The hum of servers filled the room, a low, constant drone that Ethan had long since tuned out. Before him, a wall of screens flickered with streams of data—stock tickers, market indices, and news feeds. The world outside the glass walls of his high-rise office was a blur of city lights, but Ethan's focus was razor-sharp, locked onto the numbers dancing across his monitors.
The market was in freefall. Red dominated the screens, a sea of losses cascading down like a waterfall of blood. Around him, traders shouted into headsets, their voices tinged with panic. But Ethan sat perfectly still, his fingers moving with mechanical precision as he adjusted positions, recalibrated algorithms, and executed trades.
"Ethan!" A voice broke through the chaos. It was Marcus, his junior colleague, his face pale and slick with sweat. "We're getting margin called on the short side! If this keeps up, we're wiped out!"
Ethan didn't look up. He reached for his coffee, took a slow sip, and set the cup back down. "The market's irrational," he said, his voice calm, almost bored. "But it always overcorrects. Let it crash. We'll buy the bottom."
Marcus stared at him, incredulous. "You're insane. This isn't a correction—it's a collapse!"
Ethan's lips curled into a faint smile. "Exactly."
He leaned forward, his eyes scanning the screens. The numbers told a story, one only he could read. The panic was reaching a crescendo, the fear palpable even through the cold, hard data. And then, like clockwork, it happened. The market bottomed out. Ethan's fingers flew across the keyboard, executing a series of trades with surgical precision. The red on his screens began to shift, replaced by the cool, calming green of profit.
Marcus exhaled sharply, collapsing into his chair. "You did it. You actually did it."
Ethan leaned back, his chair creaking softly. Millions in profit. Another day, another victory. But as he sat there, a strange sensation crept over him—a tightness in his chest, a pressure that seemed to squeeze the air from his lungs. He frowned, reaching up to rub at his sternum. The pain sharpened, a dagger driving into his heart. His vision blurred, the screens before him melting into a haze of light and color.
"Ethan?" Marcus's voice sounded distant, muffled. "Ethan, are you—"
Darkness swallowed him whole.
---
Consciousness returned in fragments. First, the sensation of warmth—sunlight on his skin. Then, the sound of voices, soft and indistinct, like whispers carried on the wind. Ethan's eyelids fluttered open, and he found himself staring at a wooden ceiling, its beams rough-hewn and weathered. Sunlight filtered through gaps in the thatch, casting dappled patterns on the walls.
He tried to sit up, but his body felt strange, uncoordinated. His arms were thin, his hands small and delicate. Confusion gave way to alarm as he realized the truth: he was a child.
A woman's face appeared above him, her features soft and lined with worry. She spoke, her words foreign yet somehow familiar, as if his mind were translating them without conscious effort.
"Thank the gods, you're awake!" she said, her voice trembling with relief. She reached out, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. Her touch was gentle, maternal.
Ethan's mind raced. This wasn't his world. This wasn't his body. He had died—he was sure of it. The pain in his chest, the darkness that had swallowed him—it had been the end. And yet, here he was, alive again, in a world that felt both alien and strangely comprehensible.
The woman—his mother, he realized—smiled down at him. "You gave us quite a scare, little one. But you're safe now."
Ethan opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat. His voice was high-pitched, childlike. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe, to think. He had been a trader, a master of markets and numbers. And now? Now he was a child in a world that seemed to belong to another time, another place.
But even as the shock of his situation settled over him, a familiar feeling stirred in his chest—a spark of curiosity, of ambition. This world might be different, but it was still a system, a network of rules and relationships. And if there was one thing Ethan understood, it was how to exploit systems.
He opened his eyes again, meeting his mother's gaze. "I'm fine," he said, his voice small but steady. "Just… tired."
She smiled, relief washing over her face. "Rest, then. You've been through enough."
As she turned away, Ethan's mind began to race. He didn't know where he was or how he had come to be here. But one thing was certain: this was a new beginning. And he intended to make the most of it.