Chapter 17 · Original Subject

The street's already burning when Cole hits the ground.

He rolls hard, shoulder slamming into rubble, and comes up with his rifle ready. Smoke everywhere. The kind that sticks in your throat and makes your eyes water before you even register the heat. He's not in tactical gear anymore. He's wearing a torn jacket, jeans that don't fit right, boots with holes in the soles. His hands look wrong. Smaller. Younger.

He's seventeen again.

The realization hits like a gut punch, but there's no time to process it because someone's screaming three buildings down. High-pitched. A kid.

Cole moves.

He doesn't think about it. Doesn't have to. His body remembers this even if his mind's been through eighty-three loops of something else entirely. The muscle memory of being young and stupid and convinced he could save everyone if he just moved fast enough.

The street used to be a market. Now it's a kill zone. Overturned stalls, shattered glass, bodies he doesn't let himself look at. Fire chewing through a storefront on his left, black smoke pouring out like something alive. The screaming's coming from inside.

He kicks the door in. The frame's half-collapsed already, wood splintering under his boot.