Chapter Twenty-Seven
The phone on the nightstand buzzed softly, its dim glow cutting through the darkness of Jason's small room. He had just returned from the kitchen where Sophie was already asleep, the dishes cleared, and the house filled with the faint smell of rice and stew she'd prepared earlier.
The name flashing on the screen made his chest tighten.
Mariana.
Jason froze. His hand lingered above the phone for a second too long. He could hear the faint buzz in the silence of the night, like it was echoing through his head. He didn't want to answer. Not tonight. Not after everything. Not when he was already stretched thin trying to balance Sophie, the workshop, the Crimson Den, and his new body that wasn't even his in the first place.
The buzzing stopped. He exhaled a heavy breath, one that trembled more than he intended. Jason turned the phone over, face down. Out of sight. Out of mind.
But his mind didn't let him rest.
The walls of the room felt closer tonight, suffocating in their quiet. The faint ticking of the old clock in the living room bled through the silence, each second crawling under his skin.
Sleep was out of the question.
Jason slipped out of bed, careful not to make noise that would wake Sophie. He changed into joggers, pulled on a hoodie, and stepped outside into the cool midnight air.
The street was quiet, only the faint hum of distant traffic in the city center breaking the stillness. He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked without direction. His thoughts weren't walking with him—they were running.
"Why now, Mariana? Why call me now? After all this time… after all this mess?"
He tried to push it aside, but her voice in his memory—soft, familiar, carrying warmth he didn't want to remember—stirred something he couldn't suppress.
He clenched his jaw. No. He couldn't afford to think of her. Not when Sophie was everything now.
As he walked, the system's faint shimmer flickered in his vision like a ghost following him. A transparent outline hovered ahead of him, reminding him of something he'd been trying to push away all day—the training routine.
Jason stopped under a streetlight, tilting his head back as he stared at the floating holographic text only he could see. His breath came out in foggy streams.
"Three months…" he muttered to himself. "Three months of training, and only two months left before everything collapses. I can't do this at the system's pace. Sophie doesn't have the luxury of time."
The thought hit him hard. She deserved school, friends, a normal life. Not this half-life they were clinging to.
That was when it struck him. A reckless idea. Dangerous, painful—but possible.
"What if… I doubled it? No, what if I crammed more than that?"
His eyes narrowed as determination took hold. He looked at the faint projection of his Day Two routine, hovering like a ghostly instructor. Every task outlined, every rep, every set, every drop of sweat accounted for.
"I can't wait. I don't have the time. If I do two days in one… if I can somehow rush this… I can close the gap faster."
The thought almost felt insane, but Jason had always been the type to dive headfirst, consequences be damned.
He wiped sweat that wasn't even there yet and muttered, "System, show me Day Two's training outline. Right now."
The air shimmered again. A scrolling list of exercises filled his vision—more grueling than Day One had been. Endurance drills, strength routines, combat simulations that demanded both speed and mental sharpness. It was enough to crush most men.
Jason smirked faintly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Perfect."
And so he began.
---
The night stretched on in waves of agony. Jason returned to the gym, its dim emergency lights glowing faintly, and let himself in with the spare key he'd long kept for emergencies. Tonight felt like one.
He started with weights, pushing until his arms trembled violently. Then push-ups, sit-ups, squats—his muscles screaming in protest after just the first set. But he didn't stop.
His breath grew ragged. Sweat poured freely, soaking through his hoodie until it clung to his skin. Every second felt like a war between his mind and his body.
"Again," he muttered through clenched teeth. "Again!"
By the second hour, his vision blurred. By the third, his arms felt like stone. By the fourth, his knees threatened to buckle.
And still he pressed on.
The system, cold and detached, chimed notifications at him.
[Warning: Fatigue levels critical.]
[Warning: Heart rate unsustainable.]
[Recommendation: Terminate session.]
Jason ignored them all. He had learned to silence the warnings in his head long ago.
When the weights finally slipped from his grip and clattered to the ground, he didn't stop. He rolled over, gasping, then forced himself into push-ups until his arms gave out and his body collapsed flat on the mat.
Hours later, with the sky outside beginning to pale into early dawn, he finished. Barely.
He lay on the gym floor, chest heaving, lungs burning. The system flickered again in his vision, confirming the impossible.
[Day Two Training: Completed.]
Jason almost laughed, but it came out as a broken cough. He had done it. He had forced two days into one. He had pushed himself to the brink and survived.
But as he staggered to his feet, something changed. The room tilted. Darkness folded around him.
And then—
---
He was in the car again.
Rain lashed against the windshield. Headlights blurred past in streaks of white and red. He gripped the steering wheel, knuckles pale, heart hammering.
It wasn't Jason Tyler anymore. It was Grayson.
The memory was so vivid it cut deeper than any blade. He could smell the rain, feel the cold leather seat, hear the distant hum of music on the radio.
Then came the blinding light. The screech of tires. The sickening crash.
Metal twisted, glass shattered, screams tore through the night—and in the wreckage, in the last few seconds of his other life, Grayson reached for breath that never came.
Jason woke with a strangled scream, his body curled on the gym mat. His face was wet, and for a second he thought it was sweat—until he realized it was tears.
He had cried in the dream. And he was crying still.
The weight of both lives crushed down on him at once. The pain of loss, the burden of carrying someone else's fate, the exhaustion of trying to be enough for Sophie, for himself, for the system.
He pressed his palms over his face and sobbed silently, the sound echoing faintly in the empty gym.
Minutes passed before he gathered the strength to rise. He checked the clock. The hands mocked him.
Almost noon.
Jason cursed under his breath. His muscles were trembling, his body screaming in protest, his head pounding. He had lost nearly the whole morning. His brilliant plan to rush ahead had only proven one thing—
Two days in one wasn't sustainable. Not if he wanted to survive.
He staggered to the locker room, splashed cold water on his face, and stared at his reflection in the mirror.
Jason Tyler. Grayson. Whatever he was now—the man in the mirror looked broken, hollow-eyed, but still burning with stubborn fire.
"Never again," he whispered. "But I'll find another way."
With that, he gathered his things and headed back home, the sun blazing high overhead. Sophie would be waiting.
And he had to keep moving—for her.
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