The shrill cry of my alarm clock cut through the darkness like a saw, dragging me from the depths of what should have been eternal rest. I bolted upright in bed, my hand instinctively flying to my throat where the phantom memory of Daichi's final blow still lingered like a brand. But there was nothing there—no crushed windpipe, no blood, no grinding of shattered bones with every desperate breath.
"What the hell was happening?"
My hands trembled as I stared at them in the pale morning light filtering through curtains I distinctly remembered throwing away during my move to that shitty apartment after college. These weren't the hands of a twenty seven year old man who'd spent years doing construction work and warehouse jobs. These were the soft, unmarked hands of a teenager who'd never done anything more physically demanding than carrying textbooks.
The room around me was wrong too. Not wrong exactly, but old wrong. My teenage bedroom, complete with the anime posters I'd been embarrassed about by age twenty and the pile of boxing magazines scattered across the floor like fallen leaves. The same magazines I'd donated to the local library when I'd finally accepted that I'd never be anything more than an armchair analyst of a sport I'd never have the courage to actually participate in.
But there they were, Floyd Mayweather gracing the cover of Ring Magazine with his trademark smirk, Manny Pacquiao in mid-combination on another, Gennady Golovkin looking like he could punch through a brick wall. All the fighters who'd defined the sport in 2015, when I was seventeen and still believed that watching fights from the safety of my couch was enough.
I stumbled to the mirror above my dresser on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else. The reflection staring back at me was a ghost from my past—seventeen years old, soft-featured, with the kind of gentle eyes that had screamed "victim" to every bully in school. The scar above my left eyebrow from that construction accident three years after graduation was gone. The lines around my eyes from too many sleepless nights working double shifts to make rent had been erased. Even the small chip in my front tooth from when Ryo had "accidentally" elbowed me during PE class was somehow healed.
But the memories remained. Every brutal, horrifying detail of that night in the alley burned in my consciousness like acid poured on an open wound. The sound of Yuki's screams, the feeling of helplessness as my broken body refused to obey my desperate commands, the cold satisfaction in Daichi's eyes as he destroyed everything I cared about. The knowledge of ten years of choices and consequences, of opportunities missed and courage never found, sat in my teenage brain like a tumor made of regret.
"Kai! Get your ass down here before your breakfast gets cold!" Uncle Hiroshi's voice boomed from downstairs, exactly as it had every morning during my senior year of high school. The same gruff affection, the same underlying warmth that he tried to hide behind tough guy posturing, the same unconscious assumption that I would spend the day doing anything except training seriously for the sport that defined his life.
In my original timeline, that assumption had been correct. I'd been content to watch, to analyze, to stay safely on the sidelines while real fighters put their bodies on the line. Even when Uncle Hiroshi had tried to convince me to compete, I'd found excuses. School was too important. I wasn't built for violence. I preferred to keep my brain intact rather than risk it in the ring.
What a fucking coward I'd been.
"Kai!" This time it was Emi's voice drifting up the stairs, musical and bright and innocent in a way that made my chest tighten with emotions I didn't know how to process. In my original timeline, my little sister had grown up to become a pediatrician in Osaka, married to another doctor, living the kind of wonderfully normal life that I'd thought I wanted for myself. She'd been hundreds of miles away when everything went to hell, safe from the consequences of my weakness and poor judgment.
"Uncle says if you don't hurry down, he's going to eat your portion too!" she continued, and I could hear the laughter in her voice. When was the last time I'd heard her laugh like that? When was the last time I'd laughed, for that matter?
"Coming!" I called back, surprised by how strong and clear my voice sounded. How alive.
I pulled on the first clothes I could find—jeans and a t-shirt that somehow still fit my teenage body—and made my way downstairs. Each step took me further from the nightmare of my previous life and deeper into this impossible second chance. The old wooden stairs creaked under my feet in a rhythm I'd forgotten, and the smell of breakfast drifted up to meet me: miso soup and grilled fish, mixed with the rich aroma of Uncle Hiroshi's good coffee. The expensive stuff he'd pretended was just regular beans but only bought when he was feeling optimistic about something.
The kitchen was exactly as I remembered it from my senior year—small and cluttered but somehow cozy, with morning sunlight streaming through the window above the sink and casting everything in a warm, golden glow. Uncle Hiroshi sat at the small table with his newspaper spread in front of him, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose as he scanned the sports section. His hair was still more black than gray, his shoulders still broad and powerful despite being fifteen years past his competitive prime.
"There's our sleeping beauty," he said without looking up from his paper, the corner of his mouth quirking up in the familiar half-smile that had always meant he was in a good mood. "Thought you were going to sleep through your last semester and make me drag you to graduation myself."
Last semester. The words hit me like a physical blow, carrying the weight of everything that was supposed to come next. In just a few months, I would graduate and begin the series of choices that had led me down a path of mediocrity and cowardice. College for a business degree I'd never use, a string of unfulfilling jobs that paid just enough to keep me alive but not enough to make me feel like I was living, years of watching Daichi's rise through the professional boxing ranks while I remained frozen on the sidelines like a statue.
All of it leading inevitably to that alley and the destruction of everything I held dear.
Not this time. This time would be different, even if I had to tear myself apart and rebuild from scratch to make it happen.
"Sorry, Uncle," I said, sliding into my usual chair at the table. The wood was worn smooth by years of family meals, and there was a small ring stain from where Emi had once left a hot mug without a coaster. "Had the weirdest dream last night. Felt more real than anything I've ever experienced."
"Must've been some dream," Emi observed from across the table, studying my face with the kind of sharp, analytical gaze that would make her an excellent doctor someday. "You look different this morning. More... I don't know how to describe it. Focused, maybe? Like you finally woke up after sleeping for years."
She wasn't wrong. Everything felt sharper, clearer, more vivid than I remembered from my teenage years. Colors seemed brighter, sounds more distinct, sensations more immediate. The weight of ten years of future knowledge pressed against the inside of my skull like water behind a cracking dam, threatening to burst through at any moment and flood my consciousness with the accumulated wisdom and regret of a life already lived.
I knew everything that was coming. Every major upset in the boxing world, every new fighter who would emerge to reshape the sport, every innovation in training and technique that wouldn't become mainstream for years. The promotional politics that would create opportunities for those smart enough to recognize them, the financial crashes that would destroy some careers and elevate others, the scandals that would rock the sport to its foundations.
More importantly, I knew exactly when and how Daichi would make his move against anyone who threatened his carefully constructed image.
"So," Uncle Hiroshi folded his newspaper with deliberate precision and fixed me with the kind of direct stare that had made him a dangerous middleweight contender twenty years ago, "you given any more thought to what we've been discussing? About training seriously, I mean. Really training, not just the casual workouts we've been doing."
Here it was. The moment that had sealed my fate as a permanent spectator in my original timeline. Uncle Hiroshi had been pushing me to pursue boxing seriously for months, seeing something in my encyclopedic knowledge of the sport that I'd been too afraid to explore. He'd recognized that my analytical mind could be an asset in the ring, that my ability to break down fighting styles and identify weaknesses could translate into tactical advantages if I ever developed the physical skills to implement them.
I'd turned him down every time, making excuses about school and college applications and my desire for a "normal" life. As if there was anything normal about watching the sport you loved from the outside, never participating, never testing yourself, never discovering what you might be capable of if you had the courage to try.
"Actually, Uncle," I said, watching his weathered face for any sign of surprise, "I've been thinking about it constantly. I want to start training for real. Not just the casual stuff we've been doing, but serious, dedicated training. I want to compete."
The newspaper slipped from his fingers and hit the table with a soft thud. Across from me, I heard Emi's chopsticks clatter against her bowl as she stopped mid bite to stare at me. In all their memories of me—seventeen years of watching me grow up in this house—I had never shown genuine interest in competitive boxing. I was the family bookworm, the one who could analyze any fighter's style down to the smallest detail but had always preferred to keep his own hands clean.
"You're serious about this?" Uncle Hiroshi leaned forward, and I could see hope beginning to kindle in his dark eyes. Hope mixed with curiosity and something that looked almost like recognition, as if he'd been waiting his entire life to hear those words come out of my mouth. "This isn't just some phase brought on by watching too many highlight reels on YouTube?"
"I'm completely serious," I replied, meeting his gaze without flinching. In my previous life, I would have looked away, would have found some excuse to avoid this level of intensity. But that version of me was dead, buried in an alley with the woman he'd failed to protect. "I want to learn everything you can teach me. I want to understand what it really means to step into that ring and fight for something that matters."
And I meant every single word. Not for glory or recognition or even revenge, though the burning desire for justice still pulsed beneath my skin like a second heartbeat. I wanted to become strong enough to protect the people I loved, skilled enough to face any threat that came for them, and fierce enough to make predators like Daichi think twice before targeting innocent people.
"Well, I'll be damned," Uncle Hiroshi sat back in his chair, a slow smile spreading across his face like sunrise. "I was beginning to think I'd have to drag you kicking and screaming into the gym. But I'm warning you, Kai—real training isn't like what you've been doing. It's going to be hard work. Painful work. Are you absolutely sure you're ready for that?"
I thought about Yuki's screams echoing off the alley walls. The feeling of helplessness as I lay broken and bleeding while the woman I loved suffered because I was too weak to protect her. Every moment of cowardice and passivity that had led to that nightmare, every choice I'd made that had prioritized my own comfort over the strength needed to stand up for what was right.
"Uncle," I said quietly, my voice carrying a weight that seemed to surprise even me, "I've never been more ready for anything in my entire life."
The smile that crossed his face then was unlike any expression I'd ever seen from him—pride mixed with anticipation and something deeper, something that looked like vindication. As if he'd always known this moment would come, had been waiting patiently for me to find the courage to embrace my potential.
"Alright then," he said, standing up from the table and extending his calloused hand toward me. "Welcome to the real world, nephew. I hope you're ready to discover what you're actually made of underneath all that book learning."
I took his hand and shook it firmly, feeling the decades of dedication embedded in those calluses, the evidence of a life spent pursuing excellence in the most demanding sport in the world. In my previous life, this conversation had never happened. I'd chosen safety over strength, comfort over commitment, and everyone I cared about had paid the price for my cowardice.
This time would be different. This time, I would become the protector they deserved, the fighter Uncle Hiroshi had always believed I could be, and if necessary, the monster that Daichi and his crew had created with their cruelty.
The weak, passive Kai Nakamura who had died in that alley was gone forever, buried with his broken dreams and shattered illusions about the nature of the world.
What rose in his place would be something far more dangerous—and far more necessary.