Chapter 1 - Chapter 1: Wake Up, Fight Back

The spreadsheet blurred into a blood-red haze—Eliott Hart's last memory before the heart attack hit. He'd been 27, hunched over his desk at 4 a.m., the finance firm's quarterly report still glowing on the screen. His mom's old sketchbook, stolen from her closet years ago, was crumpled under his elbow—its pages filled with half-drawn workbenches, smudged with coffee stains and tears. He could still hear his dad's voice from that morning: "Quit wasting time on doodles. Your mom needs you to be responsible." And his mom's whisper, weak from chemo: "Don't let them turn you into someone you're not." Then the pain—sharp, crushing—had stolen everything.​He gasped awake, sweat soaking his dorm bed sheets. The pine candle on his desk stung his nose—Jake had bought it for him last Christmas, joking it "smelled like ambition." His sketchbook lay open on the desk, crisp and unmarked, the pencil still balanced on a page of workbench blueprints. He grabbed the calendar off the wall: June 12, 2018. 21 years old. Three days before he'd panic-delete the Munich internship app after his dad yelled, "Design won't pay for chemo." Two weeks before he'd sign the finance contract, his hand shaking so hard Ethan had snickered. One lifetime before he'd die staring at a spreadsheet, wondering if his mom would've been proud of the "responsible" son he'd become.​His phone buzzed. The number was burned into his brain—Ethan, his dad's "friend" at the firm, pretending to be a classmate from Intro to Design. Past life flash: Ethan sliding the employment contract across the table, pen tapping it like it was a joke. "Design's for losers, Hart. Grow up. Your mom's not gonna live forever—you need a real job."​Eliott's thumb hovered over the screen for two seconds, then he deleted the text and hit "Block." He swung his legs over the bed, knees knocking the desk—sending a half-empty soda can clattering. The sound jolted another memory: his 25th birthday, alone in his apartment, drinking the same cheap soda while his dad left a voicemail: "Ethan says you're still keeping that stupid sketchbook. Grow up."​He dug out his laptop, the screen flickering to life. The Munich internship application stared back—half-filled, the "Personal Statement" box blank. He typed so fast his fingers cramped, knuckles white: "My folding workbench uses aerospace-grade aluminum—light enough to carry in a backpack, strong enough to hold 200 pounds. It folds to the size of a textbook. I didn't design it for 'experience.' I designed it for the kid who camps with his dad and needs a table to fix a bike. For the college student who works out of a dorm room. For anyone who's ever had to make do with less. I want to build things that matter. Munich's where I can do that." He hit "Submit" before his throat closed up—before the voice of his past self, the scared 21-year-old who'd deleted this app once, could whisper "what if."​"Dude, you're up at 6 a.m.?" Jake stumbled in, rubbing his eyes, a half-eaten pop-tart in one hand. He froze when he saw Eliott hunched over the laptop, then noticed the prototype parts spread across the desk: aluminum rods, springs, a half-sanded wooden top. "And you're… building? Not moping about your dad's 'stable future' speech?"​Eliott held up the prototype frame—glued but not yet bolted, still a little wobbly, but real. "I'm not skipping the critique. I'm not taking the finance job. And I'm not letting anyone—" his throat tightened, thinking of his mom's last smile, "—let anyone make me waste this life. But I need help. This frame's still loose, and I forgot to sand the edges."​Jake's sleepiness vanished. He tossed the pop-tart wrapper in the trash and grabbed a sanding block from his own desk—he'd borrowed it for a woodworking project last semester, never returned. "Hell yes. Let's fix this thing. And if your dad calls? I'll tell him you're 'busy being not a loser.'" He winked, then nodded at the sketchbook. "You gonna show Hale the camping stove too? That thing's dope—way better than Tyler's 'look at my expensive chair' garbage."​Eliott grinned. For the first time in years, he didn't feel alone in this.​They hit the design studio at 7:30, Jake carrying a toolbox and Eliott hauling the prototype. The door was locked, but Eliott knew the janitor's key was under the mat—past life: he'd snuck in here once, after his mom's first chemo session, and cried into his sketchbook until Hale found him. The old man hadn't said anything—just handed him a hot cocoa and sat with him.​They set up on the front table, the only one with a power outlet for the drill. Jake sanded the wooden top while Eliott tightened the springs on the workbench legs, his fingers still a little shaky but steady. By 8:15, the prototype stood solid—no wobble, the legs clicking open and shut with a clean "snap." Eliott taped his sketches to the wall: the workbench, the lightweight camping stove (with a note about its wind-resistant burner), the foldable bike frame (he'd drawn it after Jake complained about carrying his bike up three flights of stairs).​"Hart? You're here early." Professor Hale's voice made them both jump. He was holding a thermos, his leather work boots scuffing the floor as he walked over. His eyes flicked to the sketches, then to the prototype—he leaned down, ran a finger along the sanded edge of the wood, then tested the leg mechanism. "You never showed this stuff before. Not even in office hours."​"I was scared," Eliott said, quiet but sure. Past life: Hale at his mom's funeral, handing him a folded note: "You had courage once. Find it." He'd kept that note in his wallet until it fell apart. "Scared my dad was right. Scared I couldn't make it. But… I'm not anymore."​Hale smiled, a rare, crinkly thing. He unscrewed the thermos and poured two paper cups of coffee—black, just how Eliott liked it. "This is genius. Munich's gonna eat this up—they've been begging for designs that solve real problems, not just look pretty." He nodded at the bike frame sketch. "You work on that with Jake?"​"Mostly me, but he helped with the weight calculations," Eliott said. Jake nudged his shoulder, grinning.​"Just the important parts," Jake joked.​Hale laughed, then grew serious. "Watch out for Tyler—he was in here yesterday, bitching about 'amateurs wasting studio space.' Said your work was 'childish toys.'" He handed Eliott the coffee. "Don't let him get to you. His 'minimalist chair'? I saw the plans—he copied half of it from a 2016 design blog."​Tyler Voss—rich, arrogant, and the reason Eliott had hidden his sketches in his dorm closet for a year. Past life: Tyler had cornered him in the cafeteria, holding up a crumpled page from his sketchbook (he'd stolen it out of Eliott's bag). "Your mom's sick, Hart. You can't afford to play artist. What're you gonna do—sell these doodles to pay for her meds?" Eliott had punched him that day. Gotten a week of detention. And still, he'd deleted the Munich app.​This time, Eliott's jaw tightened, but he smiled. "Let him talk. I've got something to show him."