Chapter 1: The Wake-Up Call

Headlights exploded across the windshield like twin suns. The drunk driver’s truck swerved into my lane on the rain-slick road outside Port Louis, metal screaming, glass shattering. In that frozen heartbeat I tasted every regret—every lonely night, every missed chance, every woman I’d wanted but never claimed. This is it, I thought. I wasted it all. Then nothing. Black.

I jerked upright, gasping, heart hammering against my ribs like it wanted out. Sunlight sliced through cheap plastic blinds, painting stripes across faded posters of half-naked models taped crookedly to the walls—the same ones I used to stroke myself raw to as a horny teenager. My twin bed creaked under me, springs protesting exactly the way I remembered. The sheets smelled like Mom’s lavender laundry detergent, warm and clean and so achingly familiar it hurt. My hands—smooth, unscarred, eighteen-year-old hands—shook as I held them up to the light.

March 12, 2018.

The wall calendar confirmed it in bold red numbers. Eight years. I had died on April 14, 2026, and now I was back. Bitcoin at nine thousand two hundred dollars. Tesla about to moon. OnlyFans exploding in a few years. The 2020 crash I could dodge like a bullet. The AI revolution that would print money for anyone who saw it coming. Every future memory slammed into my skull at once—fortunes made, women taken, empires built—and beneath it all, one single, throbbing certainty.

This time I wouldn’t waste a second.

I swung my legs off the bed, cock already half-hard from the sheer rush of possibility. Downstairs, the clink of dishes and the low hum of the coffee maker pulled me like a magnet. My bare feet padded across the carpet I hadn’t felt in eight years. The house smelled the same—bacon grease, fresh coffee, that faint floral hint of Mom’s body lotion. My pulse roared in my ears.

Mia was in the kitchen first.

Twenty, long black hair spilling down her back in messy waves, wearing nothing but an oversized white t-shirt that barely skimmed the bottom curve of her perfect ass. Years of dance had carved her legs into toned, golden muscle. The thin fabric clung to her full C-cups, nipples already stiff and poking against the cotton like they were begging for attention. She reached for the coffee pot, stretching, and the hem rode higher, flashing the smooth underside of one bare cheek.

My mouth went dry. In my first life I’d jerked off to thoughts of her a thousand times and hated myself after. Not this time.