'Fifteen… I look fifteen.'
A shiver crawled down his spine. He stumbled back.
Then—searing pain.
His shoulder burned, right where the bullet had torn through. His vision swam. His mind screamed.
Memories crashed into him.
Blood. Gunfire. The old man's empty eyes.
Rico's lifeless body. The taste of blood in his throat.
His knees buckled.
"This is me… the younger me…"
His breath hitched. His fingers clenched.
"I'm back."
A grin twisted his lips, manic, unhinged.
"I'm back."
Marco bolted into his room, his eyes locking onto the calendar.
1990.
Marco's breath came fast, his chest rising and falling like he'd just sprinted a mile.
His fingers twitched at his sides before curling into tight fists.
"Shit." His voice barely made a sound. The room felt too small, too quiet.
His throat bobbed as his gaze darted around. His bed—smaller.
The wooden dresser—unfamiliar. His hands—too soft, too damn small.
He stumbled back, knocking into the desk. The impact rattled an old clock, a pencil rolling off the edge and clattering to the floor.
He swallowed hard.
'This is real.'
A shaky laugh left his lips. Then another. And then—
"Holy. Shit."
His legs nearly gave out as he collapsed onto the bed, head buried in his hands.
His mind spun, memories slamming into him like a freight train.
His parents—gone. The explosion, the cover-up, the payout. A million dollars dumped into his account like blood money.
Marco squeezed his eyes shut. He could still hear the whispers, the murmurs of government officials spinning their lies.
They'd made sure he had no relatives to leech off him. Independence was a legal formality—his life had already been written off.
Except his uncle.
The bastard had stepped in, all fatherly concern and fake sympathy. Handled the deposits, smoothed things over. Then swiped half the cash for himself.
'It doesn't matter.'
Marco's lips curled.
'Half a million at fifteen?'
'That's more than enough.'
His head snapped up, thoughts rushing like wildfire.
'Stocks. Businesses. Investments that haven't even been born yet.'
'I could own the world before the world even knew it belonged to me.'
A slow exhale left his lips.
He pushed himself up, his steps light as he made his way to the closet. Fingers traced over the blue jacket hanging there—the Garfield High uniform.
He smirked.
'The last time I'd worn this, I was just another dumb kid.'
'Not this time.'
He pulled it on, adjusting the sleeves, rolling his shoulders.
Downstairs, the silence pressed in.
The house stretched around him, too big, too empty.
Three bedrooms. A hall. A kitchen. Two bathrooms. A pool.
'It was built for a family.'
Marco chewed the inside of his cheek as he grabbed a piece of bread off the table, shoving it into his mouth.
Outside, the morning air hit his face, crisp and fresh in a way he hadn't noticed before.
Then his eyes landed on it—his bike.
A damn beast for a teenager. Sleek, built like a mini motorcycle, 30 mph max speed.
'The envy of every kid on the block.'
His fingers ran along the handlebars before he swung a leg over, the seat settling under him like muscle memory.
He kicked off.
The wheels bit into the pavement. Wind tore through his hair. The rush sent a shiver down his spine—freedom, real freedom.
A small food store flashed by.
Marco slowed, rolled in, grabbed his usual lunch. He ignored the cashier's chatter, his mind already miles ahead.
Then—Garfield High.
It loomed in the distance, brick walls bathed in the morning sun.
Marco rolled to a stop outside the gates, feet planting firmly on the ground.
His knuckles whitened around the grips.
'Kids are stupid. Emotional. Blind to consequence.'
'Just like I once was.'
'Just like they all were.'
His jaw tightened. The echoes of laughter, of old voices, stirred something ugly in his chest.
His gaze darkened.
'I was too naive.'
He parked his bike and stepped through the school gates with a smirk.
'But not this time.'
The campus smelled the same—fresh-cut grass, old chalk, a hint of sweat lingering in the halls.
His eyes flicked to the bulletin board as he passed.
Marco's fingers drummed against his thigh.
'Chris should be here.'
Before the thought could settle, a voice cut through his focus.
"Marco! Get to class!"
Mr. Kylian's sharp tone snapped him back.
"Ah—sorry, sir!" Marco muttered, feet moving before his brain caught up.
He made it halfway down the hall before realization hit—'I have no idea which classroom to go to.'
"Marco!"
A familiar voice.
He turned to see a kid with a trim cut and narrow eyes—short, unassuming, but too damn friendly for his own good.
"Ruubert." Marco's lips twitched.
'A gangster who works under me in the future. But right now? Just another middle schooler with a bat in his hands.'
"We're not in the same class," Ruubert pouted, his fake disappointment obvious.
Marco hummed. "Yeah!"
"Eh? I thought you'd be just as upset. We've been classmates since elementary school, man."
Marco raised a brow. 'Oh? That's news to me.'
"Right," he said, offering a half-smile.
Ruubert rubbed the back of his head, frowning slightly. "You feeling okay? You seem… off."
Marco barely heard him.
His gaze had locked onto a stocky kid ahead—broad shoulders, awkwardly short with a baby-face.
'Chris Taylor.'
'Future baseball star.'
'A nobody now, but in a few years, every scout will be after him.'
"Dude, you know that guy?" Ruubert tilted his head.
Marco blinked, dragging himself back.
"Ah, no. Gotta get to class."
He caught sight of a familiar room and slipped inside before Ruubert could press further.
Ruubert stared after him.
"That was weird."
—
Marco tossed his bag into the locker and sank into his seat, fingers tapping against the desk.
His mind whirled—past, future, missing pieces slotting into place.
The door creaked open.
Kylian walked in, sharp gaze sweeping the class.
"Settle down."
Chatter died.
The teacher adjusted his glasses. "We have a transfer student joining us today."
Whispers erupted instantly.
"A new kid?"
"Oh? A transfer student?"
"It should be a handsome guy."
"No way. It's gotta be a beautiful girl."
Marco leaned back, smirking slightly.
'Well, well, you're all in for a disappointment.'