"I need a ride, man."
Evan's voice came through strained and hollow, barely masking the tremble underneath.
He stood hunched in a fogged-up phone booth, the cheap plastic walls smeared with grime and graffiti.
One hand held the receiver tightly to his ear, the other trying to keep his cracked XPhone 7 balanced on top of the utility box inside — its screen was fractured and full of ink, a casualty from when the security guards dumped him out like trash earlier.
On the other end of the line, Morty exhaled through his nose.
"Shit. You okay, man? You sound like someone took a bat to your soul."
"Feels like they did," Evan muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
His eyes were red, not from tears but from fatigue. "They kicked me out, Morty. Just like that."
Morty didn't respond immediately.
They had known each other since high school, through every scraped knee and bad haircut, through years of struggle and broken dreams.
Morty had warned him about Crawford more times than he could count.
"I'm not even surprised," Morty said finally. "I told you Crawford was a snake in a fifty-thousand-dollar suit."
Evan smiled faintly, bitter. "Yeah. You did."
"Where are you?"
"Corner of Vex and Marlow. Near that 24-hour bodega. Right across from the old radio tower."
"I'm twenty out. Stay there."
The line went dead.
Evan placed the receiver back onto the hook and stepped outside the booth. The wind was colder now, biting through his thin shirt.
The city buzzed around him, a collage of glowing advertisements, honking cars, and people who didn't know or care that a man had just lost everything.
Twenty-five minutes later, a beat-up red sedan rolled into view, headlights cutting through the dusk like tired eyes.
Morty leaned out the window, thick glasses sliding down his nose, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
"Get in, failure," he said with a half-grin.
Evan opened the door and slumped into the passenger seat. The inside of the car smelled like stale pizza and pine-scented air freshener.
The dashboard was held together by duct tape.
Very Familiar.
As Morty pulled back into traffic, Evan leaned his head against the window. The city lights passed by in blurred smudges.
"You wanna tell me what happened?" Morty asked.
Evan nodded and began to talk.
He told him everything — about the script, the late nights, the mockery, Crawford's smug face, the guards, the dismissal.
By the time he was done, Morty was gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than before.
"You really worked yourself into the ground for that company," Morty muttered. "And they just… tossed you."
Evan didn't answer. There wasn't much left to say.
Morty sighed. "Look, you don't need to decide anything tonight. Just come out with me and the guys later, alright? Nothing fancy. Just drinks, laughs, bad music. It'll clear your head."
"I don't know…"
Morty glanced at him. "When was the last time you even went out for fun?"
Evan looked out the window. "A year. Maybe more."
"Then you're overdue."
...
By 8:30 that evening, Evan found himself sitting in the back corner of a dimly lit bar called The Hollow Tap.
Neon lights flickered above the counter, casting everything in shades of deep blue and electric red.
The air was thick with alcohol, fried food, and the kind of laughter that only came from half-drunk men trying to forget their problems.
And for tonight, he was one of those drunk men.
Morty and three other guys from the neighborhood were already a few drinks in.
Evan wasn't really in the mood to socialize, but after the second glass of whiskey, his limbs began to loosen.
By the fourth, he was laughing — though he didn't remember what at.
By the fifth, he didn't care.
Someone declared a drinking contest.
Another bought a round of shots. Glasses clinked. Music blasted. Evan lost track of time.
It wasn't celebration. It was escape.
Anger simmered in his chest — hot and bitter and raw. He wanted to scream, to throw something, to burn the entire world down.
Instead, he drowned that feeling in whiskey and the meaningless company of half-forgotten acquaintances.
...
He woke up, the others were slumped on the table, the bottles littering it. They had really drunk a lot.
He stumbled out of the bar at just past 1 a.m.
The air was sharp now, cutting through his sweat-soaked shirt. He staggered forward, hands fumbling at the sides of his coat for balance.
The streets were quieter, but the city never really slept.
Evan leaned against a lamp post, panting.
His breath came out in uneven huffs, his mind spinning from the alcohol and the lingering anger.
"Crawford… bastard…" he slurred. "I made them. I built them. Without me, they were nothing."
His knees buckled slightly, and he caught himself on the edge of a mailbox.
His head ached. His limbs were heavy.
And then —
He saw it.
Floating in front of him.
A translucent screen.
Not on a phone.
Not on a projector.
But right there — hovering mid-air like a digital ghost.
『Do you believe in Regression?』
Evan blinked. He rubbed his eyes.
The screen didn't vanish.
It flickered faintly, as though waiting for input.
『Yes』『No』
He stared, uncomprehending.
"Wh-What the hell…?"
He reached out instinctively, fingers trembling, and brushed the air. Nothing physical, yet somehow the screen responded.
The words shifted.
『Do you wish to return?』
『Do you wish to rewrite everything?』
『You have been acknowledged by the Talent Appraisal System.』
『Regression in progress…』
Evan's mouth moved, but no sound came out.
His surroundings began to distort — like reality itself was being crumpled and redrawn.
The street dissolved into nothing.
The pain in his body evaporated.
The chill vanished.
The city lights dimmed into stars, and then even those disappeared.
There was only black.
He heard his own voice through the darkness.
"If I could do it over again…"
And something answered.
『Resetting timeline to 5 years prior.』
『Calibrating Talent Detection System…』
『Scanning host consciousness…』
『Welcome, Evan Cole. Your second life begins now.』