The hospital room hummed with a sterile quiet, a stark contrast to the cacophony that had once defined Allen Snow's existence. The year, 1940, felt like a cruel joke, a cosmic rewind from the sleek, digital hum of 2025. His eyelids fluttered, heavy, resisting the pull of consciousness. A faint, almost forgotten scent of antiseptic pricked his nostrils, a memory from a life that wasn't his, yet was. He remembered the blinding flash, the screech of tires, the sickening crumple of metal. Not this life's parents, but his own, from the future. The irony was a bitter taste on his tongue.
A low groan escaped his lips, a sound foreign to his own ears. His body, small and frail, felt like a cage. He pushed against the lingering darkness, a desperate need to orient himself, to understand. He was Allen Snow now, a child, barely thirteen, and the world had reshuffled its deck. A shadow detached itself from the wall beside his bed. Fink Quinn, the butler. The name registered, a piece of this new, unwelcome reality. Quinn's face, etched with lines of worry, hovered over him. His eyes, the color of aged whiskey, held a flicker of something Allen couldn't quite decipher—grief, perhaps, or a deep, unsettling pity. Quinn's uniform, impeccably pressed despite the circumstance, spoke of a meticulous order that Allen suddenly craved. "Master Allen?" Quinn's voice, a low rumble, seemed to vibrate through the bed frame. "You're awake." Allen blinked, his vision slowly focusing on the intricate patterns of the ceiling.
The plaster was old, cracked in places. Not the smooth, minimalist design of his apartment in 2025. He tried to speak, but only a dry rasp emerged. "Water," he managed, the single word a monumental effort. Quinn moved with an almost preternatural grace, a glass appearing in his hand as if conjured from thin air. He held it to Allen's lips, supporting his head with a gentle hand. The cool liquid trickled down his throat, a small comfort in a world that felt entirely alien. "How do you feel?" Quinn's brow furrowed, a silent question in his gaze. Allen swallowed, the water bringing a semblance of clarity. He felt… small. Fragile. The memories of his past life, the algorithms, the market projections, the exhilarating rush of a successful hostile takeover—they swirled, a phantom limb aching for its former power. "Parents?" The word was a whisper, a test. He already knew the answer, felt it in the hollow ache in his chest, a grief that wasn't truly his, but one he had inherited. Quinn's jaw tightened. He averted his gaze, focusing on a spot just beyond Allen's shoulder. "The accident was… severe, Master Allen. A motorcar collision on the Palisades Parkway. Your mother and father… they did not survive." His voice, though controlled, carried a tremor of sorrow. Allen closed his eyes. The confirmation, though expected, still landed like a physical blow. A strange, detached sorrow washed over him.
He knew these people only through photographs and hushed conversations with nurses in the brief moments of semi-consciousness. Yet, they were his parents now. Their death, the catalyst for his new reality. "How long?" Allen's voice was stronger now, a faint echo of the decisive tone he'd cultivated in boardrooms. "Three weeks, Master Allen. Three weeks you've been… resting." Quinn's eyes met his, a silent plea for understanding. "The doctors were concerned. A significant head injury." Allen touched his temple, a tender spot beneath the bandages. He remembered the impact, the sudden jolt, but it was from a different crash, a different body. This body, this life, was a blank slate, albeit one with a very inconvenient history. "I need to get up." He pushed, a surge of adrenaline momentarily overcoming the weakness.
His muscles screamed in protest. Quinn placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "Not yet, Master Allen. The doctor insists on bed rest for at least another day. Your recovery is paramount." A sigh escaped Allen's lips. Patience had never been his strong suit. In his previous life, he had moved with the speed of light, data flowing through his mind, decisions made in fractions of a second. This slow, agonizing pace was torture. "Who's in charge of… everything?" Allen asked, the question laced with an urgency that surprised even himself. The Snow family, from what he gathered, was wealthy, well-established. He needed to understand the landscape, the chessboard he'd been thrown onto. Quinn hesitated, glancing towards the door. "Mr. Howard Lane, your father's solicitor, has been handling immediate affairs. He's been a constant presence, along with Mr. Antonio Stern, the family auditor." Just as Quinn finished, the door creaked open. A man with a stern, angular face and spectacles perched on his nose entered, followed by another, rounder man with a perpetually worried expression. Howard Lane, Allen surmised, the solicitor. Antonio Stern, the auditor.
They looked like characters from a period drama, stiff collars and somber suits. "He's awake!" Lane's voice, sharp and precise, cut through the quiet. He strode to the bedside, his gaze assessing, almost clinical. "Master Allen, a miracle. Truly." Stern, a handkerchief already dabbing at his brow, offered a watery smile. "Thank heavens, young man. We were all so terribly worried." Allen studied them, his mind already dissecting their expressions, their body language. Lane exuded authority, a man accustomed to command. Stern, on the other hand, seemed to radiate anxiety, a nervous energy that hummed beneath his polite demeanor. "Mr. Lane, Mr. Stern," Allen acknowledged, his voice still a little hoarse. "Quinn informs me you've been managing things." Lane nodded, adjusting his spectacles.
"Indeed, Master Allen. Your father, bless his soul, was a meticulous man. His will, though naturally a somber document, is quite comprehensive." "The will," Allen repeated, a flicker of interest igniting within him. This was where the real game began. "It names you, of course, as the primary beneficiary," Lane continued, pulling a thick leather-bound document from his briefcase. "And also designates Mr. Quinn as your guardian until you reach the age of majority." Allen glanced at Quinn, whose expression remained impassive. Guardian. A strange concept, a role he hadn't anticipated. He was, after all, a man in his prime, trapped in a child's body. "And the estate?" Allen pressed, his eyes fixed on Lane. "The family business?" Stern wrung his handkerchief. "The Snow Corporation, Master Allen. A formidable enterprise.
Textiles, primarily. But your father had recently diversified into… other ventures." "Other ventures?" Allen's mind raced. Textiles in 1940. A stable, if unspectacular, industry. But 'other ventures'… that was where the opportunity lay. The future, with its technological boom, was a goldmine waiting to be tapped. He had the knowledge, the foresight. He just needed the capital, and the control. Lane cleared his throat. "Your father was a man of vision, Master Allen. He invested heavily in a new form of communication. What he called 'radio wave technology.' And also, quite boldly, in early computing concepts." Allen's breath hitched. Radio wave technology. Computing. This wasn't just a textile fortune. This was a nascent tech empire, waiting to be born. His heartbeat quickened, a thrill surging through him. This wasn't a punishment; it was an opportunity. A chance to build something far greater than he ever had in his previous life, with a century of foresight as his weapon. "Computing concepts?" Allen's voice was barely a whisper, a mixture of disbelief and exhilaration.
"What kind of concepts?" Stern shifted uncomfortably. "Experimental, Master Allen. Very experimental. Your father poured considerable funds into a research team. It's… not yet profitable, I'm afraid. A drain on resources, some might say." Lane interjected, a defensive edge to his tone. "Your father believed in its potential, Mr. Stern. He saw a future where these machines could revolutionize information processing." Allen's gaze sharpened. "He was right." The words slipped out, an involuntary affirmation. He had seen that future, lived in it. Lane and Stern exchanged a bewildered glance. Quinn, however, simply watched Allen, a faint, almost imperceptible tilt to his head. "Right?" Stern repeated, his brow furrowed. "But it's all theoretical, Master Allen. Complex equations, enormous vacuum tubes. It's hardly practical." "Practicality is a matter of perspective, Mr. Stern," Allen countered, a flicker of his old self, the ruthless financier, emerging. "And timing." He pushed himself higher in the bed, ignoring the protests of his body. "I want to see the books. All of them. The textile division, the investments, the 'experimental ventures.' Everything." Lane's eyes widened slightly. "Master Allen, you've just awoken from a coma. Perhaps a period of rest…?" "Rest can wait," Allen interrupted, his gaze firm, unwavering. "My father's legacy, and by extension, my future, depends on understanding these assets. Now." A tense silence filled the room. Lane, accustomed to dealing with grieving children or complacent heirs, seemed momentarily thrown. Stern wrung his handkerchief harder, his eyes darting between Lane and Allen.
Quinn, ever the silent observer, remained still, a statue of quiet vigilance. "Very well, Master Allen," Lane finally conceded, his voice losing some of its earlier confidence. "We can begin with an overview tomorrow. Mr. Stern has prepared summaries of the more pressing financial concerns." "Summaries are insufficient," Allen stated, his voice gaining strength. "I want the raw data. Ledgers, contracts, research proposals. Everything." He needed to immerse himself, to rebuild his mental database, to understand the intricacies of this new economic landscape. Stern gulped. "The raw data? But… that would be quite extensive, Master Allen. Volumes of material." "Then I'll read volumes," Allen replied, a steely resolve in his eyes. "I have time now, don't I? All the time in the world." He looked out the window, at the distant skyline of New York, a city on the cusp of an unimaginable future. His future. He had been given a second chance, a century-long head start. And he intended to use it. The game had changed, but the player remained. And this time, he wouldn't just play; he would dominate. "Mr. Quinn," Allen turned to the butler, a new directive in his voice. "I'm hungry. And I want a newspaper. The *New York Times*, today's edition, and an archive of the past three weeks." Quinn inclined his head, a subtle shift in his expression that Allen interpreted as a grudging respect. "Immediately, Master Allen." He moved towards the door, his movements fluid and silent. Lane and Stern exchanged another glance, a mixture of surprise and unease etched on their faces.
The child in the bed was not what they expected. Not the grief-stricken, helpless orphan. This was something else entirely. Something sharp, something calculating. "Master Allen," Lane began, his voice regaining some of its professional composure. "There are also… matters of the will concerning your personal care. Your father stipulated certain… conditions." Allen raised an eyebrow. "Conditions?" "Yes. He was very particular about your upbringing, your education. He believed in a rigorous, structured environment." Lane paused, choosing his words carefully. "He also made provisions for your eventual marriage, a union he hoped would strengthen the Snow family's standing." Allen almost snorted. Marriage? In 1940? He, who had avoided serious relationships in his previous life, now had his future dictated by a dead man's will. The absurdity of it all was almost comical. "We'll discuss the finer points of my 'upbringing' and 'eventual marriage' after I've reviewed the financial state of the Snow Corporation," Allen stated, his voice flat, leaving no room for argument. "For now, I need information. And a clear understanding of what I'm inheriting. And what I can *do* with it." Stern fidgeted, his eyes darting towards the door as if seeking an escape. "The corporation is quite solvent, Master Allen. Your father was a shrewd businessman." "Shrewd, but perhaps not forward-thinking enough in some areas," Allen mused, more to himself than to them. He knew the future.
He knew the companies that would rise, the technologies that would transform the world. He had an unfair advantage, a cheat code for reality. "Mr. Stern, Mr. Lane," Allen continued, his gaze sweeping over them, a nascent authority in his youthful eyes. "Consider this my first directive. Compile everything. Every last scrap of paper related to the Snow Corporation's finances and investments. I want it all delivered to the estate. And I want it ready by the time I'm discharged." Lane's mouth opened, then closed. He clearly had objections, questions, but the look in Allen's eyes seemed to stifle them. This wasn't a child they were speaking to. This was someone else entirely. Someone who understood power, and how to wield it. "As you wish, Master Allen," Lane finally managed, his voice devoid of its earlier confidence.
He bowed slightly, a gesture of deference. Stern, looking utterly overwhelmed, simply nodded, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. They backed out of the room, leaving Allen alone once more. The hum of the hospital room seemed less sterile now, more like a quiet anticipation. He was a ghost in a child's body, a man from the future dropped into the past. His parents were gone, leaving him with a fortune and a future he could reshape. The world of 1940, with its nascent technologies and untapped potential, lay before him, a vast, unwritten ledger. And Allen Snow, reborn, was ready to write his own damn history.