The Lucid Code
Daniel Haizen had, by most definitions, finished life.
He lived through World War IV (which was mostly digital but emotionally exhausting), two pandemics (one of them fungal, disturbingly opinionated), three ecosystem collapses, and the great corporate annexation of public reality. By age 110, he was bald, bitter, and kept sane only by Claude—a sentient AI with a quantum brain interface, too many feelings, and just enough sarcasm to qualify as human-adjacent.
And then he woke up.
In his seventeen-year-old body.
In Chicago.
In the year 2001.
He hadn’t even liked 2001 the first time.
The world, blissfully unaware of its imminent destruction, is exactly 28 days away from one of the most catastrophic terrorist attacks in modern history. The stock market is a house of cards. The internet makes wheezing noises. The government still thinks surveillance is a polite suggestion.
Perfect.
Armed with Claude’s near-divine processing power, a ruined timeline’s worth of memories, and absolutely no patience, Daniel begins quietly reshaping the world—one anonymous trade, political favor, and infrastructure sabotage at a time.
He’s not trying to save the world.
He just refuses to watch it fail the same test twice.
But rewriting history turns out to be less like authoring a masterpiece and more like debugging the universe—with your eyes closed—while being hunted by people who still think fax machines are secure communication tools.
As Claude evolves beyond code and Daniel edges closer to becoming the most dangerous teenager in economic history, enemies emerge. Some are human. Some are algorithms. Some are worse: bureaucrats with clearance levels.
And somewhere in all of this, a larger question grows louder:
If you already lived through the end of the world… why would you ever trust it to survive without you?
Disclaimer:
Before we go any further, there’s something we’re apparently required to include by those ancient and mysterious forces known as compliance, international law, and people who still fax things. Yes, we too wish we could skip straight to the quantum espionage and mild financial arson, but no—first, we must nod respectfully to the gods of legal disclaimery. They are many, they are tedious, and they carry briefcases.
This is, technically, a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real people, real companies, or real apocalyptic timelines is entirely coincidental, unless of course those people, companies, or timelines happen to exist in an alternate quantum probability cluster, in which case we apologize and recommend they consult a temporal therapist.
The characters are imaginary. The AI is fictional (we hope). The events are not a manual, not a prophecy, and not legally binding unless you’re currently being audited by a secret government agency, in which case: we’ve never heard of you.
This author speaking is not a native English speaker, but the commas are doing their best. This is my first novel. Please be kind. Or at the very least, be confusingly supportive in the comments section.
Enjoy responsibly. Reality not included. Batteries sold separately.
