The fluorescent light buzzed above his head in a dull, irritating pattern. Ethan Carter opened his eyes and blinked at the white ceiling tiles, his mind numb as he counted them without meaning to: twenty-four across, sixteen down. His throat felt dry when he tried to swallow.
The beeping beside his ear matched his heartbeat: steady and alive, yet somehow wrong.
The smell hit him next: antiseptic mixed with the faint tang of rubber gloves, that sharp hospital scent that made everything feel temporary. He tried to swallow, but his mouth stayed dry.
Then the memories crashed into him so hard he went dizzy, his eyes rolling up for a second. He recalled Emma's voice calling from the kitchen, his son packing for Manchester City, and the Europa Conference League trophy gleaming on his desk. Bradford City's impossible journey from nothing to European champions replayed in his mind, yet the memories felt distant, like scenes from someone else's life.
The room snapped into focus as his mind woke and every small sensation arrived at once. The thin blanket scratched against his skin, and the IV tube tugged at his arm whenever he moved. His neck ached when he turned his head. Every muscle felt stiff, as if he had been lying still for far too long.
How long had he stayed here? Where was Emma? Where was his little boy?
The door slid open with a soft hiss, pulling him from his thoughts, and he turned toward it despite the ache in his neck.
A nurse walked in, her shoes squeaking against the polished floor as she came to his bedside. She carried a clipboard under her arm and wore a kind, practised smile that suggested she had done this a couple of times.
She checked the chart. "You've been out for eighteen hours. That's quite a knock you took."
Eighteen hours. Ethan's mind struggled to make sense of it. He remembered the lamp in his office and then reality breaking apart like glass.
What the hell happened?
He wet his lips as dread rose. "What year is it?"
The nurse paused, concern flickering across her face as if he had said the wrong thing. "Two thousand and four. November fifteenth." She set the clipboard down and studied his eyes, concern creasing her brows. "Do you remember what happened?"
Two thousand and four. The words hit him like a punch to the gut. His stomach dropped, and his hands began to shake under the thin hospital blanket as the implications became clear. This wasn't 2019, not the year Bradford City had made history, not the year his son had signed with Manchester City's academy. This was fifteen years before any of it should have happened.
He pushed the blanket aside. "I need to see myself."
The nurse lifted a hand. "Wait, you should rest," but Ethan was already moving.
His feet touched the cold linoleum, the solidity of the floor making his head spin. Everything here felt too real, not like the dissolving dream world he had been in moments ago.
He walked to the small bathroom, each step feeling strange in his younger body, lighter somehow, as if years had been stripped away from his bones.
The mirror stopped him cold.
The face staring back was his own, but different: twenty-five years old, with no grey threading through his dark hair, no lines etched at the corners of his eyes from three seasons of relentless tactical pressure. The scar on his chin from Bradford's first European match was gone.
This was Ethan Carter, the assistant coach who had never won anything, the man football had forgotten.
His mind kept trying to hold on to two lives at once. Ethan Carter, who had spent a decade failing at every club that would hire him. And Jake Wilson, who had guided Bradford City from England's fourth tier to European glory.
But Jake Wilson had Emma. Jake Wilson had a son who called him Dad. Jake Wilson had a trophy room filled with impossible victories.
This Ethan Carter had none of that.
His hands gripped the sink, the porcelain cold and smooth beneath his fingers. The solid weight of it made his chest ache.
Was any of it real? Emma's laugh when he came home late from training, his son's proud smile when the Manchester City contract was signed, the weight of the Europa Conference League trophy in his hands, or had it all been code, an elaborate simulation designed to teach him about football management?
As he sank into despair, it happened.
A soft blue glow appeared at the edge of the mirror, faint at first, then growing stronger. A translucent window slid into view, as if it had been waiting for him to notice.
Text formed across its surface, the words both familiar and impossible:
=== THE COACHING SYSTEM ===
WELCOME BACK, ETHAN.
WELCOME TO THE COACHING SYSTEM
Below the message, two options blinked softly in the harsh bathroom light:
=== THE COACHING SYSTEM ===
[YES - CONFIRM RESTART]
[NO - CANCEL AND REMAIN]
Behind him, the nurse's voice grew urgent. "Doctor, I need you in room twelve. The patient is acting confused and all weird."
But Ethan barely heard her. His hand trembled as he stared at the floating interface, the same system that had guided him through Bradford's miracle run, the same blue glow that had tracked every tactical decision, every player's development, every moment of building something extraordinary from nothing.
The choice felt huge. YES meant accepting that Emma might never have been real, that his son's proud smile was just sophisticated programming, that the family he had loved was nothing more than an elaborate simulation. NO meant staying here, trapped as Ethan Carter, the failed coach who had never achieved anything and never would.
But YES also meant possibility. Eighteen years stretched between 2004 and the European final he remembered so clearly. Eighteen years to build something real this time, to take everything he had learned and make it matter in a world that wasn't made of code and dreams.
His finger hovered over the YES button. The blue glow pulsed gently, as if it was waiting for his decision.
Ethan Carter drew a slow, steady breath as his hand moved forward.
He pressed YES.
The glow sharpened for a moment, then faded. Something deep inside him shifted, like puzzle pieces clicking into place, but before he could understand it, a soft knock interrupted the silence.
The bathroom door was still open when he heard footsteps enter the room.
Footsteps crossed the floor as a calm, professional voice called out. "Mr Carter?"
The speaker stopped just outside the bathroom. "I'm Dr Stevens. Let's talk about your recovery."