Ethan Brooks sprinted through downtown Boston like gravity had given up on him. His backpack thudded against his spine, lungs burning, heart roaring louder than the traffic. This wasn’t just another test—it was the exam. The one that would determine whether he walked out of Northridge University a success story or a cautionary tale.
He had fifteen minutes. Fifteen.
Rain threatened at the edges of the clouds as he cut through the tangle of taxis and pedestrians. He leaned forward on the handlebars, the tires whispering over the pavement. Every turn felt like a gamble, every red light a threat.
He was almost there—until he saw him.
A figure, sharply dressed, lying half-curled by the bus shelter. A navy suit, pristine white shirt, bloodless face. The rest of Boston flowed around him like he didn’t exist.
Ethan braked hard. The world screamed, keep going, but his body disobeyed.
He dropped his bike, skidded to his knees beside the man, and dialed 911. No pulse. Then—a faint one. He started chest compressions, counting under his breath, words tumbling from his mouth like prayer. “Come on. Come on. Don’t die here.”
The man gasped once, color bleeding back into his face. The sirens grew louder. When the paramedics arrived, they pulled Ethan away gently, loaded the stranger onto a stretcher, and vanished into the chaos.
Ethan stood there, panting, hands trembling. His phone buzzed with a notification. Exam portal: Closed. Submission unavailable.
His future evaporated in that instant.
He didn’t sleep that night. His roommates tried to console him, but their words floated past like background noise. The scene replayed in his mind—the man’s lips moving, the whispered “Thank you.”
By morning, he’d convinced himself he’d done the right thing. He told himself it didn’t matter that everything he’d worked for had slipped away. But the ache in his gut said otherwise.
Two days later, it came.
An envelope—heavy, cream-colored, sealed in gold wax. The name embossed on the front read: Jonathan K. Vale. Ethan recognized it instantly. Vale Industries. One of the most powerful conglomerates in the world.
He tore it open.
Mr. Brooks,
We owe you more than gratitude. Please come to the address below. No phone calls, no emails. Just arrive.
—J.K.V.
He stared at the address: Beacon Hill.
The mansion loomed like it had been carved out of fog. Black iron gates, marble steps, guards in suits that didn’t quite look decorative. Ethan hesitated at the door until it opened before he could knock.
A woman in gray ushered him through echoing halls lined with portraits and whispers of wealth. Finally, they stopped in a vast study.
And there he was—Jonathan Vale. The man from the sidewalk.
Alive. Composed. Every inch the billionaire he’d seen on magazine covers. Only his eyes gave him away—still faintly bruised from what had happened.
“Mr. Brooks,” Vale said. “You saved my life.”
Ethan nodded, unsure what to say.
“I’ve read about you,” Vale continued, motioning for him to sit. “Northridge University. Top of your class. No family money. A future built on sheer determination.”
Ethan blinked. “You—read about me?”
Vale smiled thinly. “I have a team that finds things. And people.”
He slid a sleek black folder across the table. Inside lay a contract and a keycard.
“I want you to come work for me. Immediately.”
Ethan’s throat went dry. “Doing what?”
“Something that will redefine your concept of work. You’ll learn more than any degree could teach you.”
It should’ve felt like a dream come true. But something about the man’s calmness, the way his words sliced through the air—made Ethan’s pulse hitch.
“What exactly is this job?”
Vale leaned forward. “You’ll see. If you accept, the offer is nonnegotiable—and binding.”
Ethan hesitated. “Binding?”
Vale’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Think of it as… an exchange. You saved my life. Let me shape yours.”
Two weeks later, Ethan was sitting in a glass tower overlooking Boston Harbor. His new title: Research Analyst, Department 9. The work, however, didn’t match the name.
There were no reports, no numbers. Just locked files, coded data, and endless simulations involving human behavior and ethics.
The deeper he went, the stranger it became. Employees worked in silence, all smiles but never meeting eyes. No one left for lunch. No one seemed to age.
One night, Ethan stayed late, following a gut feeling. He accessed a restricted drive with his keycard and froze.
Dozens of files labeled PROJECT: ECHO. Inside—videos. Recordings of Vale’s own voice.
Subject 42 shows full compliance after transfer.
Memory synchronization successful.
Ethical resistance decreasing.
Each clip ended with the same line: “We don’t cheat death—we reassign it.”
Then he found SUBJECT 43: ETHAN BROOKS.
His chest constricted. The video was timestamped the day after the rescue.
Vale stood in the footage, looking down at an unconscious body—his body.
“Excellent,” Vale said. “He’ll adapt quickly. His loyalty will be absolute.”
Ethan stumbled back, bile rising in his throat. His hand trembled as he touched his own reflection in the monitor—searching for something human.
The glass under his palm was warm.
He yanked his hand away.
A faint hum vibrated through the room. The walls seemed to pulse. Screens flickered. And then Vale’s voice, from nowhere and everywhere at once:
“Don’t be afraid, Ethan. You’re not the first. You’re the first perfect one.”
Ethan ran. The elevator refused to move. The stairs looped endlessly, twisting back into the same corridor.
At last, he reached a mirrored door marked Observation Room. Inside, rows of tanks glowed faint blue. Inside each—someone. Sleeping. Hooked to wires. Faces eerily familiar.
Himself. Over and over.
Dozens of versions, frozen in time.
He staggered back as one of the eyes opened. The reflection of himself smiled faintly inside the tank.
Behind him, footsteps.
Vale stood there, immaculate as ever.
“You didn’t just save my life, Ethan,” he said. “You gave me one. And now, I’ve given you many.”
Ethan turned to run, but the floor beneath him rippled like water. His vision blurred.
The last thing he saw before the darkness folded in was his own reflection reaching out—not from glass, but from within.
The next morning, Northridge University received an envelope addressed to the Dean.
Inside was a check large enough to rebuild half the campus—and a brief note in elegant handwriting:
To honor a student who proved that choices define the man.
—J.K. Vale