Breakfast tasted exactly like he remembered—cheap cereal going soft too fast in cold milk. He ate at the kitchen table while his mother moved around the room, already half-stressed, already thinking about work. The television murmured in the background, a morning show talking like it had something important to say.
His mom glanced at him over her shoulder. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep," he said.
It wasn't a lie. He'd been awake since the ceiling fan confirmed that his entire life had been rearranged.
She nodded, stirring something in a pan. "Eat. You'll be cranky by third period if you don't."
"Yeah."
She studied him for a second longer than normal. The kind of look parents got when they sensed something was different but didn't have time to chase it.
"You okay?" she asked.
He met her eyes and kept his expression simple. "I'm okay."
She didn't fully believe him, but she accepted it. She had bills to pay and a schedule that didn't stop just because her son felt off.
"Lunch money's in the jar," she said. "And be home after practice."
Practice.
He almost asked which one, then remembered. In his old life, he'd been on a team at this age. Not because he loved it, but because it kept him moving and gave him an excuse to be out of the house. It also meant his body wouldn't stay in the low teens forever if he treated it right.
His mother grabbed her purse. "Don't forget."
"I won't."
The door closed behind her, and the house went quiet.
He stood in the kitchen for a moment, listening to the silence settle. Then he went upstairs and sat at the desk again.
The modern desktop stared back at him like it belonged there.
He opened the browser and clicked through the platforms again, slower this time. Not just checking if they existed—studying them.
The video platform wasn't primitive. It had channels, subscriptions, comments, trending tabs. People posted short clips and longer ones. The aesthetics were familiar, like this world had reached a future version of the internet early.
The music platform was similar—streaming, playlists, user uploads.
He checked the date again, just to make sure he hadn't lost his mind.
Fine.
He opened a few random songs and listened.
The music wasn't bad. Some of it was actually good. But it was different. The hits from his memory weren't here. The popular tracks were shaped by a different history, a different chain of influences. Genres existed, but their "big moments" were different.
That meant he couldn't just drop one song and expect the world to react exactly like his old world had.
He'd have to feel this world out.
He wrote another small list beneath yesterday's notes:
learn this world's tastes
don't assume trends
build slowly
He tapped the pen against the page, thinking.
Then, without warning, the thought arrived as casually as remembering you left something in the car.
Stats.
He didn't say it out loud. He didn't even whisper. He just formed the word mentally, the way you might think, phone, and reach for it without moving.
A clear panel slid into place in front of him—thin like glass catching light, quiet like it didn't want attention. No sound. No dramatic animation. Just information appearing where his focus went.
He stared at it, breath steady.
It didn't feel like a game. It felt like looking at a chart you didn't know existed until now.
StatsIntelligence: 14Wisdom: 13Charisma: 11Strength: 12Dexterity: 13Vitality: 14
He let his eyes move down.
Skills.
The panel shifted, cleanly.
Singing: 11Guitar: 12Piano: 10Music Theory: 11Conditioning: 12
He stared at the numbers with a quiet kind of relief.
They matched reality. They matched his body. Nothing was inflated, nothing was gifted.
That meant he could trust it.
He dismissed the panel with a thought, like sliding a window closed, and sat back.
So the system was real.
It had no voice, no personality. It wasn't trying to guide him. It simply existed, measuring.
That suited him.
He turned his attention inward, considering what mattered most right now.
He didn't have money.
He didn't have equipment.
He didn't have the muscle memory or skill level to perform like an adult with years of practice.
But he had time, and he had discipline he didn't have at fifteen the first time.
He opened the closet and pulled out the old guitar case, hoping it was still there.
It was.
The zipper snagged in the same place it always had. He tugged it carefully and lifted the guitar out. Cheap acoustic. Slight wear. Strings that looked like they'd been on too long.
He sat on the bed and strummed. The sound was dull, slightly flat.
He tuned it by ear anyway, because his memory still held the shape of correct pitch even if his fingers didn't yet hold the shape of chords.
He ran through a few chord changes, slower than he wanted. The shapes came back, but his fingertips were soft. The metal strings bit into skin immediately.
He kept going until the first sting turned into a steady ache.
Then he stopped.
He didn't push past it. He'd learned the difference between discipline and stupidity. Injuring his fingers in week one would slow him down more than being patient for a few days.
He set the guitar down and thought again.
Shop.
The panel returned, shifting to a new section.
It wasn't a list of a thousand songs. It was more like a storefront with locked shelves—categories, difficulty tiers, costs in ranges. It didn't spoil the world for him. It offered a system, not a cheat.
At the top, one line stood out.
Free Draw: 1 available
He stared at it.
A free draw. A starter.
He could use it now, or save it. But if his goal was to start building immediately, he needed material. He needed something concrete to practice, something he could prepare for an upload.
He considered the problem like he'd done a hundred times in his old life, but with better discipline now.
Early constraints:
cheap guitar
no microphone
no interface
no quiet studio
limited time
He needed a song that could survive that.
Simple arrangement. Emotional clarity. Something that worked acoustic. Something that didn't require production magic to land.
He exhaled.
All right.
He thought, Free Draw.
The panel acknowledged it instantly.
A beat of silence.
Then text appeared.
Blueprint Acquired
Beneath it, the song title, clean and undeniable.
His pulse jumped, not wildly, but enough that he felt it in his fingertips.
He stared at the title. He knew this one. He knew how it hit people. He knew how it felt when it was done right.
He swallowed and leaned closer.
The blueprint expanded into sections.
Lyrics. Chord progression. Tempo. Arrangement notes. Optional production outline.
Everything he needed to recreate it faithfully.
He didn't treat it like treasure. He treated it like work waiting to be done.
He copied the lyrics into a document, then the chords. He read the first verse out loud.
His voice sounded young.
Not terrible. Just young.
He tried again, adjusting his breath. Dropping the placement lower. Letting the words sit heavier.
Better.
He picked up the guitar and tried the progression.
His fingers stumbled on the changes. The rhythm wasn't clean. The chorus came out shaky.
He stopped and stared at the guitar for a second, then laughed softly.
"Okay," he said. "Again."
He ran it again, slower, then again at tempo.
His throat warmed as he sang, not strained yet, but aware. A warning line he respected.
He practiced for another twenty minutes, then stopped before soreness became damage. He drank water, stretched his fingers, and leaned back in the chair.
He thought, Skills.
The panel returned.
No big changes yet. Of course not. He hadn't earned them.
He dismissed it and stared at the computer screen again, at the platforms waiting.
He wasn't uploading today.
He wasn't ready.
But now he had a song, and a way to measure growth, and a system to buy more when he earned it.
That was enough to start.
He glanced at the clock.
School soon.
He packed his bag, shut down the computer, and stood in front of the mirror one more time.
Fifteen again.
He looked himself in the eyes.
He didn't make a speech.
He just nodded once, like agreement.
Then he went downstairs and walked out into the day.