----[Vol: 1: High School Arc]----
Jack used to think twenty-three was too young to be tired of life.
He was wrong.
The city never slept, but it did grind people down. Jack felt it every morning when he woke up in his cramped apartment, the kind with thin walls and a window that looked straight into another brick wall. The air always smelled faintly of old cooking oil and damp laundry. The rent notice taped to his door was impossible to ignore now. It was his final warning. Pay or fuck off.
He was a struggling actor, which mostly meant unemployed with extra steps. Auditions came and went. "We'll call you." They never did. His bank account was a joke, and not a good one. He ate instant noodles, stretched them across days, and pretended hunger was character-building.
That day started like all the others. He lost the apartment by noon. The landlord barely looked at him when he handed over the keys. Jack carried everything he owned in one beat-up backpack. Scripts, worn clothes, a cracked phone, and a head full of dreams that suddenly felt stupid.
By night, he was walking through an alley because it was the fastest route to the homeless shelter. The streetlights flickered like one of those horror movies where the ghost sneaks behind the guy. Just then, he heard footsteps behind him.
He looked back.
The mugger was young, nervous, and shaking. The gun looked too big in his hand.
"Wallet," the guy said.
Jack laughed, shaking his head. "Do I look like I have anything worth robbing?"
The mugger searched him anyway. The old phone, empty wallet, and a pack of bubblegum. The disappointment turned into anger.
The gun went off.
Jack didn't even feel pain at first. Just surprise. He collapsed, staring up at the sliver of sky between buildings, wondering how it all ended so quietly. Twenty-three years old. Homeless. Shot because he had nothing.
Then there was nothing at all.
When he woke up, the first thing he noticed was the bed.
It was soft. Really soft. The kind of mattress he had only seen in furniture stores. Sunlight spilled across the room through those giant windows. For a second, he thought he was dreaming. Or dying.
He tried to move and froze.
Memories crashed into him like a tidal wave.
"Fuck!!!" He groaned as the sudden memory dump caused an intense headache.
It lasted for a few minutes...
Jack gasped and sat up, head throbbing and heard pounding. He reached for his chest, expecting blood, a bullet wound, anything.
Nothing.
His hands were scarless and younger.
"This is insane," he whispered.
Jack stood up so fast the room tilted.
"Nope," he muttered. "No way."
He swung his legs off the bed and nearly tripped because his body moved on instinct. He didn't have to think about where to go. His feet carried him across the room, past a desk and a couch that probably cost more than his old rent for a year, straight to the attached bathroom.
That scared him more than waking up rich.
The bathroom door opened under his hand like muscle memory. The lights flicked on without thought. Marble counters. A rain shower behind glass. Towels folded perfectly, like nobody actually used them.
He stepped up to the mirror.
The face staring back made his breath catch.
It was him. Same brown eyes and nose. Same scar on his eyebrow from a stupid dare at thirteen. But everything was younger. His skin was clear. His hair was thick and styled as if someone paid for it regularly.
Jack leaned closer to the mirror.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay."
He turned his head left, then right. "Humm..." He raised his eyebrows and smiled. The reflection copied him perfectly.
He turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face twice. The shock bit into his skin. He pinched his cheeks hard enough to sting.
"Ow," he hissed.
Still there.
Still rich and alive.
This wasn't a dream. Dreams didn't hurt like that. They didn't come with memories that sat in his head so comfortably that they felt like they had always been there.
"Okay. Alright... Let's see what I can remember about this guy."
He closed his eyes, braced himself, and let go.
The memories slid forward without resistance.
This Jack had grown up in a massive house with glass walls and too many rooms. His parents were famous producers. Not just rich, but famous famous. The kind of people who showed up on red carpets and smiled for cameras like it was breathing. They loved him in a distant, indulgent way. Money replaced discipline. Gifts replaced time.
He skipped school whenever he felt like it. Threw parties when his parents were abroad. Consequences never stuck. And all his friends... Well... Money. That's all they cared about. He didn't have any real friends.
He also acted in six movies as a child character and did a couple of ads, thanks to his parents. This earned him some fame and the movies were all hits, so more fame. Well, it was probably this fame that went straight to his head, like most actors who got famous too early, only to fall hard.
And that's exactly what happened with this one. At present, he has rejected multiple movie offers just to party and have some fun. So, the fame started to dwindle. To make things worse, his last ad shoot went really badly since he kept forgetting simple lines and failed to maintain proper expression.
All in all, he was walking the path to his own ruin.
He was sixteen years old and his name is Jack Preston.
And the year is 2009.
Jack staggered back from the sink and laughed, a short, shaky sound. "You've got to be kidding me. What kind of parents are they? If my parents were alive in my past life, they would've spanked me for skipping school and throwing late-night parties. Haaa..."
He ran a hand through his hair and stared at the mirror again, half-expecting it to crack or ripple or do something supernatural.
Nothing happened.
Eventually, he left the bathroom and returned to the bedroom. The bed looked just as soft as before. He sat on the edge of it, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together.
Now what?
Scream? Cry? Laugh like a maniac and enjoy the jackpot he had apparently won by getting shot in a dirty alley?
His chest tightened at the thought.
The alley, the gun and the cold.
He swallowed hard and forced himself to breathe.
"Calm down," he said out loud. "Think."
He had died. He was sure of it. People didn't just walk away from bullets to the chest. And even if they did, they didn't wake up as a sixteen-year-old version of themselves in a mansion.
This was something else.
A second chance, maybe. Or a cosmic joke.
Jack leaned back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. It was high and white and spotless, unlike his dingy apartment, which was falling apart.
He let the new memories settle properly.
This world wasn't his old one.
Food, cars, phones, and technology were still more or less the same. But... There was a massive change in Hollywood.
The names were familiar. Actors, singers, public figures. Faces he recognized instantly. But the details were wrong. Movies he had loved did not exist here. Songs that had soundtracked his worst years were nowhere to be found. Entire franchises were missing, replaced by others that felt strange and off, like covers of songs you knew too well.
The people were the same.
Their work wasn't.
Jack sat up slowly.
Hollywood still existed. Fame still existed. The industry was still brutal, glamorous, and full of broken promises and fake smiles.
But the board had been reset.
His heart started to pound again, not with fear this time, but with something sharper.
Opportunity.
In his old life, he had clawed his way through auditions with nothing but stubborn hope and a cheap headshot. He knew rejection. He knew hunger. He knew exactly how cruel this world could be.
This Jack had none of that experience.
He had connections, money and a safety net so thick you could bounce on it.
And Jack had memories from another life that nobody else had.
He stood up and paced the room, adrenaline buzzing under his skin.
"Okay," he said again, louder now. "Okay."
He wasn't stupid enough to think this would be easy. Being rich didn't make you talented. Being famous by association didn't mean people respected you. And this version of him had a reputation: lazy, spoiled and a waste of potential.
Jack grimaced.
That could get him destroyed just as fast as being broke.
He stopped pacing and looked around the room again, really looked this time. Posters from movies he didn't recognize. Awards on the shelves that belonged to his parents. A guitar in the corner that he apparently never learned to play.
This life was a mess too. Just a prettier one.
Jack sat back down on the bed and pressed his palms into the mattress, grounding himself.
He didn't know why he had been given this chance.
But he knew one thing for sure.
He wasn't going to waste it.
Not this time.
[30 minutes later]
Jack took a bath, put on some expensive clothes, and went downstairs.
The breakfast was ridiculous.
Jack stared at the table: Fresh fruit cut into perfect shapes, eggs done three different ways, toast that actually smelled like bread instead of cardboard. A chef stood nearby, hands folded, waiting for approval like this was normal.
Jack ate.
He finished more than he meant to, drank a glass of orange juice that tasted as if it had never seen a concentrate factory, and nodded a quiet thanks before pushing his chair back. Well, real food hit different when your last diet had been instant noodles and denial.
The chef smiled like Jack had just cured something.
That alone told him how low the bar had been.
His phone buzzed the second he left the dining room. Notifications stacked on notifications. Group chats with names like Preston Legends, Friday Kings, Hollywood Youngbloods. Party plans, beach houses and clubs he shouldn't legally be allowed into.
Jack didn't hesitate.
He opened the first chat and typed a single message.
Not coming. Don't wait up.
Then he muted it.
Another chat. Same thing.
Then another.
'Fuck you all.'
He blocked numbers without reading names.
It felt… clean.
By the time he reached his room, the phone was quiet. For the first time since he woke up, the silence didn't feel heavy.
He shut the door behind him and looked at the desk.
A school project sat there, half-finished and abandoned. Poster board, notes scribbled with careless handwriting and something about American history, judging by the headings. The old Jack had clearly planned to bullshit his way through it at the last minute.
Jack pulled out the chair and sat down.
"Alright," he muttered. "Let's see what sixteen-year-old me thought was optional."
It took him a moment to adjust because doing it felt strange. In his old life, school had been something he barely remembered. Acting classes, auditions, side jobs, survival. Homework had fallen somewhere below sleep on the priority list.
Here, though, the answers came easily. Not genius-level, but solid. He rewrote sections, cleaned up arguments, and added details where he thought was necessary. By the time he stood back to look at it, the project actually looked like it belonged to someone who cared.
That was when it hit him.
"Palisades High School," he said out loud.
The name surfaced without warning, sliding into place like it had been waiting. Jack froze, hands resting on the desk. He remembered seeing Phil Dunphy dropping Haley off at school. Then remembered seeing Phil's posters and painted face on the park's bench.
Jack stood up and walked around the room for a moment before stopping.
"...An alternate reality with the Modern Family setting!" He mumbled to himself.
The words hung there, ridiculous and terrifying all at once.
Modern Family wasn't just a show to him. It was something he used to watch on bad nights, sprawled on a couch that wasn't his, pretending the noise covered the silence. He knew the characters and the future, at least till season 6.
A second life.
A different Hollywood.
And apparently, a sitcom family walking around like normal people.
Jack let out a little chuckle.
"Haha... This is just awesome. Thank you, God, for giving me this second chance. I'm gonna enjoy this life to the fullest and achieve my dreams. If I can create the movies and songs from my past world to this one... Oh, yeah. The possibilities are endless. I gotta make a proper plan to move forward. But I wonder if there are any more series in this reality because I just can't create Dexter only to turn up on his table, wrapped in plastic. Or make Breaking Bad only to get shot by Gus or blasted by Walter..."
He sat back on the chair with a smile.
"Let's start with some internet research..."
---
What to expect?
1) Harem or no harem? For now, there will be a love triangle. And I've added the harem tag, just in case. So, kindly, if you aren't into harem, don't read and complain later on saying the author added harem.
2) This story isn't only focused on the Modern Family. We'll also see Jack's life and a bit of Hollywood during the first arc. And I don't plan to add any other world at this point. It's too early and I haven't seen many shows based on LA. So, don't spam, add this and add that.
3) Expect 3 chapters/week. 4 if there are enough powerstones.
4) Majority readers at this point know I usually write DC and Marvel ffs. This is my first time writing a new genre, which doesn't involve any superpowers and is completely different from my usual comfort zone. Go easy on me. 😅😅
5) Cheats or System? No system, but MC will get some cheats which we'll see as the story progresses.
6) Don't spam your harem or celebs list. It's annoying.
7) I use Grammarly. So, don't scream AI this and AI that; if you don't like it, you can leave.
8) Special mention to the famous troll everyone is aware of: Fuck you, Obivilion cuckold motherfucking whore son of a cumdumpster bitch.