattered promises. He remembered her scream. Her silence afterward. No wonder her knuckles were always white, her footsteps wary.
But now… now he carried the weight of two lives, the knowledge of everything he had been, and everything this man—his new shell—had done.
He knelt, feeling the rough wood bite into his knees. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
She didn't reply. But in the quiver of her shoulders, in the tiny flicker of confusion in her eyes, he saw something he'd never known in his long life of boardrooms and battles: hope.
He turned, pushing himself up with fresh resolve. He would do better. He would remake the ruins he'd woken into. He would fight for a chance to undo the scars—on this world, and on her.
The storm battered the windows, but he faced the darkness, unflinching, heart burning with the vow that tomorrow—tomorrow he would begin.
To be continued....