"Why do you look like you lost a fight with a vending machine?"
Zara's voice hit Marcus before he even entered the front door. His little sister was sprawled across their worn couch, homework scattered around her like battle plans. At nine years old, she was already too smart for her own good.
Marcus touched his cheek where Jamal's glove had tagged him. The skin was tender, likely showing color by now.
"Training," he said, dropping his gym bag by the door.
"Training for what? Getting punched in the face?"
He almost smiled. Almost. "Something like that."
Zara studied him with those sharp eyes that missed nothing. In his earlier life, he had barely paid attention to her, too wrapped up in his own failures to notice she was growing up. Now, he saw everything—how she chewed her pencil when deep in thought, how she always saved him the last piece of bread, the worry lines that shouldn't exist on a nine-year-old's face.
"You're different," she said finally.
"Different how?"
"Quieter. But not sad-quiet. More like… focused-quiet."
Marcus felt a twist in his chest. Even as a child, Zara had seen through him better than anyone.
"Just growing up, I guess."
She snorted. "Yesterday, you threw a tantrum because Mama made you take out the trash. Today, you look like you could take out the trash and the whole building."
He ruffled her hair, ignoring the ache in his shoulders. "Don't stay up too late with your homework."
"Don't tell me what to do, you walking bruise."
But she was smiling when she said it.
Marcus climbed the narrow stairs to their shared bedroom. The apartment felt smaller than he remembered—cramped, with thinner walls. He could hear their mother moving around in the kitchen below, probably starting dinner after her double shift at the hospital.
In his earlier life, he had taken all this for granted: the sacrifices, the late nights, the way Mama never complained even when the bills piled up and his boxing dreams drained the family's resources.
Not this time.
He collapsed onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. Water stains mapped out continents he'd never visit. The ache in his arms was familiar now, but different. This time, it meant something.
This time, it was progress.
The system's glow lingered faintly in the corner of his vision. Waiting. Always waiting. Like I knew he was thinking about it.
What was it, really? Some kind of alien technology? Magic? A hallucination brought on by brain damage?
Did it matter?
It worked. That was enough.
Marcus closed his eyes and let exhaustion take over.
───────────────────────────────
A soft chime echoed in his mind. An electronic whisper:
Daily Training Mission Available.
[Jog 3 km – Reward: Stamina +1 | Penalty: Numbness]
Marcus cracked open his eyes. It was 5:47 AM. The apartment was silent except for the radiator's death rattle and Zara's soft breathing from the other bed.
He sat up slowly, testing his body. His ribs were tender but functional, and his shoulders were stiff yet mobile. Better than he'd expect
In his earlier life, he had hated running, viewing it as punishment—something to endure between real training. Now, he understood what he had been missing.
Everything connected. Roadwork built the engine that powered everything else. No shortcuts. No excuses.
Marcus tied his shoes in the dark and slipped into the misty Rotterdam morning.
The streetlights were still on, casting yellow pools across empty sidewalks. His breath fogged in the cold air. The same streets he had grown up on felt different now—smaller, as if he had outgrown them.
A flash of memory hit him—running these roads in his earlier life at seventeen, eighteen, nineteen. He had gone through the motions because Coach Ruud said he had to, without any real purpose or understanding of why it mattered.
His dreams had already been dying then; he hadn't admitted it yet.
This time was different.
Marcus settled into a leisurely pace, his feet finding their rhythm on the cobblestones. His young lungs greedily pulled in the cold air. His legs felt strong and eager. This body wanted to run.
Three kilometers later, he was back home, sweating but not winded. The system chimed softly.
Mission Complete. Stamina +1.
One step closer. One slight improvement in a journey that would take years.
But he had time now. All the time in the world.
───────────────────────────────
School felt like walking through a museum of his own past.
Marcus pushed through the front doors of Erasmus College Zuid, feeling dozens of eyes tracking his movement. Conversations halted mid-sentence. Someone whispered his name.
He had been different yesterday, too, but not like this. He was not focused, not present.
He had been loud here in his earlier life—the class clown, always seeking attention, desperate to prove he mattered. He got into fights not because he was tough, but because he was scared.
Now, he moved through the hallways like water—quiet and deliberate. The kids stepped aside without knowing why.
"Marcus."
He turned to see Ms. van Leeuwen, his homeroom teacher. She had sharp eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses and prematurely gray hair pulled back in a severe bun. Once, she had tried to help him, to make him see that boxing wouldn't save him.
She had been right, but for the wrong reasons.
"You look… different today," she said carefully.
"Different how?"
"Calmer. More focused." She paused. "Are you alright?"
The question caught him off guard. When was the last time someone asked if he was alright and wanted an answer?
"I'm good, Ms. van Leeuwen. Better than good."
She nodded slowly, but he could see the concern in her eyes. Teachers are always worried when quiet kids get quieter.
"My door's always open if you need to talk."
He almost told her then—almost spilled everything: the death, the regression, the impossible second chance. But what would be the point? She'd think he was having a breakdown. Maybe he was.
"Thanks. I'll remember that."
PE class was where the fundamental changes showed.
Marcus had always been decent at sports—he had good hand-eye coordination and natural reflexes—but he had never applied himself, never pushed beyond the minimum required to pass.
Today was different.
The teacher, Mr. Hendriks, set up an agility course—basic stuff: cones to weave through, hurdles to jump, and target practice with soccer balls.
Marcus went first.
His feet found the perfect line through the cones. Not a single one was touched. The hurdles felt like speed bumps. His shots hit the target with mechanical precision.
When he finished, the gym fell silent.
"Marcus…" Mr. Hendriks stared at his stopwatch as if it were broken. "That footwork's tight. You sure you've never boxed before?"
Marcus shrugged, fighting to keep his expression neutral. "Just messing around at home sometimes."
But the damage was done. Kids were staring now, whispering. Word would spread, as it always did in schools like this.
He kept his head down for the rest of class.
───────────────────────────────
Lunch period. The cafeteria buzzed with teenage energy and the smell of overcooked vegetables.
Marcus grabbed his tray and scanned the room for a quiet place to sit. Then he saw it.
Aaron Kowalski was backed against the wall near the vending machines, and three older kids surrounded him like sharks. Marcus recognized the leader, Rick Meijer. He was big for his age, held back a year, and always looked for someone smaller to intimidate.
In his earlier life, Marcus ignored this kind of thing. It was not his problem, not his business.
But Aaron was different. He had been Marcus's closest friend once, before boxing consumed everything, before Marcus chose dreams over friendship and lost both.
Marcus set down his tray and walked over.
"Stop."
Just one word. Calm. Quiet. But something in his voice made all four boys freeze. Rick turned, scowling. "Mind your own business, Dorsey."
Marcus didn't raise his voice or clench his fists. He didn't need to. His eyes did all the talking.
They were the eyes of someone who had been hurt professionally, who had learned to hurt back, who understood violence in ways these kids couldn't imagine.
Rick's scowl faltered. He took a step back without realizing it.
"We're just talking," he said, but the words came out weak.
"Conversation's over."
Marcus stepped between Rick and Aaron. Not aggressive—just present, like a wall that had suddenly materialized.
Rick looked at his friends, then back at Marcus. Whatever he saw there made him think better of pushing the issue.
"Whatever, man. He's not worth it anyway."
They walked away, trying to look casual but failing.
Aaron stared up at Marcus with wide eyes. "Thanks, but you didn't have to—"
"Yeah, I did."
Marcus helped Aaron gather his scattered books. His friend-a former friend and a future friend—was trembling slightly.
"Want to sit together?" Aaron asked hopefully.
Marcus almost said yes. Almost fell back into the easy friendship they'd shared as kids.
But that wouldn't be fair, not to Aaron, not to himself. Marcus was carrying twenty-six years of experience, twenty-six years of pain. He wasn't really sixteen anymore, no matter what his body looked like.
"Maybe tomorrow," he said instead. "Got some stuff to think about."
Aaron nodded, disappointment flickering in his eyes, but he understood. He had always been good at reading people.
Another thing Marcus had forgotten.
───────────────────────────────
The gym welcomed him back like an old friend.
De Haven Boxing Club in the afternoon light—dust motes danced in the air, heavy bags swayed gently from the morning sessions, and the smell of leather and honest sweat filled the space.
Coach Ruud was waiting for him.
"Still walking? Good. Let's see what you've really got today."
Training began with the basics: jab, cross, hook. Footwork drills. Body shots on the heavy bag. Everything Marcus had done a thousand times before, but this time it was with purpose.
His form was crisp and precise. Each punch was thrown with intention instead of hope.
The other kids noticed. Jamal watched from across the gym, working the speed bag but stealing glances. A few others had stopped their own training to observe.
"Keep your elbow in on that hook," Ruud called out. "Perfect. Again."
Marcus obliged, throwing the punch exactly as requested. The bag exploded away from his glove.
"Where did you learn to hit like that?" one of the kids asked.
Marcus shrugged. "Just trying to do what Coach says."
But that wasn't entirely true. The system was helping, feeding him micro-corrections and improvements in real time—not enough to make him superhuman, but enough to accelerate his learning.
The UI updated quietly during a water break:
─────────── SYSTEM UPDATE ────────
Basic Jab: +3 Progress → Level 2 Unlocked
Stamina: +1
Footwork: +1
Strength: +1
Power: +1
Note: Stat growth occurs when training intensity and repetition align with potential.
───────────────────────────────
Level 2. Progress. He could feel a measurable improvement in his muscles, timing, and confidence.
He had been missing this in his earlier life—not talent—he had enough of that—but purpose, understanding, and the knowledge that every drop of sweat was building toward something meaningful.
Coach Ruud gathered the younger boxers around the ring as training wound down. Eight, aged fifteen to seventeen, were the future of De Haven's amateur program.
Marcus found himself standing next to Jamal, who nodded respectfully. Yesterday's sparring session had earned him that much.
"Next month," Ruud began, his voice carrying across the suddenly quiet gym, "we'll be sending two names to the regional youth qualifier."
The words hit Marcus like a physical blow. The regionals. He remembered this from his earlier life. He had been so nervous he'd thrown up before his fight, losing in the second round to some kid from Amsterdam he should have beaten easily.
One of many failures that had started his long slide toward mediocrity.
"That means eight of you will fight. In this gym. Against each other."
Murmurs rippled through the group, excitement mixing with anxiety. These kids had trained together, sweated together, and become friends. Now they would have to hurt each other for a chance at something bigger.
Marcus felt the familiar pre-fight flutter in his stomach, but this time it was different. This time, he knew what he was capable of.
This time, he wouldn't waste the opportunity.
Ruud's eyes swept across the assembled fighters, lingering momentarily on Marcus.
"Hope you're ready. Because this time, it's real."