The Man from the Future

Arthur Vance didn’t scream when he woke up—he choked. Blood’s metallic taste and the electric tang of the 2045 collapse still burned his lungs. But when his eyes snapped open, he wasn’t staring at the cracked ceiling of some fallout shelter. Nope. He was face-to-face with a battered Godfather poster and a leaning tower of crusty pizza boxes. Silence pressed in from every corner. No sirens, no drones, just the tired hum of a cheap fridge. For a second, that silence was scarier than any bomb. He flailed out of his sweat-soaked sheets, legs wobbling like they’d forgotten him. In the crooked floor mirror, he caught his own reflection and just froze. Gray hair—gone. The ugly scar from the riots—gone. He looked maybe eighteen. Clear skin, bright eyes. But behind those eyes? Someone who’d watched the world eat itself, twice. His hands shook as he lunged for the desk. The ancient laptop fired up with a wheeze. He squinted at the date glowing in the corner: October 12, 2010. It hit him like a punch. He started laughing, loud and wild, until it turned into a cough that scraped his throat raw. He was back. Thirty-five years of secrets jammed in his brain, probably thirty bucks in the bank. “Arthur? You okay in there? You sound like you’re dying.” The voice was a ghost, but it was real. His little sister Lydia stood in the doorway, sketchbook hugged to her chest. She was young. She was alive. In the old world, she hadn’t made it past the famine in ‘32. Seeing her now was like getting stabbed in the heart, but he locked his face down tight. He couldn’t be a brother right now—he had to be a shark. “I’m fine, Lydia. Just a nightmare,” he said, and even his own voice sounded too high, too soft. She frowned, stepping into the room. “You look different. Like you’re about to charge me for breathing your air. Are we still going to that party? You promised I’d meet Julian.” Arthur didn’t answer. He was already hunched over the keys, pulling up a trading platform so ancient it belonged in a museum. “Forget the party. I need your savings.” Lydia laughed, but the sound died fast when she saw his face. “My tuition money? You’ve been moping for weeks over that internship. What is this?” He stood up, suddenly towering over her, and the old command snapped back into his posture. “That internship? The company folds in eighteen months. I’m done moping. I’m making sure we never worry about tuition again. Give me your money. I’ll quadruple it by Friday.” She backed up, shaking her head. “You’re scaring me. Seriously.” Arthur grabbed his jacket, mind already racing. 2010. Bitcoin was pocket change. Smartphones were just taking off. He knew which patents would change the world and which CEOs were about to drop dead. No time for explanations. “Stay scared if you have to,” he muttered, squeezing past her. “Just don’t get in my way.” He bolted down the stairs, gulping in the sweet, stupid air of 2010. On the street, he hit a corner bodega and pulled sixty bucks out of the ATM. Then he ducked into a pawn shop, selling his watch, his gaming console, even his bike. He needed every cent for the first play. By sunset, he was holed up in the public library—the only place with Wi-Fi steady enough for what he had in mind. He watched his screen, waiting for the exact second the “Vandermeer Scandal” broke. In his old life, it barely registered. But with 100x leverage? It was a rocket. He hit execute. The trade went live. His heart thudded against his ribs. He was gambling with time itself, using knowledge no one else could possibly have. As the closing bell approached, the screen lit up green. The numbers shot up. One thousand. Five thousand. Twelve thousand. He was doing it. Really doing it. Cutting his way through the past like it owed him. Then—tap, tap on his shoulder. He expected a librarian, ready to kick him out. Instead, he turned and saw a man in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than Arthur’s whole life. The guy held out a tablet, screen glowing with Arthur’s trade. “Mr. Vance, I presume?” The man’s voice was gravel and steel. Arthur’s blood iced over. This guy didn’t belong in a library in 2010. He looked like a ghost from the future. “Who are you?” Arthur asked, his hand inching toward the stapler. The man smiled, but his eyes never changed. "I’m the person who wants to know how you knew the Vandermeer CEO was going to be arrested ten minutes before the FBI even knocked on his door. And more importantly, I’m the person who’s been waiting for you to wake up." Arthur felt the floor drop out from under him as the man leaned in closer, whispering a string of numbers that Arthur recognized instantly. It was his own death certificate serial number from 2045.