ALL NOVEL Chapter 1: Chapter:1
The cold air of the early morning bit into John Stein's skin as he walked toward his small apartment, his boots crunching against the gravel road. The faint echo of his steps mingled with the distant sound of laughter and music from the party he had just left. He adjusted the collar of his jacket, the fabric still smelling faintly of beer and cheap cologne. His military service was officially over, and tonight had been a bittersweet celebration of his hard-fought freedom.
Freedom. The word lingered in his mind, a concept he'd fought for overseas but rarely felt in his own life. He thought about what lay ahead—a stable job, saving up for a new car, maybe settling down someday. But for now, he was content. The night was quiet, the stars bright, and the air filled with the promise of something new.
Then it happened.
A shadow moved in the corner of his eye. A flash of metal. The deafening roar of a gunshot shattered the serenity of the moment. Pain exploded in his skull as a bullet tore through his right eye, and he collapsed to the pavement, his vision a blur of red and black.
John gasped, his body wracked with agony as his mind raced. "Why?" he wanted to scream, but no sound came. His thoughts were a chaotic storm of regret, confusion, and fear. He felt the warm, sticky blood pooling beneath him, the cold pavement against his cheek, and the distant echo of panicked voices. His breath came in shallow gasps, his chest heaving as the world dimmed around him.
"This is it," he thought bitterly. "So much for freedom."
The last thing he saw was the faint outline of his home, the place he'd been walking toward just moments ago. A cruel joke, to die within sight of the life he had fought so hard to build.
And then... nothing.
A faint, rhythmic creaking broke the silence. John stirred, his senses sluggish and uncooperative. His first thought was that he was in a hospital—perhaps he'd survived. But as he opened his eyes, the light streaming through a nearby window revealed an unfamiliar sight.
The room was quaint, almost antiquated, with wooden furniture and floral wallpaper that looked like it belonged in a museum. A cup and saucer sat on a nearby desk, the remnants of tea long since dried. Dust motes floated lazily in the sunlight.
John blinked, his head pounding. He tried to sit up but was immediately struck by a wave of nausea. His body felt... wrong. Smaller, weaker. He looked down at his hands, which were pale and thin, the nails slightly chewed. These were not his hands.
Panic surged through him as fragmented memories began to surface—memories that were not his own. A boy's voice, a woman's laugh, the scent of damp earth after rain. He clutched his head, trying to make sense of the jumble of images and emotions.
"Steven Hart," he muttered, the name slipping from his lips like a long-forgotten secret. "That's... me?"
The realization hit him like a freight train. He was no longer John Stein, the battle-hardened soldier. He was someone else entirely—a boy named Steven Hart. And if the fragments of memory were to be believed, this boy had been bedridden with a fever for days, his fragile body teetering on the edge of life and death.
As the headache subsided, John—or Steven, as he now was—began to piece things together. He reached for the journal on the desk, flipping through its pages. The handwriting was shaky but legible, filled with mundane details about school and family life. Nothing extraordinary. Just a normal, quiet existence.
Then he noticed the date.
"1991?" he whispered, his heart pounding. "No way..."
He did the math quickly, his military-trained mind snapping into focus. If this was 1991, then he was sitting on a goldmine of future knowledge. The internet boom, the rise of tech giants, the collapse of old industries—it was all fresh in his mind. Stocks. Investments. Ideas.
His fever-addled brain buzzed with possibilities. Forget fighting wars or risking his life—this was his second chance. He could build an empire, create the kind of wealth that could change the world.
As he leaned back on the bed, a small smile tugged at his lips. "Steven Hart, the billionaire," he mused. The idea was ridiculous, yet exhilarating. He was no longer bound by the constraints of his old life. Here, in this new world, he could be anything.and to not die like a dog for freedom.
But first, he needed rest. The fever still lingered, his body weak and trembling. He closed his eyes, letting the weight of exhaustion pull him under. Tomorrow was his eleventh birthday—a day that marked the end of one chapter and the beginning of another.
And as sleep claimed him.