Chapter 3: Second Chances
"Wake up, little boy."
The voice cut through darkness like steel through silk. Deep, accented, impossible.
Javier’s eyes snapped open to fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Not twisted metal and flames. Not burning BMW or police sirens or blood taste mixing with gasoline fumes.
Marcus Garvey Group Home dormitory ceiling. Water-stained tiles he’d memorized during countless sleepless nights. Industrial disinfectant smell and teenage desperation.
But that was impossible.
Green text materialized in empty air beside his narrow bed:
[WISH DETECTED... ANALYZING REQUEST... CRITERIA MET... LOADING TEMPORAL RESTORATION PROTOCOL]
Numbers flashed: 3... 2... 1...
The explosion should have killed him. White light consuming everything. Instead he’d fallen through infinite brightness that tasted like static electricity and forgotten dreams.
Now he was here. Seventeen again, surrounded by sleeping boys who didn’t know they were looking at a dead man.
Javier examined his hands in dim light filtering through barred windows. Smooth palms, no calluses from years of criminal work. No scars from street fights or knife wounds from deals gone wrong. Soft teenager skin that had never picked locks or hotwired stolen cars.
His memories remained intact. Every heist, every score, every moment leading to Marcus shooting Blackwood in cold blood. Rico’s death, Marcus screaming, flames racing toward gasoline-soaked wreckage.