Who Needs Love When You're Reborn?

Jason King jolted upright from the autopsy table, the acrid scent of formaldehyde burning his nostrils. The dissection lab at Stanford Medical School blurred into double vision. In front of him was an old Dell computer, its screen displaying June 12, 2008. The tower hummed like a tractor, and the peeling Halo 3 limited-edition "Bloody hell..." He reached for his throat, where a hospice breathing tube was supposed to be. His last memory was of a hospital bed in a shelter for bankrupt men at forty-three, yet here he was, back in the internet café where he had worked at eighteen—in Ann Arbor, Michigan, at Cyber Knights Esports Center. "Jason! Station seven just blue-screened!" Tom's voice boomed from behind the counter. The gruff veteran never missed a chance to remind people he had once repaired M1 tank cannons in Iraq. Now, he was wiping down a Guitar Hero co Muscle memory kicked in as Jason crouched in front of the faulty PC. The scent of burning thermal paste hit him, and reality snapped into focus—this wasn’t a near-death hallucination. The dust-caked CPU fan, the cheese powder in the keyboard crevices, even the Greg is gay gra His phone buzzed in his jeans pocket—the unmistakable Nokia N95 ringtone. A text from his mother: "The lawyer says the federal student loan maxes out at $120,000, but you need to sign..." Jason hurled the phone against a World of Warcraft poster. The Nokia shattered against an Illidan figurine, and in that moment, he finally accepted it—he had been reborn. 【2】 The 2008 summer breeze slipped through the blinds, carrying the dampness unique to the Great Lakes. Jason stepped out of the esports center, passing a Dodge pickup truck blasting Obama’s campaign speech: "Yes, we can change..." He walked toward the 7-Eleven on the corner, catching his reflection in the glass storefront—a decade younger. Messy black curls, sun-kissed skin from pizza deliveries, and lean muscles barely visible beneath a cheap hoodie. A testament to his Italian grandfather’s strict home-gym tradition. As the automatic doors whooshed open, cool air and the hum of the lottery machine rushed to greet him. Jason stopped at the magazine rack. The Wall Street Journal headline seared into his mind: "Subprime Crisis Worsens as Lehman Brothers Stock Plummets 60%." Memory flooded back like the Chicago River in reverse. In seven months, he would enroll at Riverstone State University, major in godforsaken marketing, and spend the next twenty-five years trapped in a cycle of student debt—until terminal stomach cancer finally freed him. Laughter rang from the checkout counter. A blonde in a miniskirt handed an energy drink to a football player. Her name tag read Emily - Night Manager. In 2008, she was still just a girl, not yet the woman whose life would later be wrecked by painkillers. Jason grabbed a Red Bull and chugged it. As carbonation exploded in his throat, he flipped off the store’s security camera. "This time, I’m getting ahead of the game." 【3】 Riverstone State University, Entrepreneurship Club. 2 AM. Moonlight streamed through Gothic windows, cutting Jason’s face into sharp relief. He crouched in the storage room, the soft blue glow of his Nokia keypad illuminating a handwritten list: Bitcoin white paper (to be released October 31) Facebook’s yet-to-be-launched Like button Uber’s prototype operation model Groupon’s campus group-buy strategy... Footsteps sounded outside. Jason quickly turned off his phone as a key slid into the lock. Through the gaps in the shelves, he saw silver light outline a figure. A girl stepped forward, wearing an oversized baseball jacket, its sleeves barely hiding a cast—evidence of her fall from a horse at last week’s homecoming. Vivian Foster. She moved barefoot across the carpet, ghostlike, stopping at locker 213. "You’re here to steal painkillers again?" Jason’s voice made her freeze. The rumors had always been there—the law school dean’s daughter had a drug habit—but no one knew it stemmed from congenital fibromyalgia. Vivian turned, moonlight brushing her face. Her porcelain skin revealed faint blue veins beneath the surface, her gray-blue irises like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. She lifted her cast, the words Fight Like a Foster scrawled across it, but her eyes held a silent plea. Jason flicked on his camcorder. "Guess how much this video is worth in student court?" In reality, the tape contained nothing but photos of business plans. Vivian’s icy fingers gripped his wrist. Her breath carried the faint scent of peppermint. "Delete it, or I tell campus security you’re growing weed in here." She nodded toward the corner. In the dim moonlight, several m*******a seedlings stretched lazily toward the light. 【4】 Three days later, fraternity rush night. Greg Cooper pushed through the crowd like a lost grizzly bear, his work pants still stained with grease from the farm supply store. "Jason! Why the hell are you pledging Sigma Alpha Epsilon? Their dues could buy ten used tractors!" Jason adjusted his tie—a five-dollar knockoff Armani from the Salvation Army. He watched the frat boys play beer pong, a smirk curling at his lips. "Because their parents control every Walmart supply chain in the Great Lakes region." The rush chair, Tyler, tossed him an application. "Your skills section is ridiculous. Can hack the campus dining system in under 30 seconds?" Jason took the iPad, fingers flickering across the screen. Moments later, every dining hall TV blared SpongeBob SquarePants. He gave a theatrical bow. "Enjoy your lunch with cartoons. Want me to tweak the gradebook system next?" A scream cut through the noise. The crowd parted like the Red Sea. Vivian Foster limped forward on crutches, her cast now branded with Sigma Nu Exclusive Property. She tore an SAE rush poster off the wall and slapped it against Jason’s chest. "Message from my father—touch a Foster daughter, and you’ll be dealing with the best legal team in the state." Jason folded the poster into a paper plane and launched it at Tyler. "Tell your president—I’m out." As the murmurs swelled, he leaned in close to Vivian. "You never told your dad, did you? That night, you weren’t looking for painkillers. You were after fluoxetine." Her pupils shrank. Jason was already walking away. Greg, still clutching a box of flyers, hurried after him. "So, where are we going now?" "To turn the student loan office into our personal ATM." Jason kicked open the door to the Entrepreneurship Club. The morning sun stretched his shadow into that of a giant. "First, we’re monopolizing every freshman’s bedding supply before fall semester starts."