James awoke to sunlight bleeding through the edge of the blackout curtains. The room was too warm, too quiet. For a moment, he didn't move—just stared up at the ceiling, letting the realization settle in like mist over water.
He'd overslept.
For the first time in seven straight days, there was silence—and his muscles, sore and coiled from overuse, didn't complain.
He finally swung his legs over the side of the bed and exhaled through his teeth. His shoulders ached. His spine crackled like old paper. But it felt good. Earned.
Dragging himself into the bathroom, he turned on the shower and stood under the hot water until the steam curled around him like a cocoon. He washed his face slowly, taking more care than usual. For once, he wasn't racing against the clock. No need to multi-task shaving with memorizing log files or mentally drafting product updates. He was just James Calloway—18 years old, wet hair plastered to his forehead, in his parents' house, in his hometown, with a day off and no excuse to burn through it.
Downstairs, the familiar scent of wood polish and yesterday's coffee lingered faintly in the air. The morning sun poured through the large kitchen windows, dancing off the counter where his mother usually prepped breakfast. But the house was empty. His father's leather satchel was gone from the coat rack. His mother's cup and saucer were rinsed and drying. They'd already left for work, trusting their son—the so-called genius, the newly anointed tech prodigy of Silicon Valley—to take care of himself for once.
He smiled as he cracked two eggs into a pan, added a sprinkle of salt, and buttered two slices of toast. It wasn't much, but it was his. A breakfast made not by an assistant or caterer, not ordered over a fax machine or eaten between meetings, but cooked at home, in slippers, with no pressing deadline. He ate at the kitchen island, barefoot, enjoying the silence more than he'd expected.
As he chewed, he reached for the cordless phone on the wall and dialed the number to his bank—one of the old branch lines still routed through analog switchboards. The call rang twice before a polite female voice answered.
"Wells Fargo Downtown Branch. How may I help you?"
"Hi. This is James Calloway," he said, wiping his hand on a napkin. "I'm calling to request a checkbook."
There was a pause, followed by a slight shift in tone. "Mr. Calloway, yes, of course. One moment while I pull up your profile..."
James rested his elbow on the counter, glancing absently out the window. His account had ballooned in the past week—product launches, preliminary licensing revenue, private investor accounts consolidating. The amount of capital now tied to his name would've made his twenty-year-old self fall out of his chair.
The woman came back on the line.
"Yes, I see your account here. We can arrange to have the checkbook mailed to your home address. It should arrive within two to three business days."
"That's fine, but I actually need it today," James replied, tone polite but firm
Another pause. Then a quick, deferential pivot.
"Understood, sir. In that case, we can prepare one for you at our downtown branch. Would you like to come by today to pick it up?"
"Yes," James said. "I'll be there by noon."
"Very good, Mr. Calloway. We'll have it ready."
He hung up, taking another sip of coffee from the ceramic mug. A checkbook. In 1995, that's what higher education still ran on—paper, signatures, and manual processing. No online portals. No digital wires. Just ink and hope.
He rinsed his plate in the sink and wiped down the counter, habitually precise. Then, he paused in the quiet again.
The hum of the fridge.
The creak of floorboards expanding under the sun.
He hadn't slowed down like this in years—not since before the rebirth, before the first betrayal, before the ghost of his past life clawed its way into his every decision. Even now, he couldn't help but calculate—ChronoEdge deadlines, server latency optimization, his next conversation with Marcus about international expansion.
But somewhere in the middle of that kitchen, barefoot in borrowed peace, he let himself breathe.
It wouldn't last long.
It never did.
But for today, he would eat, shower, drive downtown, and pay for college like a regular student. A check in hand. A to-do list no longer thirty items deep. And maybe—just maybe—something unexpected would happen.
Something that wasn't part of the plan.
He stepped into his room again and pulled on a fresh black shirt, dark jeans, and a leather belt. Not the polished suit of a CEO, nor the branded hoodie of a startup savant—just a clean, neutral uniform that let him blend in. A black Honda waited in the driveway—practical, forgettable, intentionally nondescript.
James slipped on his watch, grabbed his wallet, and headed out the door.
The world outside was already alive and moving. But for the first time in a long while, James wasn't chasing it.
He was just moving with it.
The downtown San Francisco bank pulsed with late-morning activity. Phones rang in muffled bursts behind the counters. Printers spat out statements and confirmations. The line twisted in quiet patience, as bankers escorted clients to glass-walled offices or politely declined signatures with expired IDs.
James stepped through the doors in a black shirt and jeans, his pace calm, his presence unassuming. He didn't wear a name tag or carry a briefcase. There was no entourage, no reporters. But the security guard near the entrance glanced twice. People had begun to recognize him now—The Chronicle had run a feature just two days ago: The 18-Year-Old Rebuilding the Ad Game. It was subtle, but James noticed. Eyes lingered longer. Conversations paused when he passed.
He ignored it.
His mind was already running simulations. After this, he'd stop by the Stanford office to deliver the check, then maybe head home and debug a few ChronoEdge modules. He could review the compression algorithm for feeding tick data into Aether. Just because he wasn't at DoubleClick didn't mean he could shut his mind off. His gift didn't come with an off switch.
He took his place near the service counters and waited.
And then it happened.
A scream—raw and too loud for a building like this—shattered the fragile calm.
"You thieves! Where's my deposit?! You think I'm stupid?!"
James turned sharply. Heads swiveled. Conversations halted.
A disheveled man, probably mid-forties, with greasy hair and a wild look in his eyes, was shouting at the front counter. His fists were clenched. His shirt was stained. His words came out in a half-slurred fury. The bank's customers backed away instinctively, as though violence had a smell.
Across from him, standing straight despite the pressure, was a young woman—tall, poised, maybe twenty or twenty-one. She had long blonde hair, though part of it was pinned back in a clip. Her uniform was crisp. Her accent—subtle, musical, undeniably South African—came through even in the tension.
"Sir, I just need a moment to check your account," she said, voice controlled but gentle. "There may have been a hold—"
"Liar!" he snapped, slamming a hand on the counter's glass partition hard enough to make it rattle. "You stole from me! All of you!"
And then the moment tipped.
He lunged forward and grabbed her by the hair, yanking her toward him over the counter.
She cried out—instinctive, sharp—and stumbled as he twisted her head sideways. Her mascara smeared instantly with the tears that followed. Her fingers clawed at his wrist. Her lips trembled.
Gasps erupted across the lobby. The security guard bolted into motion—but too slowly.
James was already moving.
Three steps. That's all it took.
No hesitation. No dramatic shout. Just velocity and control.
He was behind the man in a flash, his arm sliding under the assailant's neck in a perfectly calibrated chokehold. Not too tight to kill. Just tight enough to command.
"Let her go," James said, voice low and ice-cold.
The man flailed, caught off guard.
"Let her go," James repeated, this time with pressure.
The man gasped. He coughed. His grip on the woman loosened, and she staggered back, collapsing into the arms of a second bank employee who rushed to her side.
James held his position for three more seconds. Then he eased off.
The man dropped like wet laundry to the floor, dazed and sputtering.
Security swarmed. Customers stared, unsure if they'd just watched a crime, a rescue, or something in between. A woman clutched her purse to her chest. A child near the teller windows whispered, "That guy's like Batman."
The lobby's buzz resumed, but it was shaken now—tilted.
Then the manager arrived—tan suit, navy tie, a little too much sweat on his collar.
"Mr. Calloway," he said, breathless. "I—I'm so sorry about that. We've seen you on the news. The young tech genius, yes?"
James didn't respond.
His eyes were fixed on the woman.
She had straightened herself, shaking slightly. Her makeup was ruined, her blouse slightly torn near the collar. But there was something in her eyes—not just fear, but focus. She wasn't sobbing or hiding. She was… aware. Present. Like someone used to standing on uneven ground.
James took a step toward her.
"Are you okay?" he asked softly.
She hesitated. Then nodded.
"Yes… I'm fine." Her voice was calm now, the trace of her accent still dancing in her vowels. "Thank you."
And that's when he saw her.
Really saw her.
The shape of her face. The high cheekbones. The intelligent, stormy eyes beneath the streaks of mascara.
He blinked.
He knew that face.
Not from tech, not from finance. But from another timeline entirely. From red carpets and magazine covers that hadn't yet been printed. From posters and interviews years away. It wasn't memory—it was foresight. Recognition from a future he hadn't built yet.
Charlize Theron.
Not the actress. Not the global icon. But her—before it all. Unfamous, unshaped, raw.
She caught him staring and offered a faint, awkward smile.
"Thanks again," she said quietly, and then she turned and walked away, disappearing through the glass exit doors into the city.
James stood still, breath caught in a place he couldn't explain. It wasn't romance—yet. It wasn't fate—not exactly. But it was something.
The bank manager cleared his throat.
"Mr. Calloway…? You said you were here to pick up a checkbook?"
James nodded slowly, forcing himself back to the moment.
"Yeah," he murmured. "Right. My checkbook."