Ankit trudged home from college under the dull gray sky of 2027, hands shoved deep in his pockets, mind already drifting toward Free Fire. At twenty-one he was friendly enough when spoken to, but he mostly kept to himself. In his middle-class Indian family, the game was his one real escape. He didn't chat much with random players online; he just played.
He muttered under his breath, "Should I quit FF? It's not fun anymore."
The old rare bundles—Golden Sakura, Golden Hip Hop—were now handed out free in the Gold Shop. New skins felt boring and overpriced. His old squad had drifted away one by one. His laggy Android phone still froze at the worst possible moments—mid-fight, right when he needed to flick. What used to feel like life now felt like a slow, greedy cash grab.
He sighed. Home wasn't far.
He lived with his mother and little sister Sanya. His father had died from COVID in 2021. Ankit helped quietly—cooked dinner sometimes, listened to Sanya's endless school stories with a small, patient smile. That was enough.
After a quick, depressing match (killed by some web-spider character he never even saw coming), he gave up and headed to his part-time job. Finished late, ate alone in his room, scrolled YouTube Shorts until his eyes burned, and collapsed into bed.
Strange noises woke him.
He opened his eyes to soft morning sunlight slanting through familiar curtains. His childhood bedroom. Sanya—much smaller than he remembered—was curled up asleep beside him, breathing softly like a little piglet.
Ankit sat up slowly. The room was exactly as it had been when he was twelve: posters half-peeling from the wall, old cricket bat leaning in the corner, calendar pinned above the desk.
He pinched his arm—hard.
Pain flared. Sharp. Real.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
He looked at the calendar again.
October 8, 2017.
Ten years ago.
He heard footsteps. A voice he hadn't heard in six years called out cheerfully from the hallway.
"Ankit! Sanya! Get up, breakfast is ready!"
His father. Kamal. Alive.
Ankit's throat closed. He curled into a tight ball, pretending to sleep, praying this was a dream that would end if he just stayed still.
The door opened.
"If you're awake, why don't you answer?" His father's voice—loud, warm, annoyed in that familiar, loving way. Then softer, noticing Sanya still snoring. "Let her sleep. Ankit, clean up and come eat."
The door closed.
Ankit stayed frozen for a long minute.
Then he whispered to the empty room:
"What the hell is going on?"
He checked the date again. 2017. His small hands. His childish voice when he tested it.
Disbelief crashed over him like cold water.
This isn't possible.
His chest tightened until breathing hurt. The room seemed to shrink—the posters, the bat, Sanya's soft snores—all of it screamed 2017. Ten years. His father alive in the kitchen. His mother humming while making parathas. Sanya still small enough to fit in his lap.
Everything he had buried came roaring back—every regret, every "if only," every night he fell asleep wishing he could fix it all.
His mind raced.
How? Why me? Is this a dream? No—pain was real. Heartbeat is real. Smell of breakfast is real.
Thoughts piled on thoughts, faster and faster.
Did I die in 2027? No, I went to bed. Just… went to bed. Then this. Time travel? Regression? Like the novels? But no ring, no system panel, no cheat item. Just… me. And that voice. "This is your chance to pioneer. All things are possible." What does that even mean? Pioneer what? Cultivation? Free Fire? The future? How do I—
The questions crashed together, louder, heavier, stacking until his skull felt like it would split open.
Wait… is this really regression? Or have I slipped into a parallel world?
The idea hit him like ice water.
If this was a branched reality, a different timeline… what happened to the family he left behind in 2027? His mother—older, tired, but still smiling every time he came home late. Sanya—already a teenager there, loud and stubborn, always teasing him about his gaming addiction. Were they still out there somewhere? Did they notice he vanished in the middle of the night? Or was there another Ankit in that world, still lying in that same bed, still grinding Free Fire until dawn?
His chest tightened painfully.
What if this world was real, but the one he came from was also real—and he had just… abandoned them?
The thought made his stomach twist. He pictured his mother waking up tomorrow, calling his name, getting no answer. Sanya knocking on his door, annoyed at first, then worried. Then scared.
He pressed his palms harder against his temples, trying to push the image away.
No. Stop.
He forced himself to breathe slowly.
If this is regression—true regression—then that future never happens. Mom never has to bury Dad alone. Sanya never has to grow up without him. I can change it. All of it.
But if it was a parallel world…
He swallowed hard.
Then I'm already too late for them.
The questions clawed at him, louder now, overlapping until his mind felt like it would burst.
Regression or parallel jump? Did I die and reincarnate? Was the voice God, a system, or just my own desperate hallucination? Why me? Why now? What if I can never go back—
"Ankit! Breakfast is getting cold!"
His father's voice boomed from the hallway—loud, warm, annoyed in that familiar, loving way.
Ankit's eyes snapped open.
The storm in his head stuttered, then quieted.
He heard footsteps approaching the door.
Panic spiked—then something steadier rose underneath it.
He wasn't dreaming.
His father was alive.
Sanya was breathing softly behind him.
The calendar on the wall still read October 8, 2017.
And that voice—calm, certain—still echoed faintly in his memory:
This is your chance. All things are possible.
Ankit exhaled shakily.
The questions didn't vanish. They just… waited.
He straightened.
Squared his shoulders.
Took one more slow breath.
Then walked toward the smell of breakfast and the sound of his living family.
Disbelief still churned in his chest, tangled with guilt and fear and a thousand unanswered whys.
But beneath it all—small, stubborn, growing—was something else.
Hope.
Whatever this was—regression, parallel world, miracle, or something stranger—the second chance had begun.
And this time… he wasn't going to waste it.