The burning. That was the last thing Michael Oliver remembered. The slow, agonizing crawl of the poison Ashley had slipped into his whiskey. For three miserable years, it had eaten him from the inside out, turning a feared 1980s sovereign warlord into a wheezing phantom. He remembered the exact look on Ashley’s face—that smug, cold smirk as he watched Michael gasp for air, knowing he had already sent his men to wipe out Michael's entire family. No heirs. No legacy. Nothing left but ashes.Then, total darkness.Gasp.Michael’s eyes snapped open. He violently clutched his chest, his fingers digging into fabric. But the excruciating burn was gone. The ragged, dying breath he expected was replaced by a deep, perfectly clear lungful of air.He wasn't on his mahogany deathbed. He wasn't even in his era."What in the hell..." Michael muttered, his voice sounding completely different. It was higher, lighter, devoid of the gravelly rasp of a seasoned commander.He stared down at his hands. T

Michael tore himself away from the mirror. He adjusted the ridiculous, wide lapels of his oversized jacket, and continued toward the main exit.To get to the elevators, however, he had to walk directly past the premium corporate lounges. This was the territory of the high-level corporate ladder climbers—the senior traders, risk analysts, and marketing executives who wore custom-tailored smart-suits that shimmered with micro-LED threads. They were the golden children of the Platinum Group, and they spent their breaks sipping neon-colored energy drinks and laughing at the lower-tier employees.As Michael walked past, his clunky, heavy-heeled 80s shoes clicking loudly on the floor, the lounge grew quiet. Then, the snickering started."Hey, look! The trash from accounting is wandering out into the sun!"A loud, mocking laugh boomed from the center of the lounge. It came from a senior trader leaning against a glass railing. The man had a smug face, a perfectly styled haircut, and he was

Michael walked back into the open-floor office of the Platinum Group of Companies. The heavy, warm food box was gripped tightly in his left hand, but he wasn't thinking about the grilled meat anymore. His mind was spinning from the name printed on that glowing metallic card resting deep inside his pocket.‘Serena London. Chief Operations Manager, Vance Global.’He sat down in his cramped cubicle. The blue neon lights overhead flickered quietly, casting a pale glow across his cheap desk. He set the food box aside and stared at the transparent glass terminal in front of him. To a regular man from the 1980s, this technology would be a terrifying nightmare. Floating 3D data streams pulse in mid-air. Light-nodes wave gently, waiting for a human touch to expand them into massive sheets of information. The user interface was completely smooth, completely digital, and completely alien compared to the clunky, static green-text monitors Michael had used to manage his multi-million dollar sh

The apartment was stunning. It featured minimalist design, clean white leather furniture, and a massive glass wall that showed a breathtaking view of the glowing Lagos skyline. It was silent, peaceful, and smelled faintly of expensive lavender oil.Michael walked in, his heavy shoes tracking a bit of dust onto the clean floor. He sat down on the edge of a sleek, modern white couch, keeping his posture perfectly straight despite his physical exhaustion.Serena walked into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a glass of warm water, handing it to him. She sat down on an armchair opposite him, crossing her legs, her sharp eyes studying every inch of his face."Alright," Serena said, her voice serious and demanding. "Talk to me. You look like a twenty-year-old kid who just failed his basic corporate entry exams, but when you speak, you sound like... I don't even know. Who are you? What happened to you today?"Michael took a slow sip of the water, feeling the warmth spread through h

At sleep Michael had a dream, the dream always started with the smell of burning copper and the bitter taste of almonds on the back of his tongue.Michael was on the floor. The marble tiles of his own living room felt freezing against his cheek, but his chest was on fire. He couldn't move his legs. Above him stood Ashley, his face cast in shadow, holding an empty vial. His laughter didn't sound human; it echoed like tearing metal. Behind him, his family lay still, their faces blurred out by a terrifying gray mist. His bank accounts, his real estate holdings, his life's work—all of it was being sucked into a digital vortex on a massive screen behind her head.“You were always too soft, Michael,” his voice hissed, vibrating through his teeth. “A good auditor, maybe. But a terrible player.”He tried to scream, but only black fluid spilled from his lips. He had been dead for three months. He could feel the rot in his bones. He could feel the absolute finality of his failure.Then, the dar