The machines wouldn't shut up.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Jacob tried to open his eyes, but only one opened, and the other felt swollen. The ceiling tiles were too bright, and he was hearing muffled voices. His mom, maybe, sounded like she was crying. His dad's voice cut through, talking to someone, a doctor? Jacob couldn't make out the words, but it didn't matter; he knew that tone all too well.
Jacob's fingers twitched, and he tried to move his arm, but it barely responded.
This is bullshit, complete bullshit.
He was JJ, the star quarterback; he was untouchable, never stayed down, and always got back up. The beeping slowed, and more voices sounded urgent now, with multiple hands on him. His vision dimmed at the edges, with the bright white ceiling fading to grey.
No.
Not like this.
He had scouts watching. He had a future. He had-
Then everything faded to black.
Twelve Years Earlier
"Get up."
Jacob was seven. His knee was bleeding from where he'd scraped it on the driveway with tears in his eyes, but he knew better than to let them fall.
Nate Johnson stood over him, arms crossed. He was a tall and well-built man, wearing one of his expensive suits even on a Saturday because image mattered.
"I said get up."
Jacob pushed himself to his feet with his knee throbbing. He wanted his mom. Wanted a Band-Aid, a hug, and to go inside.
"You fell off your bike. So what? You gonna cry about it?"
"No, sir."
"Good. Johnson men don't cry. We don't quit. We get back on, and we do it again. You understand?"
Jacob nodded and climbed back on the bike. His knee left a smear of blood on the frame. He rode and wobbled but caught his balance.
Nate watched for another minute, then walked back toward the house. "That's my boy."
Jacob rode until his knee stopped bleeding and until the pain faded. He learned early that you never show weakness, no matter what.
The thing about Nate Johnson was that he'd built everything himself. His old man, Jacob's grandfather, had been a mean drunk who'd put Nate through hell. Fists and belts and constant reminders that he'd never amount to shit. So Nate proved him wrong and worked his way through college, got into real estate, and played the game better than anyone. By the time Jacob was born, the Johnson name meant money in New York. He had multiple properties across Manhattan and Brooklyn with apartments that rented for more per month than most people made in a year. Nate had escaped his father's violence and built an empire, making himself into someone who mattered.
But he'd brought the poison with him. Jacob grew up in a penthouse on the Upper East Side. Private schools, expensive clothes, it was everything a kid could want except the one thing that mattered, his father's approval without conditions. Nate's lessons were constant. Men provide, they lead, and dominate. Weakness is failure, and emotions are a weakness.
Anything that makes you vulnerable makes you a target. Jacob absorbed it all. He had no choice; when you're a kid, your parents' worldview becomes yours, and they infect you with whatever poison they had. By ten, Jacob had learned to weaponize his father's money. A kid gave him shit at school? Jacob made sure everyone knew the kid's family rented one of their apartments, making it clear who had the power. By twelve, he'd figured out that physical dominance worked even better than wealth. He was bigger and stronger than most kids his age, and played that advantage hard. By fourteen, he'd perfected the persona.
---
High school was where Jacob became untouchable. St. Augustine Prep was an old-money, old-families, old-expectations type of high school. It was the kind of place where your future got decided freshman year based on your last name and your performance on the field.
Jacob had both. Football came naturally. He was fast, had a good arm, and more importantly, he had that edge. That willingness to do whatever it took to win, and the Coaches ate it up, calling it some bullshit like 'competitive fire,' but really it was just rage with better packaging.
He made varsity as a sophomore and became the starting quarterback by junior year. "JJ" by senior year. The attention was a drug. Girls who'd never looked at him twice suddenly find reasons to talk to him. Guys who'd been ahead of him in the social hierarchy are now following his lead. Teachers giving him slack they'd never give anyone else because hey, he had a big game Friday. He learned to weaponize all of it, charm when it served him, and cruelty when it served him better.
His teammates respected him because he won games. Feared him because he'd tear into anyone who fucked up. Didn't matter if you were his boy or some freshman, you cost them a win, you caught hell.
"Martinez! What the fuck was that route?"
"Sorry, JJ, I thought-"
"You thought? Don't think, just run the play I called. Jesus Christ, my grandmother cuts better than that, and she's been dead for six years."
The team laughed, with Martinez turning around in embarrassment. He ran it again. That was leadership, right? Pushing people to be better? That's what JJ told himself. Late at night, alone in his room, Jacob wasn't so sure, but those thoughts didn't last long. He'd push them down, check his phone, scroll through nude messages from girls, highlights from the last game, and reminders that he was winning, winning meant he was doing it right afterall.
The parties were inevitable. When you're the star quarterback at a school like St. Augustine or any school really, people want to be around you, want your approval, and some of that shine.
JJ gave it to them on his terms. Someone's parents are out of town? Party at their place. Booze flowed easily when you had money and connections. Girls showed up because that's where the status was, with the guys showing up because that's where the girls were.
He wasn't the biggest drinker as he didn't like losing control, but he made sure everyone else did. Drunk people were easier to manage and said things they shouldn't have.
"Yo, JJ! Keg stand!"
He'd grin and play along, do the stand, get the cheers, and maintain the image. Then corner some girl later, flash that smile, say the right things, touch her lower back, test the boundary, and push if she lets him.
Most of them let him. He told himself they wanted it. Told himself he wasn't forcing anything. They said yes, didn't they? Maybe they were drunk, but so what? That was their choice.
The mental gymnastics were effortless by senior year. His boys enabled it, covered for him, and laughed later in the locker room when he told stories about his hookups.
"Bro, she was begging for it."
"JJ's the fucking man."
"Wish I had his game."
He fed off the validation; it felt like proof that he was everything his father wanted him to be, but sometimes, he'd catch himself in a mirror after everyone left and see something in his own eyes he didn't recognize, something that looked scared.
He'd look away and pour another drink. The fear didn't exist unless he acknowledged it.
---
The thing about building your entire identity on dominance is that you can never afford to lose. During junior year, there was this kid, he was a transfer student, Ryan something, he was smart, confident, didn't give a shit about football or social hierarchy, and treated JJ like he was just another guy.
It drove Jacob fucking insane. He tried the usual moves: intimidation, mockery, but Ryan didn't care; he just did his thing and made his own friends, living his life. And the worst part? People liked him. Some of the guys on the team even started hanging out with him.
JJ's control was slipping. It came to a head in the parking lot. Some stupid argument about a girl Ryan had asked out. It was someone JJ had hooked up with a few times; she wasn't his girlfriend, not even close, but it was about image and not appearing like a cuck.
"You need to back off," JJ said. He got in Ryan's face, using his size as an advantage.
Ryan didn't flinch. "Or what?"
The guys were watching with their phones out; this would be everywhere in minutes. JJ shoved him, and Ryan shoved back, then JJ's fist connected with Ryan's jaw. Once. Twice. Ryan went down, but JJ didn't stop, kept hitting the poor boy with rage flooding through him, drowning out everything else. His boys had to pull him off, and Ryan's face was a mess with blood on the concrete. JJ stood there, breathing hard.
He'd won. Ryan wouldn't challenge him again, so why did he feel like he'd lost something?
The school covered most of it up, but Ryan's family wanted to press charges, so Nate made a call, and suddenly they didn't. Ryan transferred, and JJ got suspended for a week. The video never went viral as it was scrubbed from social media before it could spread.
Nate didn't lecture Jacob; he just looked at him across the desk in his home office. "You need to be smarter," he said. "I don't care if you put someone in their place, but you don't do it where people can see. You don't create problems I have to fix. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"You're better than that, better than these other kids, don't ever forget it."
Jacob nodded and went to his room. He stared at his hands, telling himself his father was right, but the doubt crept in with that voice asking if maybe he'd gone too far, if maybe there was something wrong with him, but like always, he drowned it out and went to the gym, lifting until the only thing he felt was pain.
---
It was the championship season during senior year, and everything Jacob had worked for came down to this. Scouts from D1 schools are watching every game with his father in the stands every Friday night, with expectations showing on his face.
JJ delivered with twelve wins and zero losses, heading into the championship. He'd thrown thirty-two touchdowns, only four interceptions. He was untouchable again.
The Ryan thing was forgotten and old news. JJ was back on top, and nothing could shake him, until Lawrence Prep, their rival school. The beef goes back decades; they'd beaten St. Augustine in the semis last year and ended their season early. This year was payback. The game was scheduled for Friday, November 15th, at St. Augustine.
The week before, the trash talk started on social media, in DMs, and in post comments. Their defensive end, #54, Elijah West, had been targeting JJ all season, with him posting videos of himself training with captions like "Hunting season" and "Gonna feast Friday."
JJ posted back with highlights of him torching defenses and flexing with the caption "Try me." His boys ate it up, hyping him up. This was going to be war, and JJ loved it.
---
The stadium was packed; it was a cold November night, with both sides screaming, scouts in the stands with clipboards, and Nate Johnson in his usual spot, arms crossed, watching. JJ felt alive; this was where he proved everything and cemented his legacy in his high school football forever.
Lawrence came out aggressively, with their defense swarming, blitzing heavily, daring him to make mistakes, but he didn't. In the first quarter, he threaded a pass through triple coverage for a touchdown. Second quarter, scrambled out of pressure and hit his receiver streaking down the sideline. They went into halftime up 21-14.
Elijah had been in his face all game, talking shit between plays.
"You ain't shit, Johnson, keep coming, and I'll embarrass you all night."
"We'll see," Jacob replied.
During the third quarter, things got difficult for Lawrence Prep due to late hits and penalties. JJ took advantage of that and threw two more touchdowns. By the fourth quarter, they were up 35-28 with three minutes left.
Lawrence had the ball, driving with JJ sitting on the bench, watching. JJ was already thinking ahead to what he'd say in the post-game interview. Lawrence scored, and it went to 35-35, with two minutes left. St. Augustine got the ball back, and JJ took the field. This was his moment.
First down, quick pass to the flat. Second down, incomplete. Third down, he dropped back, looking for his receiver. The pocket collapsed, and he scrambled right, looking to extend the play. He saw an opening and took off running, getting the first and sliding feet-first, but #54 was there, and they hit each other with their helmets, the ref threw the flag, and JJ popped up, getting in his face.
"That's all you got?"
Elijah stared at him, breathing hard with something dark in his eyes.
"Fuck you, Johnson."
They got separated, and the coaches intervened. JJ jogged back to the huddle, adrenaline spiking. Two plays later, he threw the game-winning touchdown, and the crowd erupted.
St. Augustine wins, 42-35. JJ's boys swarmed him, jumping, screaming, and celebrating. Then he saw Elijah walking off the field, helmet in hand, and jogged over to call him out.
JJ grinned. "Better luck next year. Oh, wait, you're a senior. Guess you're done."
Elijah's jaw clenched.
"What's wrong? You gonna cry?"
Elijah snapped and covered the distance, swinging his helmet like a club.
JJ saw it coming, but it was too late.
The impact was like an explosion; all he felt was pain, with his legs giving out. He hit the ground hard, tasting his blood and feeling it drip down on his face.
The people was screaming, and rushing to the field, someone grabbed Elijah, JJ tried to get up, but he couldn't, his body wouldn't respond right and everything was spinning.
He saw his father pushing through the crowd and saw the terrified expression on his mother's face. Then the EMTs were there with there hands on him, checking his head and neck.
"Son, can you hear me?
He tried to speak, but nothing came out. They loaded him onto a stretcher, the lights were too bright, and the noise was too loud, with everything fading to grey.
---
There was nothing; he couldn't see or hear anything, but then the sound returned, distorted; it was voices, but it didn't sound like English.
What the fuck?
He tried to move, but couldn't, and felt panic. Cold hair hit him. He tried to open his eyes, but everything was blurry with shapes and colors bleeding together. It was too bright. He wanted to look away, but couldn't.
He saw a face, dark eyes, and a beauty mark below the lip, with an exhausted smile and black hair tied back. She spoke softly, but it was in words he didn't understand; it sounded Japanese.
He tried to speak and demand answers, but what came out was a high-pitched cry.
He was a Infant.
No.
No fucking way.
He tried to move his arms, but they fell uselessly. He heard another voice; this time, it was a male. A man's face appeared close by, with maroon eyes, long hair with red tips pulled back, and a solemn expression.
He heard more words, and the woman held him. He wanted to scream and demand that this stop, but another cry came out instead.
He remembered everything, and now he was what? A baby?
This is bullshit.
The man's hand touched his head gently, and the woman rocked him slightly. They were speaking to each other now, quietly sounding relieved.
His vision was shit; it was blurry except for close-up, high contrast helped, as he could make out the woman's dark eyes and the man's features, but everything else was a mess of light and shadow.
He was trapped and completely helpless, dependent on these strangers, he had built his own control, and now he couldn't even lift his own head.
The rage started building up, but his body couldn't express it well; it came out as cries. The woman pulled him closer and started humming something; it sounded soothing. He wanted to hate it and reject the comfort, but his new body was exhausted, so he closed his eyes, and consciousness faded, and in the darkness, one thought remained.
I'm not done. I don't care what this is or where I am. I'm not fucking done. He'd figure this out and get strong again, whatever this second chance was, he'd make it his.
---
A/N: I'll try not to make this long, but I heard about this site from one of my boys, I scroll through it, and realized it was in need of some good ass anti-heroes, and what better world than MHA. This is my first time writing, so if you have any feedback or constructive criticism, tell me. I'll try to upload every day, but I hope you enjoyed this first chapter.