The hum of the subway drifted faintly through the night air, blending with the noise of Queens the laughter of kids still awake, a distant car stereo, the occasional bark of a dog. From the balcony of his small Astoria apartment, Damon Sosa leaned against the railing and stared at the city lights.
Eighteen again.
His green eyes reflected the glow of streetlamps. It was surreal, like living inside someone else's memory. Just weeks ago or in another lifetime, he'd died in a car crash at the age of thirty. His dream longer ago of standing on a Major League mound had ended in twisted metal and regret.
But now, here he was. Back in 2003. Freshly graduated from high school, his whole life stretched in front of him like an open road.
Only this time, he wasn't starting from zero.
[System Initialization Complete.]
[First Reward Granted: Complete Pitching Mastery Mariano Rivera.]
The words still floated in his mind when he thought about them. A second life, and his first gift was the complete pitching mastery of Mariano Rivera the greatest closer in baseball history. Damon's lips curved into a smile.
"Not bad, huh?" he murmured.
A voice rose from below. "What's not bad?"
Damon glanced down to see his neighbor, an old man who liked to sit on the stoop at night with a radio pressed to his ear.
"Talking to yourself already, green eyes?" the old man chuckled. "That's how it starts, you know. Then the pigeons start answering back."
Damon laughed, leaning casually against the railing. Confidence rolled off him without effort. "Don't worry, viejo. If the pigeons start talking, I'll make sure they say hi to you first."
The old man barked a laugh and waved him off before disappearing inside. Damon shook his head, still smiling, then turned and stepped back into his apartment.
It wasn't large two rooms, a small kitchen, a balcony that groaned if he leaned too hard. But it was his. Paid for by the modest inheritance his parents had left behind after the accident that had taken them from him. Even now, the grief hadn't dulled. It never would.
But Damon had learned something in thirty years of life. Grief didn't have to chain you. It could drive you.
He sat down at his desk. His desktop screen glowed, a dozen tabs open Columbia, NYU, Stanford, even Harvard. He had the grades, the recommendations, the essays. Damon could go anywhere he wanted his Gpa being a decent 3.8 not to good but not to bad either.
The problem wasn't whether he could.
The problem was where he should.
"Columbia's close. NYU too," he muttered, tapping his fingers on the desk. "But Stanford scouts practically live in California."
His phone buzzed. Damon glanced at the name and couldn't help but smile.
Carlos.
His best friend, his brother in all but blood.
He answered. "Qué lo qué?"
"Qué lo qué?!" Carlos's voice blasted through the speaker. "Open the door, man, I'm outside!"
Damon blinked, then laughed. "You just show up? You ever think to call first?"
"I did call! You ignored me. Probably staring at baseball clips again. Quit wasting time and let me in!"
Still chuckling, Damon got up and opened the door. Carlos barged in immediately, wearing a Mets cap tilted to the side. He looked around with wide eyes.
"Damn," Carlos whistled. "This place is sweet. I still don't get how you pulled it off. Apartment in Astoria, all to yourself, right after graduation? I'm stuck at home fighting my cousins for the couch."
Damon leaned casually against the wall, that easy charisma radiating. "Some of us just got it like that."
"Got it like that, huh?" Carlos snorted. "More like you got money. You sure you're good living here alone, though?"
The words hit deeper than Carlos knew. Damon's grin softened. "Been good since the accident. You know that."
Carlos's face fell. "Yeah…Sorry, man. Didn't mean to bring it up."
Damon clapped him on the shoulder, smiling. "Relax. Don't treat me like glass. I'm fine. Stronger than fine."
Carlos studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Alright, alright. So what's next then? You going to college? Or are you finally gonna chase baseball for real?"
The question made Damon pause. His chest tightened with something sharp something like hunger.
Baseball.
His first love. His unfinished story.
"I'm doing both," Damon said finally, his voice steady, eyes gleaming. "I'll keep my grades up, take the classes. But baseball? That's not optional. This time, I'm going all the way."
Carlos blinked, then laughed. "This time? You make it sound like you already lived this once."
Damon smirked, leaning closer, his green eyes carrying a spark of danger. "Maybe I did. And you know what that makes me?"
"What?"
"The main character. And the main character doesn't lose."
Carlos stared at him for a moment before bursting into laughter. "You're crazy, bro. Straight up. But you look dead serious, Never seen you like this before man."
"I'm not just serious," Damon said, voice dropping into something sharper. "I know it. I'm making the Majors. No matter what."
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the hum of the fridge. Then Carlos slapped him on the back. "Alright, main character. I'll be there when you strike out Jeter."
"By the time I hit the Majors, Jeter'll be ready to swing and miss at my pitches," Damon shot back, grinning.
They both laughed, the sound filling the small apartment like light.
Later that night, after Carlos left, Damon found himself back on the balcony. The city breathed around him, alive with noise and motion. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the railing, and closed his eyes.
In his mind, he felt it again. The grip of the ball, the snap of the wrist, the cutter slicing across the plate perfect, devastating, unhittable. The knowledge wasn't just theory. It was muscle memory, instincts burned into his very bones. Mariano Rivera's mastery, alive inside him.
It was his weapon now.
His gift.
His destiny.
A confident smile curved his lips.
"This time," he whispered, "I don't miss."
The streets below bustled on, unaware. The stars above blinked faintly, like silent witnesses.
The game was waiting.
And Damon Sosa was ready to play ball.