**[Author's Note: This chapter is subject to change and may be rewritten if I identify areas for improvement. Please leave comments on what could be enhanced, and feel free to suggest what the protagonist should theoretically be able to achieve with his IQ. (Side note: Einstein's IQ was around 160, not 180—just a fun fact!)]**
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*Wow, we're back to the starting point. It seems I truly was dreaming. Ah, home sweet home.*
I wake up to a familiar ceiling—the ceiling of my room back on Earth. It feels like I'm dreaming, but not because of homesickness. No, this feels different. I throw off the blanket (did I even put it on myself?) and stumble toward the bathroom. Staring at my reflection, I feel a strange sense of loss. Why? Was I getting used to my life *there*, or did I not truly want to return to Earth? I'm not sure.
After washing my face and going through my usual morning routine, I head to the kitchen. The fridge greets me with half a dozen eggs, bread, jam, and tea. But before I start cooking, I realize I should probably find my phone. I glance around frantically and spot it on the table beside my bed. Picking it up, I check the date and time: June 18, 2016, 1:56 PM. Wait, 2016? That's… tomorrow by Earth's standards. Interesting. Time must flow faster *there* than here. Good to know.
*[Apparently, not dreaming.]*
Unlocking my phone, I dive into a rabbit hole of research: how to make a gun, a phone, a laptop, a car, and even how the internet works. As I turn toward the fridge to grab the bread and jam, I stub my toe on the cupboard. Pain shoots through my foot, and I drop my phone in shock. "NOO!" I shout, watching it fall. The last last thing I see on the screen is my personal project from two years ago—the Reynold Serum.
Yes, you guessed it—it's inspired by the super-soldier serum from *Captain America*. My version was supposed to grant strength comparable to an ant, a jellyfish's healing factor, and the ability to produce webs from my wrists (unlike Spider-Man, who had to synthesize his chemically). It also theorized unlocking my brain's full potential temporarily without causing harm. Of course, it was all theoretical—never tested, never proven. For all I know, it could've been a deadly poison.
As I wallow in pain, memories of my research flash before my eyes. Then, suddenly, I wake up again—under an unfamiliar yet familiar ceiling, with that damn jug splashing water all over me. *Curses.*
Now, you might be wondering how I even got into this mess. How did I, a self-proclaimed lazy person, come up with such an elaborate theory? Let's rewind a bit—no, let's go back even further—to when this all started.
I was 12 when I first became fascinated with female sociology and psychology. I know, it sounds unrelated, but bear with me. My curiosity was sparked by the age-old saying, "Only a woman can understand a woman," and the idea that "understanding women is impossible for men." To me, that sounded like like an excuse from people who'd given up. So, I dove headfirst into studying sociology, psychology, and even etiquette for women.
Sure, these topics were irrelevant to my dream of becoming a doctor, but I didn't care. I spent hours talking to girls of all ages online, trying to figure out how to interact with them. Surprisingly, I succeeded. Some of my female friends even joked that I might secretly be a girl. But that's beside the point.
From there, I became obsessed with creating a psychological test to gauge people's emotions and daily experiences. I developed a survey and tested it on my friends, teachers, and even strangers. It worked about 90% of the time, which I considered a success. The problem? I had no idea I could've submitted my research to an organization for verification or even earned a degree for it. I only realized that in university, thanks to a friend who asked, "Wait, you didn't know?" So yeah, I was either hyper-focused or painfully ignorant. Probably both.
Now, back to the present. I'm here again, and it feels like I truly did travel back to Earth. It's unsettling, as if some higher power—God or the Devil—was listening in. Honestly, it creeps me out. I freaked out and started crying, though the tears were mostly from the water the jug splashed on me. I had to call my mom to help me change.
Speaking of which, why does my mom handle my clothes and baths herself? We have maids in the house, so why doesn't she delegate? Is it because she wants to do it herself? Or are the maids untrustworthy? Or—and this is a wild thought—is she actually a maid herself, unable to order the others? I have no proof, just endless questions and theories.
Anyway, it's time for me to sleep. Goodbye for now, and I hope you don't mind my rambling and out-of-context references. Oh, who am I kidding? I love talking to myself. (Please note the sarcasm and carry on with your life.)
Chris has been knocked unconscious. *zzz.*