As soon as I reached the door, I noticed a flimsy piece of paper taped to it. A class schedule. Northwood High School, Senior Year.
I ripped it off without thinking, and for a second, the words blurred together like cheap ink on a bad printout. But when it finally hit me, I felt my stomach drop.
Northwood. My school. My building. My halls.
Only this time, I wasn't Marcus Sterling, the guy people whispered about when he walked past. No—this schedule had someone else's name at the top.
Elias Finch.
Eli. Freaking. Finch.
I knew that name. Not well, but enough. He was the kid nobody paid attention to—the smudge in the back row, the guy always picked last in gym, the one you forgot was even in your group project until grading day. I had this blurry memory of him in AP History, sitting two rows behind me, head down, acne scars catching the fluorescent lights. He breathed too loud. He existed too quietly. He was a nobody.
And now? I was him.
The phone buzzed in my hand again—another text from "Mom."
"Don't be late for your shift, Eli. Mr. Henderson's already called once. And take out the trash."
Shift? My stomach twisted. I scrolled down, and another message popped up, this one from "Kevin."
"Dude, if you're late again, Henderson's gonna put you on dish duty for a month. Get your butt to the Wok Stop."
The Wok Stop. That greasy Chinese joint I always sped past in my car, windows up, AC blasting, praying the fried-oil stink didn't follow me home.
Now it wasn't just food. It was my job.
I almost laughed, but the sound came out broken. Marcus Sterling, who had everything lined up for him, was suddenly Elias Finch, the guy mopping floors in a strip mall kitchen.
I wanted to scream. To punch a hole in the wall. But the cracked phone in my hand said 7:57 AM, and Kevin's message meant my shift started at 8.
Two choices:
Ditch it, stay here, maybe figure out how the hell I'd ended up in this body.
Or go. Pretend to be Elias Finch and survive long enough to understand what was happening.
I couldn't risk staying home. Whoever this "Mom" was, she'd notice fast that her son wasn't acting right. And I wasn't about to let anyone lock me in a psych ward.
So I moved.
I yanked a stretched-out hoodie from the doorknob and threw it over my body. It smelled like cheap detergent and… I don't know, sadness? My hands automatically stuffed the cracked phone and thin wallet into the pocket.
The apartment was so small I could see everything from the doorway: a crappy TV, a sink full of dishes, a table with peeling laminate. And sitting at the table, hunched over her coffee, was Elias's mom.
She didn't even look at me. Just muttered, "Don't forget the trash on your way out. And try not to be late this time. We need that money."
That was it. No hug. No smile. No pride. Just survival.
I left with the trash bag slapping against my leg and found Eli's bike chained outside. Not a car, not even a scooter—just a rusted mountain bike with one flat-looking tire.
I groaned, but climbed on anyway. My thighs burned within two blocks. Marcus Sterling's body had been all sharp muscle and efficiency. Elias Finch's body was… let's just say it was not.
By the time I reached the strip mall, it was 8:05. Late. For this.
The Wok Stop's back door looked as depressing as the place smelled—graffiti, dents, and a dumpster buzzing with flies. I shoved the bike against it and stepped inside.
The kitchen slapped me with the smell of frying oil and onions. A guy with neon orange hair and more piercings than sense gave me a look.
"You're late, Finch."
I tried to charm my way out of it, but the words came out in a squeaky, awkward mess. "Yeah, sorry, I—"
"Save it," he cut me off, already annoyed. "Henderson's pissed. Grab an apron. Fryer duty. Let's go."
It stunned me, honestly. Nobody ever dismissed me like that. People usually leaned in when I spoke, waiting to catch every word. Here, I was invisible. Worse—I was an inconvenience.
I asked where the aprons were, trying to sound confident. The orange-haired guy gave me a look like I was the dumbest person alive. "On the hook. Next to the clock. Do you have brain damage, or are you just you?"
I grabbed one. It smelled like grease and regret.
Then I heard the voice I guessed belonged to Henderson, barking orders from behind a flaming wok.
"Finch! Clean the drop station! Don't look at the customers."
"Wait—what?"
"You heard me. Your face is a distraction. Just stay out of sight."
It was said so casually, like stating the weather. Not cruel. Not emotional. Just a fact.
And it broke me in a way nothing else had.
Not only was I stripped of my life, my body, and my reputation, but in this world, my face wasn't just unremarkable. It was something people didn't want to see.
I pulled the stiff apron tighter around me, grabbed the nearest rag, and started scrubbing grease off counters, my head buzzing with one thought:
Marcus Sterling was dead.
Elias Finch was all that was left.
And if I wanted my life back, I'd have to start from rock bottom and find out what happened to my real body.