The locker room was a symphony of slamming metal doors and the smell of cheap body spray. For everyone else, this was just a high school football tryout. For Arthur, it was the site of his execution.
He sat on the wooden bench, meticulously lacing his cleats. He didn't feel like a seventeen-year-old boy. He felt like a ghost inhabiting a younger, faster machine. In his first life, his heart would have been hammering against his ribs, desperate for Julian's approval. Not today. Today, his pulse was a steady, rhythmic drum.
Julian approached, leaning against a locker with that practiced, "golden boy" arrogance. "Hey, about the gym earlier... you were acting weird, man. Look, let's just focus on the scout. If we both play well, we're going to the same college. Like we planned. I'll make sure you look good out there."
Like we planned. The words felt like acid.
Arthur stood up, his height now matching Julian's. He looked into his friend's eyes and saw the hollowness there. "Plans change, Julian. Sometimes, the architect burns the building down just to see the fire."
Julian frowned, a flicker of genuine fear crossing his face. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Arthur said, slinging his helmet over his arm, "don't get in my way."
[The Field: 15:00 PM]
The heat from the afternoon sun was oppressive, but Arthur welcomed it. He stood at the line of scrimmage as the quarterback. Across from him, the defense shifted.
He glanced at the digital clock on the scoreboard. 15:04 PM. In his past life, this was the exact second his future died. He remembered the blitz. He remembered Julian "tripping." He remembered the sound of his own tibia snapping like a dry twig.
"Set! Hut!"
The play exploded into motion. Arthur dropped back three steps. He could feel the vibrations of the grass as the defense charged.
There he was. Miller. A 220-pound wall of muscle and anger, blitzing from the left.
Arthur saw Julian start his route. Julian was supposed to go deep, but instead, he cut inward, directly toward Arthur's feet. It was subtle—a "stumble" that any referee would call an accident.
In the first life, Arthur had swerved to avoid Julian, putting his leg directly under Miller's helmet.
Not this time.
Instead of swerving, Arthur stepped into the collision. But he didn't hit Miller.
As Julian "stumbled" toward his feet, Arthur reached out with a hand like a vice. He didn't push Julian away; he gripped the back of Julian's jersey and used the boy's momentum to whip him around.
It was a professional-grade pivot. Arthur didn't just avoid the trap—he turned Julian into a human shield.
CRACK.
The sound of Miller's helmet slamming into Julian's ribs rang across the entire stadium. Julian went flying, his breath leaving his body in a single, agonizing wheeze. He hit the turf and skidded, dust kicking up around his designer cleats.
Arthur stood perfectly calm in the pocket. He didn't even look at the ball. He looked down at the "Golden Boy" gasping for air in the dirt.
The coach's whistle screamed. "Medic! Trainer! Get out there!"
The scouts on the sidelines stopped taking notes. They were staring at Arthur. That move—the spin, the strength, the cold calculation—wasn't the work of a high school senior. It was the work of a veteran.
Arthur walked over to where Julian lay, clutching his side. He leaned down, whispering so only Julian could hear.
"That was for the next ten years, Julian. And that was just the warm-up."
[The Parking Lot: The New Timeline]
While the ambulance was taking Julian to the clinic for "bruised ribs," Arthur walked to his old car. He sat inside, the heat of the cabin stifling.
He pulled out his phone. In 2015, this Samsung felt high-tech; to him, it felt like a prehistoric tool. He navigated to a fringe financial forum he remembered from his years as Julian's "assistant."
He saw the thread: "Is Doge-Coin the future or a meme?"
In his first life, Arthur had laughed at the people putting money into it. He had followed Julian's "safe" advice and lost everything.
"Safe is for the prey," Arthur muttered.
He transferred his entire savings—$542.10—into a digital wallet. In forty-eight hours, an eccentric billionaire would tweet a rocket emoji. That $540 would become $50,000. It wasn't a million, but it was the "seed" he needed to buy the information that would eventually destroy Julian's father's empire.
Suddenly, his phone vibrated. An unknown number.
"That spin move wasn't in the playbook, Arthur. And neither was the look in your eyes. Who told you about Miller's blitz?"
Arthur's blood turned to ice. He looked around the parking lot. Empty, except for a black sedan with tinted windows in the far corner.
In his first life, this text never happened. By saving his leg, he had changed the timeline. He had attracted the attention of someone much more dangerous than a high school bully.
He typed back three words: "Who is asking?"
The reply was instant: "The person who knows you shouldn't be alive."