The man known as Stevan Strong was thirty-five years old—a guy who'd once chased a dream of opening his own boxing gym.
He had spent years fighting professionally, not as a champion, but as a skilled journeyman. He was the kind of fighter they called in when a rising star needed someone solid to go up against. Someone who could take a hit, go the rounds, and make the other guy look good.
That was Stevan's role—until it all came to a stop.
A semi-detached retina in one eye ended his career for good.
But truthfully, Stevan had always known he wasn't destined to be a world champion. He didn't have the hype, the backing, or the flash. So when the injury happened, it didn't break him.
He had a plan.
With the little money he'd managed to save, he set out to build something real. A place of his own.
A gym.
The truth about boxing—at least for those not sitting at the top—it didn't pay big. Most fighters barely made enough to get by. So Stevan couldn't afford a fancy location downtown or a flashy setup with neon signs.
Instead, he opened his gym on the outskirts of the city, in a neighborhood most people didn't look twice at.
It was a rough neighborhood—but that never bothered Stevan.
In fact, that's why he chose it.
He believed that with all the troubled kids in the area, most from different schools, a lot of that pent-up energy could be channeled into something better. Something real.
He wanted to get them off the streets and into the ring.
So he chased the dream.
He saved what he could, bought some weight training equipment, laid out mats for drills, stocked boxing gloves and pads, even managed to install a ring and a few heavy bags.
It wasn't a huge space—but it was his. And Stevan was proud of it. For a while, it felt like things might actually work out. But life had other plans.
Nearly a year later, he found himself standing at the edge of failure, ready to shut the place down for good—until about thirty minutes ago.
Now, he was back behind the reception desk, tapping his fingers against the counter, casually keeping an eye on his one customer. Every so often, he glanced at his phone… just to make sure he wasn't dreaming.
I still can't believe it… he thought, staring at the screen. The kid actually sent me 10K. I just threw out a random number to get him to leave me alone—and now it's sitting in my account.
Honestly… it's more than enough to cover this month's rent. It even gives me a little room to breathe.
Still… I've racked up a lot of debt just trying to keep this place alive. I'll need to pay all that off too…
And I have no clue if this was a one-time thing. Is that kid really gonna come back every month and drop that kind of money?
No one in their right mind would do that… right?
Stevan's eyes stayed on Max, quietly observing from behind the desk.
He watched as Max moved from one piece of equipment to the next.
The kid had started off with a slow jog, warming up for a solid fifteen minutes. Then he moved on to stretches—basic, but clean form. After that, he hit the weights.
Stevan had been ready to step in and offer a few beginner tips once he snapped out of his daze. But to his surprise, Max didn't seem to need any.
He handled everything with solid technique.
It was weird—because Max looked like someone who hadn't trained a day in his life.
Frail frame. No muscle definition. No signs of someone used to lifting or fighting.
And yet… he moved like someone who'd done this a hundred times before.
Still, Stevan thought, arms folded, what I really don't get is—how does someone like him have that kind of money?
Where'd he even get it? He doesn't look like he's from a rich family. And if he was, why would he be living around here?
The more Stevan thought about it, the worse he started to feel. A part of him couldn't shake the guilt—like he was taking advantage of the kid.
But then he glanced at his phone again…Message after message from debt collectors. And just like that, he buried those guilty feelings deep down.
People with real money don't like you poking around in their business, Stevan reminded himself. So I won't ask questions. I'll just keep things the way they are.
Meanwhile, Max was getting back into the groove of working out.
Well… sort of.
He didn't hate it. But he definitely didn't love having to start from scratch. All those years of building strength, conditioning, speed—it was gone. This new body? Weak. Sluggish.
Every time he pushed it, he could feel how much it lacked. And he already knew… he was going to be seriously sore in the morning.
Still, Max thought, glancing around, this gym is close to home, and no one else is here. That's perfect.
He mentally ran the numbers.
Rent, food, basic stuff—it barely hits 2K a month. I've been watching my allowance app; most of it keeps getting refunded because I don't spend any of it.
Putting 10K into this gym each month? Not a big deal.
Dennis isn't likely to question where my allowance is going anyway. As long as I stay under the radar… he'll keep his eyes off me.
Eventually, Max called it a night.
He knew better than to push his body too far—especially on day one. If he overdid it, he'd be stuck in bed tomorrow, and that wasn't an option.
Besides, it was getting late.
As he headed for the exit, he paused by the front desk, turning to Stevan.
"Keep the gym open every night," Max said. "I'll transfer the payment on the fifth of each month. And since I'm the only one coming in, you can open and close it whenever you want—just keep it clear. I'll message you before I show up. That cool with you?"
Stevan practically lit up. He started rubbing his hands together like he'd just hit the jackpot.
"Yes, sir!" he said enthusiastically. "Anything you need, any time of day—you call, and I'll be there!"
Max gave him a wary look. Great, he thought. Do I have another Aron situation on my hands? Still, he let it slide and headed home. He'd taken a quick shower at the gym—it was actually bigger (and cleaner) than the one in his apartment.
When he finally got back, Max peeled off his clothes and was ready to crash. But as he pulled the quilt back to slide into bed…
He noticed something sitting right on top of it.
A laptop?
Max raised an eyebrow as he picked it up, flipping it over. Nothing on the outside. No stickers, no markings. Just a plain, black laptop.
Weird place to leave it, he thought, glancing at the bed. Under the quilt? Then again… there's not exactly a lot of storage space in here.
He placed it down on the small table next to his bed, sat cross-legged on the floor, and opened it. No password. No facial recognition.
That alone felt off—especially in this day and age.
Guess security wasn't a priority, he thought as the desktop booted up. He opened the internet browser and began typing.
Let's see what the local news has to say...
A few minutes of scrolling later, he leaned back.
No reports. No articles. Nothing about a body found in the river. Nothing that even hints at my death.
I should've expected that. The White Tiger Gang doesn't leave loose ends. They're pros at cleaning up messes.
With a sigh, he closed the browser and was about to shut the laptop entirely— Until something on the screen caught his eye. A single video file. The thumbnail was paused on a dark, dimly lit frame—but the title stood out clear as day:
"Play Me."
Max didn't hesitate. He clicked on it and expanded the screen to full.
The video started—
And for a second, Max thought he was staring into a mirror.
Because on the screen, sitting in the exact same spot, against the exact same bed, was… him.
He must've recorded this on the webcam, Max thought, eyes narrowing.
But before he could finish the thought, the video began to play.
On-screen, the other Max—his past self—looked directly into the camera.
"If you're watching this video…
Then it means I'm already dead."