2045
The streets of Tokyo buzzed with the lifeless hum of neon signs and the constant thrum of electric cars whizzing past. Ren Fujimoto sat slumped in an alleyway, the damp, grimy concrete beneath him soaking through his ragged coat. A bottle of cheap whiskey dangled from his fingers, half-empty. He took a swig, his hand shaking slightly as the bitter liquid burned its way down his throat, doing nothing to warm the chill in his bones.
50 years old, and nothing to show for it. He looked like a shadow of the man he once was—a professional football manager. His name was once chanted by stadiums packed with thousands of roaring fans. But that was decades ago. Before the scandals. Before the betrayals. Before he threw everything away.
He squinted through the fog of alcohol at the empty street ahead of him. The world had moved on, leaving him behind. His hands were trembling, not just from the cold, but from the constant need for the next drink. He chuckled bitterly to himself—this is what it had come to. A man who used to command entire teams of young athletes now couldn't command his own body.
The flickering holographic billboards overhead flashed advertisements for the latest football matches, the young faces of rising stars smiling down at him, mocking him." Goddamn kids," he thought. They didn't know what it took, what he'd given. They didn't understand.
He stood unsteadily, his knees nearly buckling as he staggered out of the alley and onto the sidewalk. The whiskey bottle slipped from his fingers, shattering on the ground, the sound lost in the cacophony of the city. Ren didn't bother looking back at the shards. He didn't need the bottle anymore. Tonight felt different. Tonight was the end.
The streets were mostly empty this late, only a few pedestrians scattered about, avoiding his gaze as they passed. The once-bustling city felt desolate to him, every corner carrying memories of better days. His eyes, bloodshot and weary, landed on the highway up ahead, the artificial light casting an eerie glow on the asphalt.
He began walking towards it, his feet dragging against the ground as if gravity itself had become heavier. His mind was buzzing, but not with thoughts. It was a dull hum of nothingness, the kind that settled in after you've given up on everything. His life, his career, his dignity—it had all been eroded slowly, piece by piece.
Suddenly, the roar of an engine cut through the haze. Ren looked up, blinking against the blinding headlights of an oncoming truck speeding down the road. He stood there, swaying slightly, his body refusing to move.
There was no fear, no panic. Only a strange, hollow acceptance. The truck barreled towards him, its horn blaring, but Ren didn't care. His life was already a wreck. What was the difference if he stayed or went?
The last thing he saw was the flash of headlights growing impossibly bright. Then—impact.
His body crumpled under the force of the collision, the sound of shattering bones lost in the deafening crash of metal and flesh. The world spun violently, pain flaring in a thousand places at once, but it lasted only a moment.
Then, there was nothing. Just darkness.
----
Ren's consciousness stirred slowly, pulling him from the depths of a long, heavy sleep. For a moment, he floated in that strange space between dreams and waking, his mind foggy and detached. His body felt warm, almost too warm, as if he'd been cocooned in thick blankets for hours. He inhaled deeply, the smell of... laundry detergent? He blinked, squinting at the faint light filtering through the curtains, casting a dull glow over the room.
His body jerked awake, and Ren sat up in bed with a sharp gasp. The sudden movement made his head spin, and for a second, everything blurred. He groaned, bringing a hand to his temple, trying to make sense of the strange buzzing in his ears.
"I'm... alive?"
The words came out hoarse and disbelieving, barely more than a whisper in the empty room. Memories of the truck, the blinding headlights, the crushing impact—it all came flooding back in a rush. He remembered the feeling of his bones shattering, the brief explosion of pain, then the cold embrace of oblivion. But now... here he was, sitting up in bed, very much not dead.
Confusion and panic warred in his chest as he glanced around, taking in his surroundings. He wasn't lying on a dirty street. Instead, he was in a small, cluttered apartment. The familiar grey walls of his student flat greeted him, posters of football legends like Zinedine Zidane and Johan Cruyff plastered crookedly on the wall across from the bed. A pile of dirty clothes was heaped in one corner, and an overflowing laundry basket sat next to it.
The room was small, but not unpleasant—definitely not the kind of place he'd been used to in his old life, as a washed-up fifty-year-old football manager who'd lost everything. No, this place was... oddly familiar. There was a sense of nostalgia clinging to the air, like he had lived here before.
"Wait a minute..."
Ren's heart began to race. His eyes darted to the nightstand beside him, where a phone rested haphazardly atop a crumpled football magazine. He grabbed it, hands trembling slightly, and hit the power button. The screen blinked to life, and his breath caught in his throat as he saw the date: November 17, 2016.
He stared at the screen for what felt like an eternity. The date was wrong. It had to be wrong. How could it be 2016? He was dead. Or at least, he should have been. He remembered the moment the truck hit him like it was only yesterday, the agony as his body crumpled like paper beneath the wheels.
But... somehow, impossibly, he was here. In 2016. And this apartment—it was his old flat. A memory sparked in the back of his mind, sharp and clear now that the fog was beginning to lift.
Manchester Metropolitan University. Football Coaching Programme.
That was where he had been back in 2016, before everything fell apart. He was in his first year of studying football coaching.
But now... now it was like the clock had been rewound.
His heart hammered in his chest as the realization sank in. This wasn't some dream or hallucination. He really had gone back in time. I'm young again. He couldn't stop himself from grinning like an idiot, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in a wild, almost manic expression. His body felt... alive. Not the stiff, aching shell of a old man who had lived through decades of disappointment and regret, but young, vibrant, and full of energy.
And then, as if to hammer that point home, he became acutely aware of something pressing uncomfortably against the thin fabric of his boxer shorts.
"Are you kidding me?" Ren muttered, glancing down in disbelief at the very... obvious tent rising beneath the sheets. A laugh escaped him, sharp and unexpected, followed by a groan. "Really? That's how I know I'm young again? A goddamn morning wood?"
He rubbed a hand across his face, half-laughing, half-embarrassed at the absurdity of the situation. After everything that had just happened—getting hit by a truck, waking up in a different year, and somehow being alive—his body decided that this was the appropriate response. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or mortified.
"Well," he muttered to himself, "at least I'm not the only one who's risen."
Still chuckling at the ridiculousness of it all, Ren swung his legs over the side of the bed, the cold hardwood floor sending a shock of sensation through his bare feet. He stood up, stretching out his limbs, marveling at how light and strong his body felt. His muscles weren't sore, his joints didn't ache, and he felt like he could run a marathon if he wanted to.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror mounted on the back of the door, and the sight made him freeze. Staring back at him was a version of himself he hadn't seen in decades— lean, with short black hair and no hint of grey. His skin was smooth, free of the wrinkles and lines that had etched themselves into his face over the years. His eyes, once dulled by the weight of a life lived in failure, were clear and sharp.
He stepped closer to the mirror, staring at his reflection in stunned silence. This wasn't a dream. This was real. He was real, back in 2016, in the body of his younger self. His pulse quickened as a flood of memories from his old life surged through him—moments of success, of failure, the people he had loved and lost, the career he had thrown away. It had all led to those fateful moments when his life had finally hit rock bottom.
But now, all of that was in the future—a future he had the power to change.
Ren's heart pounded in his chest as the possibilities raced through his mind. He knew the future of football—knew which tactics would rise and fall, which players would become superstars, and which teams would dominate the sport. He had a wealth of knowledge and experience from his previous life that no one else in this time could possibly have.
He could avoid all the mistakes he'd made. He could build a new path, one that led to success, not failure. This was his second chance—his chance to rewrite everything.
His stomach rumbled loudly, breaking the intense silence. Ren glanced down, then sighed, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. "Well, I guess first things first... breakfast."
He stumbled toward the small kitchenette at the far end of the room, the reality of his situation still sinking in with every step he took. His body was young, full of energy, and he had an entire lifetime ahead of him.