"Roney, you idiot," I muttered under my breath. "What have you built this time?"
The device looked like something out of a science fiction movie—a central chamber surrounded by complex monitoring equipment, tubes filled with what looked like luminescent liquid, and more wires and circuits than I could comprehend. There was even what appeared to be some kind of headset connected to the central chamber.
Just as I reached for the power cable, determined to shut the thing down before it burned through our security deposit, I noticed something alarming. The liquid in the tubes was bubbling more violently, and there was a distinct smell of ozone in the air. The machine was building up to something—something potentially dangerous.
I needed to unplug it now.
The plug seemed stuck, firmly embedded in the power socket. I dropped my laptop bag and positioned myself for better leverage. Just as I gave it a forceful tug, the machine let out a high-pitched whine, and suddenly, a stream of the luminescent liquid sprayed out from one of the tubes, hitting me directly in the face and chest.
The effect was immediate and terrifying. My body went completely numb, as if every nerve ending had been simultaneously disconnected. I couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't even scream. The liquid had a strange, metallic taste, and I could feel it spreading through my system like ice-cold fire.
My legs gave out, and I collapsed backward. By sheer unlucky coincidence, I fell directly into what I now realized was the chamber component of Roney's contraption. As my head hit the cushioned interior, the neuro-link headset automatically adjusted, making contact with my skull.
The last thing I remembered was the sensation of being on the world's most intense amusement park ride—except I was the ride, and reality was spinning away from me at breakneck speed.
There was a brilliant flash of light, a sound like thunder inside my head, and then... nothing.
Beep. Beep. Beep. The rhythmic sound of medical equipment slowly pulled me back to consciousness. My head felt like it had been split open with an axe, every thought accompanied by waves of throbbing pain. The taste in my mouth was awful—metallic and chemical, like I'd been sucking on batteries. "Where am I?" I tried to say, but my voice came out as a croak. I forced my eyes open, expecting to see the familiar ceiling of our apartment or maybe the emergency room of a nearby hospital. Instead, I found myself looking at a ceiling I hadn't seen in over fifteen years—water stains in the exact pattern I remembered from my childhood.
This wasn't right. This couldn't be right.
I turned my head, ignoring the spike of pain, and saw a man talking quietly on an old mobile phone—the kind with physical buttons and a tiny screen. He looked younger than he should, his hair darker, his face less lined. He looked exactly like my father had looked when I was... No. This was impossible.
"Dad?" The word escaped my lips before I could stop it.
He looked up, relief flooding his features. "Jake! You're awake. How are you feeling, beta?" Beta. He hadn't called me that in years.
I tried to sit up, but my body felt wrong. Everything felt wrong. My arms were too short, my voice was too high, and when I looked down at my hands, they were the hands of a child—small, unmarked by the stress and poor habits of my adult life.
The room was exactly as I remembered it from my childhood—the same faded wallpaper, the same old furniture, the same smell of home cooking and incense. But it was impossible. It had to be a dream, a hallucination brought on by whatever chemicals were in Roney's machine.
"The doctor says you had a very high fever," my father continued, pocketing his phone. "Typhoid. We were worried for a while, but your temperature finally broke this morning." Typhoid. I remembered this. I remembered being nine years old, lying in this same bed, feeling like I was going to die. I remembered the fear in my parents' eyes, the whispered conversations about medical bills they couldn't afford, the relief when I finally recovered.
But I also remembered being twenty-six, living in a cramped apartment, drowning in debt and regret. I remembered Roney's machine, the spray of liquid, the sensation of falling...