Marcus sat on a weathered park bench three blocks from Santino's gym, his seventeen-year-old hands trembling as he stared at them in the afternoon sunlight. Every rational part of his mind screamed that this was impossible—death didn't come with do-overs, and teenage bodies didn't house the memories of failed thirty-one-year-old fighters.
But the memories were there, vivid and unforgiving. The taste of his own blood on the canvas. His mother's tears at ringside. The suffocating weight of twenty-two losses that had crushed his spirit long before that final punch crushed his skull.
[Elevated cortisol levels detected. Anxiety response exceeding optimal parameters for cognitive function.]
The voice in his head was back, clinical and emotionless as a medical scanner. Marcus flinched, still adjusting to the violation of having something else inside his consciousness.
"This isn't real," he whispered, pinching his forearm hard enough to leave marks. The pain was sharp, immediate, and completely authentic. "People don't just... come back."
[Subject experiencing difficulty accepting current reality status. Implementing calming neural pathway stimulation to reduce psychological distress.]
Warmth spread through Marcus's chest, accompanied by a subtle tingling sensation that felt like mild electrical current. His heart rate slowed, the crushing panic in his throat eased, and his breathing became more regular. The artificial calm was almost worse than the anxiety—proof that something was indeed controlling his body's responses.
"What are you?" he asked, his voice barely audible to avoid attracting attention from passing pedestrians.
[Athlete Rehabilitation Protocol. Advanced neural interface designed for comprehensive athletic reconstruction following catastrophic performance failure. Primary function: systematic correction of behavioral and technical deficiencies that resulted in subject's previous career termination.]
Marcus laughed, a sound that held no humor. "You mean my death. You can say it. I died because I was too stupid and arrogant to listen to anyone who tried to help me."
[Accurate assessment. Subject previous iteration demonstrated exceptional natural ability corrupted by inadequate development protocols and resistance to external guidance. Current iteration provides opportunity for proper reconstruction from foundation level.]
The clinical language couldn't disguise the brutal truth, he'd been given a second chance because his first life had been such a spectacular failure that it warranted supernatural intervention. The thought should have been devastating, but somehow, sitting in his teenage body with adult knowledge, Marcus felt something he hadn't experienced in years, hope.
He stood up, testing the unfamiliar sensation of joints that didn't ache, muscles that weren't scarred by years of punishment. His seventeen-year-old body felt impossibly light, free from the accumulated damage of a career spent taking punishment he was too proud to learn how to avoid.
The walk back toward his childhood neighborhood felt like traveling through time. Buildings he remembered as run-down had been recently renovated. Cars that had looked modern in his memories now seemed dated. Street signs that had been weathered and faded appeared crisp and new.
"What year is it?" he asked aloud, earning a concerned look from a woman walking her dog.
[Current date: September 15, 2015. Subject has regressed approximately fourteen years, four months from termination date.]
Marcus stopped walking, the implications hitting him like a physical blow. His father would still be alive, working the construction job that would eventually destroy his back. His mother would still be cleaning office buildings at night, sacrificing her health to support his boxing dreams. The family would still be living in the small row house on Carpenter Street, still struggling with bills that boxing success was supposed to solve.
All the pain he'd caused them, all the sacrifices they'd made for his failures—none of it had happened yet. But it would, unless he could find a way to change the pattern that had led to his destruction.
Marcus turned onto his old street, and the familiar sight of narrow row houses pressed together like books on a shelf brought back a flood of memories. Mrs. Rodriguez's garden, where she'd grown tomatoes that she shared with the whole neighborhood. The corner where he'd learned to throw his first punch, mimicking what he'd seen on television. The fire hydrant where he'd practiced his footwork, dancing around it like it was an opponent.
The memories belonged to a different person—an arrogant teenager who'd thought natural talent was enough, who'd believed that hard work was for people who weren't gifted. Marcus could remember that mindset, but he couldn't access it anymore. The knowledge of failure had burned the arrogance out of him completely.
He stopped in front of 1247 Carpenter Street, the narrow brick row house where the Dorsey family had lived for three generations. The front steps were swept clean, the small garden his mother tended was in full bloom, and the windows were bright with the warm light of a home where hope still lived.
Through the front window, Marcus could see his father reading a newspaper at the kitchen table, his back straight and strong, his hands steady. In just a few years, those hands would shake from nerve damage caused by decades of construction work. His father would die at fifty-eight, worn down by a lifetime of physical labor and the stress of supporting a son who never lived up to his potential.
The front door opened before Marcus could knock.
"There you are," his mother said, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "I was starting to wonder if you'd forgotten you live here. How was school?"
Maria Dorsey looked exactly as Marcus remembered her from his teenage years—strong, tired, worried about money but determined to provide for her family. She was thirty-nine years old and already showing the signs of a woman who worked too hard for too little. In his previous life, Marcus had taken her sacrifices for granted. Now, seeing her fresh face and hopeful eyes, he felt an overwhelming urge to protect her from the disappointment he'd caused.
"School was fine, Ma," he said, his voice cracking slightly. The sound surprised him—he'd forgotten that seventeen-year-old voices did that.
She studied his face with the practiced eye of a mother who'd raised a difficult child. "You look different today. Did something happen?"
Everything happened. I died and came back and I'm going to make sure you never have to cry over me again.
"Nothing happened," Marcus said instead. "Just... thinking about things."
"Well, think about them inside. Dinner's almost ready, and your father wants to talk to you about your grades."
Marcus followed her into the house, overwhelmed by the familiar smells of his childhood—his mother's cooking, his father's cologne, the faint scent of the lemon oil she used to clean the furniture. The living room was exactly as he remembered it: comfortable but worn furniture, family photos on the mantle, his father's reading chair positioned to catch the afternoon light.
"Marcus!" His father's voice carried from the kitchen. "Come here, son."
Robert Dorsey looked up from his newspaper as Marcus entered the kitchen. At forty-two, he was still strong and healthy, his construction worker's hands steady as he turned the pages. The sight of his father—alive, vital, untouched by the years of worry and disappointment that would eventually kill him—nearly brought Marcus to his knees.
"Sit down," his father said, gesturing to the chair across from him. "Your mother and I need to talk to you about your future."
Marcus sat, forcing himself to breathe normally while the ARP system monitored his elevated stress levels.
"Your grades are slipping," his father continued. "Your teachers say you're distracted in class, not paying attention. And yesterday, Mrs. Patterson from next door said she saw you hanging around that boxing gym on Broad Street."
"I was just looking," Marcus said, which was technically true. "I wasn't doing anything wrong."
His mother set a plate of food in front of him—chicken cutlets, mashed potatoes, green beans. Simple, filling food that a working family could afford. In his previous life, Marcus had complained about the lack of variety. Now, he wanted to tell her it was perfect.
"Son," his father said, "I know you think boxing is exciting. I know you see those fighters on television making millions of dollars. But that's not reality for kids like us. Education is your way out of this neighborhood. A good job, a steady paycheck, a pension—that's how you build a life."
Marcus had heard this speech before, fourteen years ago. Then, he'd argued passionately about his natural ability, his dreams of championship glory, his certainty that he was different from all the other kids who thought they could fight. He'd been so convinced that his talent would carry him to success that he'd dismissed his father's practical wisdom as fear and small thinking.
Now, carrying the weight of complete failure, he understood that his father had been trying to protect him from exactly the kind of destruction that had ended his first life.
"I understand, Dad," Marcus said quietly. "But I think... I think I might be good at it. Boxing, I mean. And there are scholarships for athletes, college programs. Maybe it could help with school instead of hurting it."
His father's expression softened slightly. "Marcus, you're seventeen years old. You've never been in a real fight in your life. Boxing isn't like the movies—it's dangerous, and most fighters end up broken and poor."
[Accurate assessment. Subject previous career earnings: $127,000 over fourteen years professional competition. Medical expenses exceeded earnings by 340%. Long-term neurological damage probability: 89%.]
The system's cold statistics confirmed what Marcus already knew. His father wasn't being pessimistic—he was being realistic about a sport that chewed up working-class kids and spat them out damaged.
"I know it's dangerous," Marcus said. "But what if I could do it the right way? What if I could learn properly, from good trainers, and make smart decisions?"
His mother sat down at the table, her expression worried. "Honey, we just want what's best for you. We want you to have opportunities we never had."
"Maybe boxing could be one of those opportunities," Marcus said carefully. "If I approach it seriously. If I stay in school and keep my grades up. If I learn from people who know what they're doing."
His parents exchanged a look that Marcus recognized from his childhood—the silent communication of two people who'd been married for twenty years and had learned to make difficult decisions together.
"If you're serious about this," his father said slowly, "then you need to prove it. Your grades have to improve. You have to show us you can balance school and training. And you have to promise us you'll walk away if it becomes clear you're not cut out for it."
Marcus nodded, understanding the weight of the promise he was making. "I can do that. I will do that."
[Commitment parameters established. Academic performance monitoring initiated. Subject must demonstrate balanced development approach to maintain family unit support.]
After dinner, Marcus helped his mother clean the dishes while his father watched the evening news. The domestic routine felt both familiar and strange—he'd performed these same actions thousands of times as a teenager, but now they carried different meaning. This wasn't just washing dishes, it was participating in a family structure that his previous failures had eventually destroyed.
"You really are different today," his mother said, drying a plate with careful attention. "More... mature, I guess. Like you're thinking about things you've never thought about before."
Marcus chose his words carefully. "I've been thinking about consequences. About how the choices I make now will affect the future. For me, and for you and Dad."
She smiled, the expression transforming her tired face. "That's very grown-up of you. Just remember that you're still seventeen. You don't have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders."
If only she knew. Marcus had carried the weight of complete failure for fourteen years, and now he was carrying the weight of a second chance that came with impossible expectations and supernatural oversight.
Later that night, lying in his childhood bed surrounded by the posters and trophies of his teenage years, Marcus stared at the ceiling and tried to process the magnitude of his situation. The ARP system had been quiet since dinner, but he could feel its presence like a subtle pressure in his mind.
"Are you still there?" he whispered.
[Continuous monitoring maintained. Subject adaptation to current circumstances proceeding within acceptable parameters. Recommendation: Rest cycle required for optimal cognitive function. Training facility assessment scheduled for tomorrow.]
"What happens if I fail again?" Marcus asked. "If I mess this up like I messed up the first time?"
[Failure probability cannot be calculated without baseline performance data. Subject previous iteration provides cautionary examples but does not predetermine current outcomes. Success remains achievable through proper development protocols and behavioral modification.]
The answer wasn't reassuring, but it was honest. Marcus had been given a second chance, but it came with no guarantees. The system could monitor him, guide him, even punish him for reverting to old patterns, but ultimately, success or failure would depend on his own choices and dedication.
He closed his eyes, listening to the familiar sounds of his neighborhood—cars passing on the street, the Rodriguezes' television through the thin walls, the distant hum of the city that never quite slept. Tomorrow, he would walk into Santino's gym and begin the process of rebuilding his boxing career from the ground up.
But tonight, for the first time in either of his lives, Marcus Dorsey fell asleep believing that redemption might actually be possible.
[Subject entering REM sleep cycle. Cognitive processing optimal. Rehabilitation protocol status: Initiated. Next phase activation: Pending training facility assessment.]
In his dreams, Marcus was seventeen again but moved with the knowledge of a man who had learned the hard way that talent without discipline was just another word for failure. And for the first time in any of his dreams, he wasn't running from his mistakes—he was running toward his second chance.