Honestly, the spotlight just seemed to follow me. It didn't matter if it was the library's harsh overhead glare catching the gold in my hair or the gym's arena lights when I sank a three-pointer. It's not arrogance if it's true: I was the whole package. Lucky, yes, but also sharp, talented, and built right.
I remember lying in my own bed last night, feeling that deep, quiet buzz of satisfaction you get when you know you're nailing life. My home life was perfect—my parents, who are big-deal supportive and genuinely successful, had just been gushing over my 4.0 GPA and the fat acceptance packet from State U. They weren't focused on the trophies; they just radiated pride in me.
School wasn't really a challenge; it was more like a stage where I got to confirm that I was simply better at this stuff. While everyone else was having a meltdown over the AP History exam, I just skimmed the syllabus, built a mental blueprint, and walked out in under an hour. People practically begged for my notes, treating them like secret cheat codes. Even Mrs. Albright, my usually frosty biology teacher, would look at me with that warm, knowing smile. I was her favorite, her guaranteed success story.
And athletically? I was six-two, with a build that was naturally lean and powerful. I didn't have to kill myself in the weight room; it was just good genes and decent upkeep. I had this great, wavy golden-brown hair that always seemed to fall just right, and a sharp, classically handsome jawline. I wasn't just walking the halls; I was moving through a low, constant hum of genuine admiration.
Life was a perfectly paved, gilded track, and I was the fastest thing on it. I felt secure, loved, and, most importantly, like myself. I crashed last night in my familiar silk sheets, totally ready to crush the next day.
Then, I woke up.
The first thing that hit me was the dull, persistent ache right across my shoulder blades. It felt like sleeping on rocks. The second thing was the ceiling. It wasn't the clean plaster of my room; this was a cheap, textured popcorn finish, with a suspicious brown stain next to a rattling, ancient fan.
I forced my eyes open, waiting for the weird fuzziness to clear, but the room stayed alien. I was in a narrow, awful bed, the sheets scratchy and smelling faintly of stale sweat. I tried to sit up, but my body responded with a sluggish weightiness, pulling me back down. I felt thicker, softer, entirely wrong.
"What the—" I tried to articulate, but the sound that squeezed out of my throat was a thin, high-pitched squawk, strained and dry. It wasn't my voice. My voice had depth and command. This sounded like a panicked chipmunk.
The shock turned into raw terror. I scrambled out of the bed, my feet getting tangled in a pile of clothes, and I stumbled hard, landing awkwardly on my knees. I looked down at my hands. They were short, almost stubby, with nails that were bitten and neglected. They were covered in dark, fine hair. My hands were long, refined, and strong.
I lunged toward the only reflective surface—a warped, cheap mirror hanging crookedly on a closet door. My breath seized in my chest.
Staring back wasn't me. It was some kid I vaguely remembered seeing lurking near the periphery of the Northwood High cafeteria—a nobody face. He was short, maybe five-foot-six, and stocky. His hair was a mess of short, greasy black curls. His face was round, perpetually flushed, and dotted with angry, inflamed acne across his jawline and forehead.
The clothes, which were now mine, sagged limply on this new, awkward frame. The sharp, intelligent focus I was used to seeing in my own eyes was gone, replaced by small, brown pupils that were wide with an anonymous mix of panic and utter fatigue.
I reached up and pressed a shaking finger against the round, doughy cheek. It felt wrong, yielding, and disgusting. My golden hair was black. My height was a joke. My confidence—the very foundation of Marcus Sterling—had evaporated.
I knew I was still Marcus Sterling, the golden boy, but the reflection in that horrible plastic mirror was telling the world I was just some random, forgettable kid. The hero was wiped clean. This was ground zero.