The first thing Ethan Vale noticed… was the ceiling.
Cracked white paint, a patch of mold spreading like rot across one corner. And faint, faded glow-in-the-dark stars clinging to the plaster like forgotten dreams—half-peeled and utterly useless. Then came the second thing:
The cold.
Not the sterile kind from air conditioning. This was the cold of poverty. A biting draft that slithered in from a warped window frame. A thin, pilled blanket offered no protection. It was the kind of chill that reminded you—you were no one.
He sat up slowly, pupils sharpening like a blade sliding from its sheath. His eyes scanned the room: faux wood-paneled walls, a secondhand desk scarred by cigarette burns, a cracked dresser with a mirror that barely clung to its screws. His breath came out in visible puffs.
Then he saw the calendar.
A flimsy, corner-store dentist freebie tacked crookedly to the wall.
March 4th, 2042.
Except… no.
His breath hitched. His throat closed.
"No…" he rasped. He stumbled closer, eyes wide. "October 21st, 2022."
His legs buckled. He gripped the wall for balance.
The adrenaline slammed into him like a drug. He stumbled to the mirror. What stared back wasn't the man he remembered—the predator who owned boardrooms and stared down oligarchs.
No.
The reflection was younger. Skin smooth. Jawline still forming. Eyes wide, but lacking the venom they would one day hold. No beard. No scars. No weight of consequence behind his stare.
He was twenty again.
His heart hammered in his chest, and for a moment the silence in the room felt deafening.
Memories surged. Blood on carpet. Marble floor. Moscow skies. Gunshots in a luxury suite. Betrayal by men he once called allies. A final whisper before his pulse gave out:
"You were ten moves ahead, Ethan. But someone else was eleven."
---
Now he was back.
Back in this damp room. A third-year dropout with nothing but debt, dreams, and the scent of rot in the drywall.
He staggered to the drawer, grabbed a battered phone with a cracked screen and no biometric lock. It lit up instantly.
No money. No apps. No hope.
Then the messages came.
> [MOM]: "Ethan, the rent's due Friday. Can you cover the electric? I'll come stay a few days…"
> [LIORA]: "We need to talk. I can't keep doing this."
He flinched.
Liora. The girl who left just when he needed stability. She'd walk away again in two weeks. He knew the script. Every argument. Every teardrop. Every unfinished apology.
But this time...
"Not this time."
He exhaled slowly, like a fighter calming his heartbeat before the kill.
The emotions that once paralyzed him were now… data. Patterns. Tools. Every betrayal had carved clarity into his bones. Every mistake had taught him something the world's best universities couldn't.
He was no longer a boy chasing comfort.
He was a man sharpening chaos into a weapon.
---
He opened the closet. The same three cheap shirts. Two pairs of jeans. A jacket that smelled like depression and fast food.
He dressed with mechanical precision. Socks. Laces. Folded cuffs. Then he pulled open the desk drawer and retrieved a worn leather notebook—the same one he'd used to doodle business ideas before everything collapsed.
But this time, the pen didn't hesitate.
He flipped to a clean page and wrote in sharp, controlled strokes:
---
THE CODE: DAY 1
– ETHAN VALE –
---
RULES:
1. No friends until you hold leverage.
2. No relationships until you're untouchable.
3. Train daily. Lift like your bones depend on it.
4. Two jobs. One business. Every hour monetized.
5. Master money. Markets. Real estate. Arbitrage.
6. Control desire. Starve the weakness.
7. Track data. Sleep, diet, actions, results.
8. Silence over boasting. Victory whispers.
9. Study power. Psychology. Persuasion. Warfare.
10. Never forget: The world lied to you. Rewrite the script.
---
His stomach growled, feral and hollow.
No breakfast. Not a dollar to spare.
Good. **Hunger