Chapter 1: The Hit and Run
"Damn it... the lighting in this frame is still off."
Lucas Grey stared at his monitor, his eyelids feeling as heavy as lead weights. His stylus dragged mechanically across the surface of his Wacom tablet.
He was a bottom-tier grunt at a generic animation studio in Los Angeles.
He had been pulling overtime for three consecutive days. The deadline for the new episode was tomorrow, and the art director was riding him like a jockey on a losing horse. Lucas hadn't even had time to take a sip of water, let alone sleep.
The next instant, a sharp, twisting pain seized his heart. His vision went black, and the storyboard on his screen warped into a blur of meaningless light.
Lucas tried to call for help, but his throat felt plugged with cotton. His body went rigid and toppled sideways, hitting the floor with a dull thud. His consciousness sank rapidly into the abyss.
Holy shit... is this it? Karoshi? Death by overwork?
Wait... hold on! God, please, if you're listening, fry my hard drive! The ten terabytes of "study material"—delete it! Wipe my browser history! I beg you!
That was Lucas Grey's final thought.
Parallel World. Los Angeles, California.
When Lucas opened his eyes again, the stinging scent of cheap rubbing alcohol mixed with the greasy aroma of stale food assaulted his nose. His head throbbed as if someone had taken a baseball bat to his skull three times in a row.
"Lucas? Are you alive over there? You gonna drink more or what?"
Someone shoved his shoulder, the tone laced with mockery.
Lucas shook his head, taking a long moment to blink away the blurriness.
He was in a private booth at a mid-tier restaurant. The air was thick with smoke, the table cluttered with empty beer bottles and dirty plates. A group of young adults sat around him, raucous and loud. It was clearly a party.
This wasn't his office. It wasn't his cramped apartment.
Suddenly, countless fragments of unfamiliar memories flooded his brain, causing him to wince in pain.
This was Earth—but a parallel version of it.
His identity here was still Lucas Grey. He was eighteen years old, fresh out of high school. His grades were mediocre, his personality introverted and cowardly. His one obsession was becoming a graphic novelist, but his skills were garbage; every publisher he'd submitted to had rejected him.
Currently, he was at his high school graduation dinner.
"Well, look who's back from the dead. Our big-shot artist is awake."
An arrogant voice cut through the noise, dripping with undisguised sarcasm.
Lucas turned toward the sound.
The speaker was Braden Thorne, the class's resident rich kid. Relying on his family's money, Braden had walked through high school like he owned the place, and he had never missed an opportunity to torment Lucas.
According to the memories settling in Lucas's mind, Braden had just intentionally brought up Lucas's rejected manuscripts, mocking him for having delusions of grandeur. The old Lucas had tried to defend himself, only for Braden's lackeys to jeer and pressure him into downing several shots of cheap vodka.
He had passed out on the table, and when he woke up, he was the Lucas from Earth.
"Braden, don't be like that. Lucas has dreams, you know," a girl sitting next to Braden said softly, her voice sugary sweet.
This was Emily Vance, the class beauty. She was objectively stunning—doe eyes, porcelain skin, and a smile that revealed two charming dimples.
The original Lucas had crushed on her for three years. She was his "white moonlight," his untouchable ideal. He had once stayed up for three nights straight to draw a portrait for her birthday.
Emily had accepted it with a smile, then tossed it in the trash the moment she turned the corner.
As Lucas processed this memory, he sneered internally.
Back on Earth, hadn't he seen enough of this type? Emily was a textbook manipulator—gentle on the surface, but keeping a roster of guys on the hook just for the attention. The original Lucas had been blinded by love, seeing her through rose-tinted glasses. But with those glasses shattered, Lucas only found her hypocrisy nauseating.
"Dreams?" Braden scoffed. He reached out and patted Lucas's cheek—hard. It was a gesture meant to humiliate. "Lucas, I'm telling you this for your own good. You can't eat drawings. Look at you. You're wearing Goodwill rejects. I bet you can't even pull a hundred bucks out of your pocket right now."
The lackeys immediately erupted in laughter.
"Seriously, Lucas. Give up the comic book thing. Stick with Braden; maybe he can get you a job as a security guard at one of his dad's warehouses. It pays better than whatever you're doing."
"I heard he can barely afford rent. Talking about dreams... It's hilarious."
The words were like needles aimed at the original Lucas's self-esteem. But the new Lucas felt nothing.
He had already died once. In his past life, he had been screamed at by directors and abused by clients. Compared to that, a bunch of teenagers running their mouths was nothing.
But "nothing" didn't mean he was going to take it.
In his previous life, he had swallowed his pride to survive, never standing up for himself once, and he had still ended up dead on an office floor.
If he continued to be a coward in this new life, letting people walk all over him, what was the point of getting a second chance?
Lucas slowly stood up. His expression was dark, his eyes dangerously calm.
He was 5'10". Though thin, the sudden shift in his aura caused the laughter in the booth to die down instantly.
Braden felt a sudden chill. His father had once warned him: Never push a man who has nothing to lose. When they snap, they don't care about the consequences.
"You... what do you want?" Braden instinctively leaned back, his arrogance faltering.
Emily sensed the shift in atmosphere and quickly tugged on Braden's arm before flashing a gentle smile at Lucas. "Lucas, don't take it to heart. Braden is just joking with you. We're all classmates here; there's no need to ruin the vibe."
"Joking?" Lucas let out a cold laugh. It wasn't loud, but it carried a biting chill. "Treating someone's dreams like a punchline? Trampling on someone's dignity? You call that a joke?"
Emily froze. She hadn't expected the usually spineless Lucas to speak like that. Her smile stiffened, but she kept up the act. "Lucas, are you drunk? Sit down and rest. I'll pour you some water."
"Save it." Lucas didn't bother looking at her. His gaze was locked on Braden.
Seeing their leader hesitate, Braden's lackeys jumped up, trying to regain control. "Lucas, don't be ungrateful! Braden joking with you is giving you respect!"
"Yeah, apologize to Braden right now, or you're gonna regret it!"
"Don't think acting tough is going to scare us. We aren't afraid of you!"
Lucas knew the score. With his current physique, he couldn't take three guys in a fistfight. Standing his ground physically would just get him sent to the ER.
But he had decided to be tough, and he wasn't backing down empty-handed.
His eyes scanned the table, landing on a pint glass filled to the brim with amber beer.
"Apologize?"
The corner of Lucas's mouth hooked into a reckless grin. Before anyone could react, he snatched the pint glass and swung his arm forward.
Splash!
He doused Braden Thorne right in the face.
Cold beer cascaded down Braden's expensive haircut, dripping off his nose and chin, leaving him looking like a drowned rat. Foam clung to his eyebrows.
The booth went deathly silent. Everyone was stunned.
Braden sat frozen, his eyes wide in disbelief. He had never expected Lucas to actually do it. In his entire life, no one had ever dared to treat him like this.
"Ah!" Emily shrieked, jumping back to avoid the splash damage.
"You son of a bitch! Are you crazy?!" Braden finally snapped out of it, roaring as he scrambled to stand up.
His lackeys exploded into action, rolling up their sleeves. "You dare touch Braden? Get him!"
Lucas had anticipated this exact outcome. He didn't stick around to admire his handiwork.
The second the lackeys moved, Lucas spun on his heel and bolted. He moved like the wind.
"Stop him! Don't let him leave!" Braden screamed, wiping beer from his eyes.
But the booth was cluttered with chairs and bags. The lackeys stumbled over the obstacles, and by the time they rounded the table, Lucas had already sprinted out of the private room and was halfway to the restaurant's exit.
As he ran, Lucas laughed internally. Act cool, then run like hell. That was exhilarating. Good thing my reflexes are still sharp, or I would have been turned into pulp.
Behind him, he could hear the furious shouts and heavy footsteps of the chase, but Lucas knew this neighborhood. He took a sharp left out the door, weaving through a series of alleys and side streets. Within minutes, he had shaken them completely.
He stopped in a deserted alley, leaning against a graffiti-covered wall to catch his breath. His heart was hammering against his ribs—fear mixed with a potent shot of adrenaline.
It was the first time since waking up—no, the first time in two lifetimes—that he had truly stood up for himself. Even though he had to run away in the end, the feeling of not swallowing his anger was intoxicating.
He looked up at the sky. Twilight was settling over the city.
"Graduation dinner... Well, I guess we're definitely graduating now. Not like I'll see them again," Lucas shrugged, adjusting his jacket. He turned and began walking toward his apartment.
According to his memories, his rental was a twenty-minute walk away. It was in an old, run-down tenement building where the hallways were cluttered with junk, the lights flickered, and the air always smelled of boiled cabbage and mildew.
The original Lucas had dreamed of being an artist, but his skills were trash. The new Lucas, however, was a professional animator. His skills were leagues ahead, but he still needed to figure out his next move in this new world.
Just as he was contemplating his future, a cold, mechanical voice echoed inside his skull:
[Ding! Host soul stabilization detected. Binding conditions met...]
(To be Continued)