Morning of the next day.
Hammer Mansion.
Light softly filtered through the translucent curtains, laying golden stripes on the polished floor. Somewhere in the distance, muted classical music played—likely Albert's choice, who adored it and turned it on in any unclear situation.
Outside the window, birds sang surprisingly pleasantly. I wouldn't be surprised if they were part of our mansion's staff—I heard them often, almost always in the mornings. With Justin, anything was possible...
The knock on the door was as polite and familiar as ever. Albert seemed to calculate even the force of his knocks.
"Master Ezekiel, it's time to wake up—breakfast is ready... And you have school today," the old man reminded me, his gentle insistence masking a hint of worry. He knew all too well that "waking up early for school" and "teenager" were incompatible concepts.
School!
Right, because being a genius and the son of a billionaire didn't exempt me from attending that "wonderful" place. Yesterday, while exploring this utterly insane world, I'd somehow forgotten that today was the last day of the school year—it had completely slipped my mind.
Glancing at the clock by the fireplace (yes, my room had a fireplace), I saw it was 7:43. School started at 8:30. With a personal driver, I had about thirty or forty minutes—plenty of time for breakfast and getting ready.
"Yes, Albert, thank you!" I replied, jumping out of bed and instinctively tensing my muscles from my past life, expecting the creak of joints and the pain of a stiff, oft-injured back. But this body, unlike my old one, responded instantly—no hint of pain or stiffness. Instead, I felt young, strong muscles ripple beneath my skin.
The wardrobe door slid open with a soft hiss. Hanging inside was a pressed uniform: a dark blue blazer with the emblem of Midtown School of Science and Technology, light trousers, and a snow-white shirt. This year, I was transferring to Midtown High—the same school where Peter Parker studied. In this world, he might well be a girl... Or rather, a young woman, since there was no information online about any "Spider-Boy" or, even less likely, "Spider-Girl," nor about a photographer named Parker working at The Daily Bugle.
By the way, the wardrobe had a huge mirror, and in it, I saw an unfamiliar teenager with violet-blue eyes. Tall for his age, lean, with a mop of straight, fair hair. Sharp cheekbones, a determined chin, and unsettlingly intelligent eyes that no longer held childish naivety.
Ten years of remote work and freelancing had turned me into a "cave dweller." I'd spent very little time outside, often ordered delivery, and rarely interacted with people. This school obligation felt like madness to me now, but I had no choice. Even though Zik's knowledge was more than enough to graduate high school, Justin had a saying: "Socialization..."
I shed my pajamas and started dressing for school. Thoughts of Justin came unbidden as I buttoned my shirt. The idea of sending his genius son to a regular school instead of an elite one was, in its own way, brilliant: "Private school would only burden you with unnecessary homework," he had told Zik. "In a regular school, you'll breeze through assignments and use your free time for courses with real scientists, not failures who barely know more than average students. That's how you'll gain real knowledge."
The small dining room was bathed in sunlight. The table, as yesterday, was set for two, and Albert was already standing beside it.
"Good morning, young master. Your breakfast—scrambled eggs with bacon."
On the plate lay a three-egg omelet surrounded by crispy bacon strips, beside it hot toast and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice—Zik's favorite. I loved it too, especially when it was real juice, not colored water with chemicals.
Justin's seat at the head of the table, as expected, was empty. I didn't understand why they bothered setting a place if he wasn't coming. Rich people's quirks—just wasting good food!
The massive double doors of dark wood opened before me on their own. Outside, as memory suggested, it was 2005, but the technology in this mansion was twenty years ahead of my past—and that both delighted and raised many questions.
The morning sun briefly dazzled me, and at the front entrance stood a black armored sedan with tinted windows. Beside the car stood a guard—a two-meter-tall wall of muscle in a perfectly fitted suit, with a discreet earpiece and, as far as I could tell, a concealed pistol holster. He silently nodded and opened the rear door.
Inside, two more men sat: one driving, the other in the front passenger seat, almost identical to the one outside. I tossed in my backpack and slid inside. The door shut with a dull thud, sealing me off from the outside world. As far as I knew, these cars were also airtight.
Three bodyguards to take a teenager to school...
Before the thought could fully form, the world exploded.
A deafening crash, as if a battering ram had hit the side of the car at full speed, slammed me against the guard beside me with terrifying force, even though I was buckled in. The air was knocked out of my lungs, and my ears rang so loudly that the world narrowed to that high, terrifying sound. The windshield on the driver's side spiderwebbed with cracks, a gruesome red stain spreading at its center. The driver's head lolled lifelessly onto the steering wheel. The long, drawn-out blare of the horn shattered the brief silence.
"Contact!" the front guard barked. He already had his pistol out and, kicking open his door, rolled outside. Gunfire immediately erupted.
My bodyguard reacted instantly—his iron grip seized my blazer.
"Head down! Move!" he growled in my ear.
Panic seized me. My heart pounded wildly, and my thoughts vanished. A drop of the driver's blood landed on my cheek. Warm. The guard, noticing my state, yanked me out of the car and pressed me onto the asphalt, shielding me with his body. The air filled with the smell of gunpowder, hot metal, and burning rubber.
"This way!" A second later, he was dragging me away from the car. The world blurred into a smear under the whine of ricocheting bullets.
We dove into a narrow alleyway. The stench of garbage bins and dampness hit my nose, snapping me out of my stupor. My protector pressed me against the cold, wet wall. He was breathing heavily. Rapid footsteps of pursuers at the alley's entrance—they were close. A dead end! The bodyguard's gaze darted to a large, rusty garbage bin. For the first time, I saw not just steely resolve in his eyes, but... regret.
"Get in there. Quick. And stay quiet," he whispered. "Don't make a sound until it's over. Understood?"
"Y-yes..." Not thinking, I climbed into the bin, ignoring the stench. I buried myself under sticky, damp garbage bags. The lid closed with a nasty squeak, plunging me into near-total darkness.
The lid slammed shut. I heard the footsteps fade away. They were gone. I lay in the sticky, stinking garbage bin, shaking not just from fear but from the shock of what I'd been through.
Air suddenly rushed into my lungs in a silent, convulsive gasp.
I survived...