The lemon cookie turned to ash in Daniel's mouth. His mother – no, the *memory* of his mother, vibrant and sharp-eyed as she hadn't been in years – frowned at his untouched milk.
"Sweetheart, you look like you've seen a ghost." Her laugh triggered a visceral memory: ICU machines beeping, her vacant stare through the nursing home window. *Dementia's first victim is the present tense*, the doctors had said.
Daniel's fingers dug into the scratchy hospital sheets. The holographic interface hovering at his peripheral vision pulsed red: **[Temporal Integrity: 97.4% – Critical Actions Pending]**
"Mom," he croaked, "what's today's date?"
"October 15th, 2013. Why?" She leaned closer, her Clinique perfume overwhelming. "Did they give you too much morphine?"
The heart monitor betrayed his racing pulse. Ten years. The watch's cold weight in his palm felt alive, its engraved constellations shifting under his touch. The old woman's warning echoed: *Time is no obedient dog.*
"Need to pee," he blurted, swinging legs that remembered thirty-year-old knees. The IV stand clattered behind him as he bolted for the bathroom.
The mirror nearly broke him. His face – acne scars from college still fresh, hairline intact, the crow's feet from countless all-nighters erased. He pressed shaking hands against glass still cold from 2023's rejection. The reflection grinned.
"Okay, Carter," he whispered. "You know Bitcoin hits $60k. Trump becomes president. COVID. All the chess pieces are on the board." The watch hummed approvingly against his wrist.
**[Primary Objective Update: Acquire Initial Capital – Recommended Method: Sports Betting]**
A flood of memories: 2013 World Series. Red Sox underdogs against Cardinals. He'd lost $500 that year trying to impress Jessica. Now the scorecard burned in his mind – Ortiz's grand slam, Game 6 miracle.
Daniel emerged grinning. His mother jumped up. "The doctor said—"
"Mom, I need $10,000."
Her laugh died when he gripped her shoulders. "This isn't a joke. It's an investment. By Friday, I'll triple it."
"Daniel James Carter, have you developed a drug habit?"
He nearly kissed her. That particular maternal glare had been erased by 2017's antipsychotic medications. "Trust me. One last time."
The lie tasted sweet.
---
Three days later, Fenway Park's roar vibrated in Daniel's bones. The bookie – a hulking Russian named Yuri with neck tattoos resembling sentient mold – counted out crisp hundreds in a Back Bay alley.
"$30k. Lucky newbie." Yuri's gold tooth gleamed. "Don't spend it all on Harvard whores."
Daniel's laugh bordered on hysterical. The watch's interface glowed: **[Temporal Integrity: 89.1% – Anomaly Detected]**
He barely noticed.
---
The next week blurred into a montage of triumph. Bitcoin purchased at $123/coin. TSLA stock bought during the Model S "fire recall" panic. A Craigslist ad for a "tech-savvy Stanford grad" that landed him a meeting with a baby-faced Zuckerberg at Palo Alto's Coupa Café.
"Your 'social media sentiment analysis' algorithm," Zuck said through a mouthful of vegan empanada, "it's like you've seen the future."
Daniel's Apple Watch (2013 edition) buzzed. **[Temporal Integrity: 72.3% – Cascading Chronal Instabilities Detected]**
He dismissed the alert. "Let's talk equity."
---
On November 1st, 2013, Daniel Carter became a millionaire. On November 2nd, the nightmares began.
First, the discrepancies. His studio apartment – now a luxury high-rise condo – had the same crack in the bathroom tiles. The barista at Blue Bottle still misspelled his name as "Danial" despite never meeting him before. And Jessica...dear God, Jessica.
She appeared at his penthouse door wearing the exact sundress from their first date in original-timeline 2016. Her opening line: "My friend says you're the next Jobs. I had to see if you're also an asshole."
Daniel's champagne flute shattered. This Jessica was softer, her edges not yet honed by medical school rejections and his failures. When she kissed him, her lips tasted of possibilities.
**[Temporal Integrity: 58.9% – Localized Reality Corruption Imminent]**
He silenced the warning with whiskey.
---
The crash happened on November 5th. Literally.
Daniel's new Tesla (purchased cash) hydroplaned on 101 South. As the car spun, time dilated. The old Chinese woman materialized in the passenger seat, her fingers clawing into the dashboard.
"Stupid boy," she hissed. "You think time is a river? It's an ocean. Drown carefully."
The Tesla plowed into a semi-truck carrying 8,000 gallons of liquid nitrogen. Daniel awoke to the smell of burning circuit boards and the watch's shrill alarm:
**[TEMPORAL INTEGRITY BREACH – PARADOX DETECTED]**
The highway swarmed with first responders. But as Daniel crawled from the wreckage, he noticed the bystanders' faces – blurred, like overexposed film. A news helicopter above flickered between modern drones and 1950s prop planes.
"Sir! Can you hear me?" The paramedic's ID badge read *San Francisco FD – Established 2022*. Except they hadn't been. Not yet.
**[Warning: Local Timeline Incoherence at 41% – Casualty Probability Rising]**
Daniel vomited onto the asphalt. His puddle reflection showed two overlapping faces: the 23-year-old wunderkind and the 30-year-old failure. Both screamed.