LEX OPENED HIS EYES.
The ceiling above him wasn't white. Plaster—yellowed and cracked, with the faint hum of traffic outside the window.
His heart slammed against his ribs as he bolted upright, gasping for air.
The weight of the bullet was gone.
The blood. The penthouse.
All of it—gone.
His hands were clean. His clothes were different.
Lex swung his legs off the bed, feet hitting the warped wooden floorboards of a room he hadn't seen in over fifteen years.
A calendar hung crookedly by the door.
| 1st July, 2007.
Lex's eyes narrowed.
"What the—"
Before he could finish, his phone buzzed faintly on the nightstand beside him.
Lex stared at it, hesitation creeping in as the screen lit up.
"BARNIE – MISSED CALL."
Lex's grip tightened around the phone, pulse pounding in his ears.
He wasn't dead.
He was back.
Lex dragged his hand over his face, fingers pressing into his temple as the weight of it settled in.
The room felt smaller now—too quiet, too still.
The air conditioner rattled from the window, struggling against the last of Summer heat.
Outside, the street below bustled with life. Taxis blared their horns, vendors shouted across the sidewalk.
Life was normal.
He crossed the room to the dresser, yanking open the top drawer. A handful of messy clothes sat inside—loose designer t-shirts, skinny jeans. Relics from a version of himself that no longer existed.
Lex stared at them, lips pressing into a thin line.
This was before everything.
Before the collapse. Before the betrayals. Before Barnie slit his world apart, thread by thread.
His fingers brushed over a folded piece of paper tucked in the back of the drawer.
Lex pulled it free, unfolding it carefully.
MADDOX HOLDINGS INTERNSHIP APPROVAL – FALL 2007.
A cold smirk tugged at his lips.
Still pulling the strings even then.
His phone buzzed again—twice. Texts this time.
Barnie: "Meeting at 11. Don't be late."
Barnie: "Bring your portfolio."
Lex's thumb hovered over the reply button before snapping the phone shut.
He tossed it onto the bed and moved to the window, pushing the curtain aside just enough to peer down at the street below.
The deli on the corner.
This was before the new museum building jumped up.
The pieces were still moving, but this time, Lex held the board.
You always said power wasn't something you walked away from, Barnie.
Lex's reflection in the glass stared back at him.
Eyes sharper. Colder.
He stood by the window long after the phone went silent.
The light creeping through the curtain sharpened the room's every imperfection—the peeling paint near the baseboards, the uneven floor where his bed sagged in one corner.
Everything felt distant, like he was watching someone else's life through glass.
Lex exhaled slowly.
This was real.
The past.
His phone buzzed again, the sound muffled by the sheets.
He ignored it.
Instead, Lex crossed to the small closet by the door, yanking it open with a soft creak.
Rows of forgettable clothes stared back—oversized hoodies, worn sneakers.
The kind of wardrobe someone with too much money but no direction wore.
Lex's gaze drifted to the top shelf.
A polished black shoebox sat tucked away.
He pulled it down carefully, lifting the lid.
Inside, in a green box, a Rolex Submariner Date 16610 glinted beneath the pale light.
A gift from his father.
His last Christmas alive.
Lex's thumb ran along the cold metal, but he didn't put it on.
Not yet.
Instead, he placed the box on the dresser and reached for the mirror.
Lex met his reflection's gaze, running his hand over his jaw.
Seventeen again.
His face was softer, but it still held that edge—like he already knew too much about the world.
A knock at the window in the back.
Lex's shoulders stiffened instinctively.
His mind snapped to the penthouse—the memory of Barnie waiting in the dark, gun resting against his leg.
But the penthouse was gone.
This was a moment that hadn't happened.
"Lex! You alive in there or what?"
The voice yanked him out of the spiral.
Lex frowned, stepping toward the balcany window and pulling it open just enough to see—
Trent Hughes.
Standing on the side terrace balcony with his usual smug grin.
Lex's expression didn't shift.
"What do you want?"
Trent leaned casually against the windowframe, arms crossed.
His hair was gelled within an inch of its life, and the faint scent of overpriced cologne hit Lex like a cheap migraine.
"You're about to be very late, boy." Trent said, eyes flicking toward the vintage clock over Lex's shoulder."Barnie's already at the office."
Lex didn't move.
Trent's grin widened, stepping inside like he owned the place.
"Unless you wanna explain why you're skipping out on Uncle Barnie's little invite?"
Lex held his gaze.
Silent. Unmoved.
Trent took another step in, running a hand along Lex's desk, fingers skimming over his things like he was searching for something.
"You always were sloppy, man," Trent muttered, nudging an old textbook off the edge. "No wonder Barnie keeps you on a short leash."
Lex's jaw tensed.
"That why he sent you? To fetch me like a goddamn dog?"
Trent laughed."Nah. Just came to see if you needed help dressing yourself. You've been acting up lately."
Lex's smirk returned, slow and sharp.
"You spend a lot of time thinking about me getting dressed, Trent?"
Trent's grin twitched, his shoulders squaring slightly.
Lex let the silence stretch. Waited.
Then, with easy movements, he stepped aside pulling on a blue shirt and grabbed his jacket from the bedpost.
Slid it on. Adjusted the cuffs slowly.
"Relax," Lex said smoothly. "I'm never late. I just have an appointment before that meeting. So you can go your way and I'll follow later. I do have a parking spot unlike someone here."
Trent's grin faltered—just slightly.
But he covered it with a laugh.
Lex stepped past him, grabbing his keys.
Trent didn't move right away.
Just watched.
"You always were full of shit, Latham."
Lex shut the door behind him, locking it without looking back.
It was time to change the locks into his house.