Bruce's Pov
I stepped outside and sighed, hoping to get a bit of fresh air but it was still stale, having that stench of sweat and alcohol. I had only taken two steps before someone tapped my shoulder.
"Hey, you dropped this,"
I turned and saw a man next to me, holding out a small, worn out bag.
At first glance, it looked like the kind of bag that would feel too familiar in my hands the moment I touched it. The weight, the rough strap, it felt like it belonged to this body, the same one I was still trying to get used to.
"Thanks," I muttered quickly, but my eyes still stayed on his face.
I knew him.
Not in the way strangers recognize each other after crossing paths once or twice, but in a way that dug straight into my chest, deep into a particularly locked memory.
His jaw, the scar across his eyebrow, the way he squinted like he'd been through one too many smoky rooms, it was burned into my past.
He didn't notice. He only gave me a short nod before turning to leave.
My hands tightened on the strap of the bag. My breath slowed, heavy. I couldn't let him walk away. Not him.
I followed, keeping a steady distance. The streets around us were noisy enough to distract him, shadows stretching under the weak glow of old lamps.
I followed him for a while but he still didn't notice me trailing him, probably because he was too busy pulling out a cigarette and lighting it, his head dipped low.
When he cut into a narrow alley, I knew it was my chance.
I stepped in after him, my footsteps echoing against the cracked walls. He turned slightly, maybe hearing me, but before he could react, I grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him against the wall.
"What the—?!" He jerked, eyes wide, panic rising in his voice.
I didn't answer at first. My fists did. One blow to his stomach, sharp and heavy, folding him over. Then another the minute he straightened up, straight to his jaw. The cigarette fell from his mouth, scattering sparks across the ground.
He coughed, groaned, and tried to push me off, but this body, though unfamiliar, reacted with speed. My knee caught him in the ribs, and he gasped for air. I could feel it, my anger and rage quietly pumping through my limbs, fueling my actions.
"You … you don't even know me," he stammered, clutching his side, sliding halfway down the wall.
My voice came out low, steady. "Don't I?"
I leaned in closer, staring into his face. That old memory of mine sharpened, clearer than I wished it would be. His eyes, yes, those were the same eyes from that night. The same smirk I had seen while being assaulted right before everything went black.
"You were there," I said. "That night. You remember March 20th?"
His expression twisted, first with confusion, then with fear. "What are you talking about? I don't—"
I didn't wait for him to finish denying, I struck his face with my foot, a sharp kick to the jaw. He fell and spat out blood, but I didn't care, I grabbed him by the collar.
"Please, I didn't do anything—"
"March 20th," I cut him off, my hand tightening on his collar. "The bar. That one alley. You and your friends. Don't you dare tell me you don't remember."
He froze. His lips parted, but no words came. I could see it in his face, the recognition, the confusion, the horror of being called out for something he never expected to resurface.
"It wasn't me," he whispered finally, voice shaking. "It wasn't me, it was the boss—he… he said it was just a prank, just a joke. It wasn't my idea."
The boss. My mind went back to the man I bumped into at the bar, the one who brushed me off that evening.
So it was him.
The thread was weaving together, the pieces finally falling into place.
The man's phone buzzed in his pocket. He scrambled to reach for it, but I yanked it out first and tossed it to the ground. The screen lit up with a name: Boss, and my interest was piqued.
"Pick it up," I ordered.
He hesitated, trembling. "A- are you sure?"
"Pick. It. Up."
His hands shook as he bent down and grabbed it, pressing the speaker button.
"Where the hell are you?" The voice on the other end was commanding, sharp. "You should've been here by now."
The man's throat worked as he tried to speak, but nothing came out. His fear choked him.
I leaned in closer and whispered, "Say nothing. Just listen."
The boss kept talking, voice filled with impatience. "Don't screw this up. You know what's at stake. If you're late again—"
I snatched the phone from his hands. My own voice filled the silence. "Funny thing about dates," I said, slow, deliberate. "You never forget the ones that matter. Like the night you thought no one would remember."
There was silence on the line. Heavy silence. The type that rang louder than a bell.
"Who the hell is this?" The boss demanded finally.
"You'll find out," I answered, and ended the call.
The man at my feet was shaking now, his face pale. He tried to say something. "Please, I didn't mean to—" but the words broke off, lost between his fear and the weight of truth pressing down on him.
I glared at him and didn't let him finish. My fist struck again, harder this time, I hit him hard on his face, his nose, jaw, mouth, over and over, until he slumped, broken and bloodied.
His breathing came shallow, his eyes barely ooen with disbelief.
"I promised I would have my revenge, didn't I?" I asked but I doubt he could respond with that bloodied mouth of his. "I'm going to get it."
I struck him again, my fist connecting harder than before. A blow straight for his eyes, one to his nose, probably breaking it, another to his teeth, knocking a few of them off, the sound of them scattering on the ground was satisfactory.
I got up and tossed him to the dumpster nearby, his body slamming hard against it. Before he could sit up properly, I dashed, crashed my knee into his face and I just kept beating him up.
When I was done, I let him slide down to the ground. His chest rose and fell weakly for a few seconds before it stopped.
I bent down, picked up the bag he had handed me earlier, and finally opened it. Inside were ordinary things: a phone, a wallet, a set of keys. Belongings of the man whose life I had stepped into.
The phone buzzed again, this time with notifications.
Two text messages.
One read: Good luck.
The second: Don't risk your life unnecessarily.
Then an email. I clicked the phone and opened it quickly.
"Package delivered. Check the drop at your address."
I stared at the screen, my thoughts tangled between the rage of the past and the reality of the present. This body had a life, connections maybe, people who knew him and expected him to show up.
The keys jingled in my hand as I walked, following the address in the email. My steps slowed when I reached the door.
The lock clicked open, and I stepped inside. And there, waiting, was a face I recognized.
Not from my own past. Not one that filled me with hate or pain.
But one that belonged to the life of this body. A familiar face… tied to the man I had become.