Back when he first started writing, Bruce had honestly thought he had a real shot.
He had spent years reading web novels, knew every common trope inside and out, and came from a writing background. His prose was strong, too. He was not arrogant enough to think he could become a breakout star overnight, but he had at least believed he would do pretty well.
Reality disagreed.
If life had taught him anything, it was this:
Never expect too much from it.
He flopped.
Then flopped again.
Fortunately, Bruce had always had a stubborn streak in him. Once he fixed his eyes on something, he did not quit easily. That alone carried him through more than six years of grinding.
Over those six years, he slowly learned how to fuse solid prose with the mechanics of online fiction. He learned how to build suspense, control pacing, manipulate readers' emotions, and time his climaxes properly.
He also read like a madman. Not just web fiction, but thousands of books on politics, military history, finance, literature, curiosities, and romance, all to build up his knowledge base.
And finally, about half a year before his rebirth, everything clicked.
He broke through.
Now, because of the rebirth, all of those achievements had been reset to zero.
But the things stored in his head, the skills in his hands, and the knowledge he had earned were still there. And now that he also understood how Americans thought, what they liked to read, and how their tastes worked, he was not worried about writing something no one would want.
More importantly, the material he planned to use had already been proven by time. Bestselling novels. Hit films. Popular series. That gave him an extra layer of confidence.
Of course, he could not remember every tiny detail from the original books and films. But the major storylines and the strongest key scenes were still clear in his mind, and that was what mattered most.
As long as he had the spine of the story and the important moments, filling in the rest was the easy part.
After thinking it over, Bruce opened the folder labeled The Storied Life of A. J. Fikry.
He had read it shortly before his rebirth, so most of it was still fresh in his mind. It was also the shortest of the projects he had in mind, which made it the obvious place to start.
Anyone who had ever written fiction knew that once the main plot was clear, the words could come fast.
Bruce was not one of those monsters who could hammer out insane numbers on a keyboard, but when he was locked in and fully focused, he could still produce six or seven thousand words an hour on a good run.
The problem was that this was 2000.
There was no smart input, no predictive typing, no modern shortcuts. Every character had to be typed out the hard way, which cut his speed almost in half.
Even so, it was still pretty good.
When people got absorbed in something, time had a way of vanishing.
Before he knew it, the sky outside had already gone dark.
Knock, knock.
"Come in."
Martin pushed open the door.
"Bruce, everybody's gone home. We should head out too."
"Give me a second."
Bruce saved the chapter he had written, shut the laptop, and slipped it into the bag beside him.
"You're taking the computer home too?"
"Yeah. I've still got some work to do." Then he changed the subject. "Come on. I'm starving."
"I still have that cheesecake I bought at lunch. You want some?"
"No. Tonight I want the broccoli beef from the campus cafeteria."
Since they were the last ones out, they also got stuck with turning out the lights.
By the time they drove back to campus and finished dinner, it was already nine-thirty.
Bruce's routine had not changed, not even after getting a healthy nineteen-year-old body back.
He still went to bed at ten-thirty and woke up at six sharp.
That was the kind of sleep schedule a middle-aged man built out of necessity if he wanted to stay functional, alert, and reasonably healthy.
Even now, the habit had stayed with him.
Since he had his own room, Martin did not think anything of it.
At six the next morning, Bruce got up on schedule.
Normally he liked to go for a thirty-minute run, but there was no treadmill in the dorm. Luckily, as a starting point guard on the basketball team, his room had no shortage of workout gear.
After changing into an Adidas tracksuit, he quietly opened the door and slipped outside.
Martin's room on the other side remained shut tight. Faint snoring drifted through the door, which meant he was still dead asleep.
Bruce had no intention of disturbing him.
He crossed the hallway, stepped outside, and found the building still wrapped in silence.
That made sense.
College life in America and college life in China had their differences, but some things were universal.
Students everywhere were night owls.
In China, people stayed up late for games, soccer, or nonsense with roommates. Here, you could add one more thing to the list:
Parties.
Americans seemed born with a taste for them. Every weekend there was some excuse for one, and if anything remotely good happened, that was reason enough to start another.
But maybe because of his personality, or maybe because he was a writer at heart, Bruce had never cared much for that kind of thing. Even with the original Bruce's memories, parties still did nothing for him.
He shook the stray thoughts away, straightened his clothes, and headed downstairs.
San Francisco sat on the Pacific and had a Mediterranean climate. Even in mid-April, the weather was no longer cold.
And he was not the only one up early. Plenty of people on campus liked to exercise in the morning, so while Bruce jogged along the tree-lined roads breathing in the fresh air, he was far from alone.
"Bruce?"
Hearing his name, he instinctively turned.
A middle-aged white man in gray athletic wear jogged toward him.
"Coach Dawkins?"
Johnny Dawkins, head coach of Stanford's basketball team.
He had spent ten years as an assistant under Coach K at Duke, had served with Team USA in a leadership role, and carried a solid reputation in American basketball. More importantly, he was a very good coach.
Coach Dawkins looked Bruce over and smiled.
"You look fully recovered."
"I just got out of the hospital a few days ago."
"I know." Dawkins nodded, though there was a trace of regret in his expression. "If you hadn't been hurt and hospitalized, we probably wouldn't have lost that Bay Area matchup to Berkeley in March."
College basketball had no shortage of rivalries.
Duke versus North Carolina was the famous one everybody knew, the kind of matchup that could pull national attention like an NBA Finals game.
Stanford versus Cal was not on that level, but in the Bay Area it still mattered.
To a lot of people, it was more than basketball. Stanford represented elite private education. Berkeley represented the crown jewel of public universities. Their games always carried extra weight.
"We'll have more chances," Bruce said.
"Exactly." Dawkins nodded firmly. "I got more funding approved for the program. This year we're going to bring in some strong recruits out of high school. Add that to the veterans we already have, and next season we're making the Sweet Sixteen."
Looking at the coach's confidence, Bruce hesitated for a moment.
Then he decided not to hide it any longer.
"Coach... I'm sorry, but I'm going to leave the team."
"What?"
Dawkins stopped dead.
After a second of shock, he stared at Bruce.
"You're serious?"
Bruce nodded.
"Why? You're only a junior. Don't tell me you're entering the NBA draft."
As the starting point guard for a strong Stanford team, Bruce was one of the better players in the NCAA. Plenty of agents had already shown interest, and Dawkins knew it.
"No. I'm not going into the NBA." Bruce shook his head. "I'm stepping away because the company I started is entering a rapid growth phase, and I don't have the time or energy to keep balancing both."
If he had not arrived with twenty years of future knowledge in his head, maybe he really would have taken this body, this athletic talent, and tried his luck in the league.
But now?
He had no interest in that path.
Dawkins knew Bruce's academic record well, so the decision did not strike him as completely out of character.
Still, he sighed.
"Looks like I'm going to spend the summer worrying about a point guard."
When he saw the resolve in Bruce's eyes, he gave up trying to argue.
"Bruce, I respect your decision. As your coach, I hope your company succeeds."
"Thank you."
"And don't be a stranger. Come by the team once in a while. This place will always be home to you."
"I will."
After parting ways with Coach Dawkins, Bruce finished his thirty-minute run, grabbed breakfast for two from the dining hall, and brought it back to the dorm.
After a quick wash, he dragged Martin out of bed, and once they finished eating, the two of them drove to the office together.
Martin handled LinkedIn's product development. Tim George managed administration. And because the company was still small, Bruce, who focused mainly on strategic decisions, still had a decent amount of free time.
Almost all of that free time went into writing.
At the moment, it was the only thing he could think of that might realistically bring him serious money.
Besides Pirates of the Caribbean, Fifty Shades of Grey, and The Storied Life of A. J. Fikry, the thing he spent the most time writing was outlines.
The Hunger Games, The Big Bang Theory, The Ferryman.
Any novel, TV series, film, variety show, or game that had left a clear impression in his mind got written down in outline form, before time could blur it and steal it away.
With romance out of the picture and all his focus turned toward the future, Bruce's days became packed and satisfying.
After Martin finished the contact import and group features, LinkedIn's registered user base finally started growing fast.
In just half a month, it tripled.
But by the time the calendar reached the end of April, Bruce had to put LinkedIn on the back burner for a while.