Ren sat at the small dining table in his cramped Manchester flat, staring at the remnants of his hastily prepared breakfast. Two fried eggs, an overcooked piece of toast, and a half-empty mug of instant coffee stared back at him. His hands, still young and steady, gripped the coffee mug tightly, the steam curling lazily upward. He couldn't shake the feeling of disbelief that gripped him—2016. The number swirled around in his head like a song stuck on repeat, refusing to be ignored.
"How... how the hell did I end up here?" Ren muttered under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face.
His eyes darted around the room again, the familiarity of it all slapping him with a dizzying wave of nostalgia. He had been here before. The dingy grey walls, the faded blue curtains, the chipped paint on the old wooden table.
He glanced at his phone again, just to make sure he hadn't misread the date the first hundred times. November 17, 2016. It blinked back at him, the digital numbers glaring in their simplicity.
A second chance. He had it. It wasn't a dream. Ren couldn't help but laugh softly, though it was an uneasy sound, as if he still wasn't entirely sure what the hell was happening. His laughter caught in his throat when his thoughts wandered back to his previous life—the bitter, drunk, homeless mess he had become, a shell of his former self, wandering aimlessly through the streets. The taste of cheap whiskey still lingered at the back of his throat, a phantom reminder of just how low he had fallen.
And yet here he was—young, fit, and studying again at one of the best football coaching programs in the world. A far cry from the life he had squandered. He stared down at his hands, flexing his fingers, marveling at how different they felt. No stiffness in his joints, no trembling from years of alcohol abuse. This was his body as it had been in 2016—strong, full of potential.
His thoughts were interrupted by a sound—faint, but unmistakable. At first, it was just a low murmur, coming through the thin walls of his flat. But then the sound grew louder, more distinct: the unmistakable sound of shouting, followed by a dull thud.
Ren froze, his body tense. He knew that sound. It was coming from his neighbor's flat.
"That asshole..."
A flicker of rage sparked in his chest as the memory came rushing back. In his previous life, the man who lived next door had been a lowlife—a controlling, abusive bastard who tormented his girlfriend for years. The guy, Tim, eventually killed his girlfriend in one of his too many drunken nights. Back then, Ren had never intervened. He had been too consumed with his own problems to care about someone else's misery.
But not today. Today, he was different. He was stronger.
"No. Fuck that."
The shouting from next door escalated. The woman's voice—soft, panicked—could be heard pleading, trying to reason with the man. Ren's pulse quickened, anger coursing through him. He wasn't going to sit idly by and let history repeat itself. Not again.
"Not this time," Ren muttered, pushing back from the table so abruptly that the chair scraped loudly against the floor. He clenched his fists, jaw tightening as he stormed toward the door, barely thinking about what he was doing. His vision tunneled as his hand reached for the doorknob.
As he opened the door to the hallway, the shouting became clearer.
"You useless bitch! I told you not to fucking touch my stuff!" Tim's voice was sharp, full of venom. Ren's blood boiled at the sound.
Ren's flat door slammed behind him as he stepped out into the narrow hallway. The walls were a dull beige, the air thick with the musty smell of old carpets. Without a moment's hesitation, Ren crossed the hall and pounded his fist on Tim's door.
The shouting from inside stopped abruptly. Ren's fist clenched and unclenched as he waited, his breath coming faster now. A few seconds later, the door swung open, and Tim stood there, his face twisted in a mix of anger and confusion. He was shorter than Ren remembered—taller than the woman, but shorter than Ren by a good few inches, with a potbelly pushing against the fabric of his shirt. His thinning hair was disheveled, and his beady eyes were bloodshot, either from rage or too much booze. Probably both.
"The fuck do you want?" Tim spat, glaring up at Ren.
Ren's eyes flicked past Tim, into the flat. The woman, Jenny, was cowering in the corner of the living room, her hands trembling as she clutched the hem of her sweater. Her face was pale, and her eyes wide with fear.
Rage surged through Ren like a tidal wave.
"Get out of her face," Ren growled, his voice low and dangerous.
Tim blinked, momentarily stunned by Ren's sudden aggression. "What the fuck are you—"
Before he could finish, Ren shoved him hard, sending Tim stumbling backward into the flat. The man hit the back of the couch with a grunt, his face twisting into a snarl as he recovered.
"You got a fucking death wish?" Tim barked, his hand already reaching for a half-empty beer bottle sitting on the nearby table.
Ren stepped into the flat, his entire body radiating fury.
"You lay another hand on her," Ren hissed, "and I'll make sure you regret it for the rest of your miserable fucking life."
Tim's face went pale, his bravado fading as he realized just how serious Ren was. But that didn't stop him from swinging the bottle. He came at Ren, a clumsy arc of glass and liquid aimed right at his head.
I should've expected this, Ren thought, his mind already calculating the next move. He ducked, the bottle whooshing past his ear. Before Tim could regain his balance, Ren drove his fist into the man's gut, a clean hit that knocked the wind out of him. Tim wheezed, doubling over in pain, the bottle slipping from his fingers and shattering on the floor.
"Fucking bastard," Tim gasped, trying to catch his breath.
Ren stood over him, his chest heaving, hands still balled into fists. For a moment, he contemplated finishing it—kicking the bastard while he was down. But something held him back. He wasn't here to beat Tim into a pulp. He was here to make sure he never hurt Jenny again.
Tim coughed, still struggling to breathe. His eyes flicked to Jenny, who was watching the scene unfold in stunned silence. For a brief second, it looked like Tim might try to fight back, but then his shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him.
"Fine," Tim muttered, spitting on the floor. "You're crazy, man. Fucking psycho." He staggered to his feet, clutching his stomach.
Ren turned his attention to Jenny, who was still frozen in place, her eyes wide with disbelief. "You okay?" he asked, his voice softening.
She nodded slowly, though her body was still trembling. "Y-Yeah... I think so. I just... I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything," Ren said, giving her a small nod. "Just... make sure you leave this fucker."
Before Jenny could respond, there was a knock at the door. Ren tensed.
"Is everything alright in there?" one of the officers asked.