A year had passed since that night—the night Jonathan had run in despair toward the X building, only to lay his hand on the steel door after the clock had already ticked past the appointed moment. Two seconds. Just two seconds, and his entire life veered into another direction.
Every morning was the same. Jonathan awoke to the rasping alarm of his old clock. Six-thirty. Pale light slipped through the thin curtain, carving a diagonal stripe across the wooden floor. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and lingered at the edge of the bed, not to rest but to stall, as though dragging his existence a little further along. It had become a ritual: every morning, the same question echoed in his head. If I had arrived two seconds earlier, what would have become of me?
He leaned back against the bedframe, catching his reflection in the small mirror on the desk. His once-bright blond hair had grown dry and unkempt; the dark hollows beneath his eyes seemed etched in ink. In that instant, he felt less like Jonathan than a faded shadow, drifting through this cramped apartment.
Breakfast was as bland as the days themselves: a slice of stale bread, a cup of instant coffee. He ate in silence—no television, no music. Only the ticking of the clock and the muted roar of traffic outside. Sometimes he unlocked his phone, scrolling through headlines, but the words slid past his eyes without leaving a trace.
Then came the ritual of departure. He shrugged on his coat, left the apartment, and merged with the stream of bodies rushing along the street. Each face carried urgency, vitality, yet Jonathan felt as though the entire city was a grand performance where everyone played their part—everyone but him. He was the spectator trapped inside the stage.
The company building rose ahead, a glass tower that caught the sun and gleamed like an artificial monolith. Jonathan entered, took the elevator to the twelfth floor, and settled at his desk. The computer screen glared back at him: spreadsheets sprawling endlessly, hollow emails piling in. His work was neither difficult nor engaging—data entry, checking, reports sent into the void. Day after day, month after month, without change.
Coworkers would stop by his desk to chat. They spoke of families, trending shows, upcoming trips. Jonathan smiled politely, nodding, occasionally offering a word or two. But his mind was elsewhere. Always, in the recesses of thought, the steel door loomed. The moment he had pounded on it until his knuckles split, the cries swallowed by the night, the silence of being shut out.
Time in the office crawled, viscous as sap dripping from a tree. The wall clock advanced in ponderous ticks, each second like an erasure of the chance he had missed, a reminder of the hollow present that remained.
When the workday ended, he followed the same path home: the station, the crowded street, the narrow stairwell, and at last the apartment's door. Once it closed behind him, the outside world vanished.
Some nights he stood on the balcony, gazing at the lit-up streets below. Couples strolled together, laughter floating upward. Jonathan wondered: Perhaps in another world, another Jonathan had arrived in time, and now walked among them, his life radiant.
He had once tried to date again. A coworker introduced him to a gentle girl with a soft smile. They shared dinner, speaking of hobbies, of work. Yet when she laughed, he glimpsed Elena—Elena from years past, who had slipped away when he lacked the courage to hold her. His chest tightened, and the evening dwindled into silence. There were no second attempts.
On weekends, friends invited him to bars. He went, sat among them, heard their stories and their joy. But inwardly he felt like a man outside the circle, his hands unable to reach in. Sometimes, when the alcohol loosened tongues, one would ask:
"Jonathan, you look kind of down these days. What's on your mind?"
He would give a faint smile. "Nothing."
But within, he wanted to shout: I'm thinking about the door! I'm thinking about those cursed two seconds!
At night, he often lay awake. The ceiling loomed, and memory replayed: fists slamming against steel, sweat and blood, his voice cracking into a hoarse cry. Dreams sometimes carried him back to that moment, only this time the door creaked open, light pouring through, calling his name. He rushed forward—and the light vanished, leaving him jolting awake in the dark, heart pounding.
A year stretched on like that, repetition without relief. His life became a monotone, a single note held endlessly, without climax or resolution. To others he was alive, working, present. But inwardly, Jonathan had died the night he was late.
And perhaps the cruelest part was this: death never arrived clearly, closure never came. He had not been chosen, nor rejected. He had simply been left behind. That was punishment enough.
On some evenings, Jonathan's route took him past the X building. It still stood there, stark and indifferent, as though it had never opened for anyone. He would pause, gaze upward, and that old ache would resurface. The steel door, once slick with his blood, now sealed in silence, unmoved by all his desperate knocking.
He lingered, then turned away, burden pressing heavier on his chest. Inside, the regret still smoldered—never flaring, never extinguishing. A year had passed, and Jonathan remained who he was that night: the man who came too late, the man forgotten by fate.
And slowly, he began to ask himself… would there ever be a second chance?
Jonathan continued his life in its familiar monotony, walking each day as though time itself had no weight, leaving nothing behind but boredom and exhaustion. His small apartment, tedious work, and meaningless encounters—all remained unchanged, silent enough that outsiders could hardly imagine the struggle he carried in his chest. He went to work, ate lunch alone, and returned in the evenings to stare out at the bustling streets without a sound reaching his empty soul.
Day after day, Jonathan forced the memories of the steel door and those fatal two seconds into a corner of his mind. He told himself he had accepted his fate, that there would be no second chance, and life would continue uniformly, endlessly. But fate, as always, refused to leave him in peace.
One late afternoon, Jonathan walked home with his colleague, Satoshi Ferin, bright, energetic, and the very opposite of his own quiet demeanor. They chatted lightly, discussing trivial matters: celebrity news, a new restaurant near the office, small personal anecdotes. Jonathan smiled politely, trying to blend into the conversation, but his mind wandered, like a shadow following Satoshi's radiant light.
Suddenly, on a quiet corner of the street, the reflection of a single envelope caught Jonathan's eye. He stopped, and his gaze fell upon something terrifyingly familiar: a letter inviting someone to the God Selection Game. His heart raced uncontrollably. He stepped closer, but as he approached, his eyes froze on the name written on the envelope.
It was not Kin Jonathan. Not him. It was… Satoshi Ferin.
The world seemed to pause. Jonathan stood stiffly, fists clenched, blood pounding in his ears. He looked at Satoshi, who laughed and chatted, completely unaware of the revelation, and a storm of emotions erupted inside Jonathan: astonishment, envy, fear, and a primal urge to steal the opportunity for himself.
He stepped slowly, as if walking on ice that could crack at any moment, careful not to reveal his presence. He crouched, picked up the envelope, feeling its icy surface like a fragment of someone else's destiny. His mind spun. If he kept this letter, if he deceived Satoshi, he could have a second chance. But at what cost? Trust, friendship, conscience?
Jonathan's steps faltered, his heart torn in every direction. Regret for the two seconds lost long ago surged violently. Now, the opportunity no longer belonged to him—it belonged to Satoshi. Should he repeat the mistake of his past? Or let this path belong to someone else, even if it means unbearable pain?
The world around him blurred; only Satoshi and the envelope remained sharply in focus. Every sound felt distant, every thought like a thousand knives stabbing his chest. He remembered Elena, the steel door, the blood, the sweat, the hoarse scream—each memory pressing on the raw edges of his pain.
Jonathan exhaled deeply, shoulders slumping. He looked at Satoshi, still engrossed in his story, completely oblivious. A pang of sorrow hit him: if Satoshi stepped into the game, would he understand the magnitude of the opportunity, the chance that Jonathan had once craved? Would he end up regretting it, staring at a door that would never open?
A long silence stretched between them. Jonathan held the envelope but did not move, did not speak a word. His heart tugged him—pain, longing, yet also filled with resolve. He realized that claiming this chance for himself would not be victory, but cruelty, a betrayal of another. He lowered his hands and let the envelope fall to the sidewalk, allowing Satoshi to continue the path Jonathan had once longed for.
That moment—the fear, regret, and even compassion—intertwined, leaving Jonathan's chest heavy but strangely calm. He watched Satoshi bend to pick up the letter, a flicker of surprise crossing his face, while Jonathan smiled faintly, silently.
Night descended gradually, streetlights casting golden beams on the empty avenues. Jonathan paused for a moment, drew a deep breath, and began walking home. In his chest was emptiness, yes, but also an understanding: life does not always grant second chances, yet sometimes, true choice lies not in seizing, but in surrendering.
His footsteps echoed along the pavement, a steady rhythm, like a drum marking a new journey. A journey not to seek glory or power, but to learn acceptance, to walk amid regret, and to face oneself.
And yet, unseen above the city, in the depths of the twilight sky, a pair of eyes glittered with amusement. A divine presence, neither malevolent nor benevolent, lingered invisibly, observing Jonathan with keen interest. Every heartbeat, every choice, every pang of moral conflict—these small, human tremors entertained the being immensely. The god smiled subtly, savoring the unfolding story of a mortal who refused to betray his conscience, even at the cost of desire. In that silence, Jonathan's every step became a spectacle, a delightful prelude to whatever fate this observer had yet to orchestrate.