Six hours.
In his first life, six hours was the time it took for Arthur to wait in a hospital lobby, crying while a doctor told him he'd never run again. In this life, six hours was the time it took to dismantle a soul.
Arthur stood before the floor-to-ceiling mirror in his penthouse. The midnight-blue suit he wore cost more than his father made in a year. It fit him like armor. He adjusted his cuffs, his movements devoid of the clumsy hesitation of a teenager. He looked at his hands—they were steady.
"The boy is dead," he whispered to his reflection. "Only the ghost remains."
He checked his Samsung. The $50,000 from the "anomaly" trade had already been partitioned into three separate offshore accounts. He had spent $5,000 on the suit and a "fixer" to get him past the gates of the Thorne Estate.
It was the best investment he had ever made.
[The Thorne Estate: 21:00 PM]
The mansion sat atop a hill like a fortress of glass and arrogance. Valets moved like white-gloved shadows, whisking away Ferraris and Lamborghinis. Arthur stepped out of a black town car, the cool night air hitting his face.
He didn't have an invitation. He didn't need one.
He walked toward the front doors. The security guard, a man with the build of a professional wrestler and an earpiece tucked into his collar, stepped forward. "Invitation, sir?"
Arthur didn't stop walking. He didn't even look at the man. He simply held up his phone, displaying a single image: a digital scan of a private bank transfer from the Greenwich Project secret fund.
"Tell the Senator that the 'Silent Partner' from the 7th District is here," Arthur said, his voice dropping into a low, authoritative register. "And tell him if he keeps me waiting, the next person to see this image will be the Attorney General."
The guard's eyes widened. He tapped his earpiece, whispered a few words, and then stepped aside, bowing slightly. "Third floor, sir. The private study."
[The Lion's Den]
Arthur bypassed the ballroom. He could hear the muffled sound of a string quartet playing Vivaldi and the fake, high-pitched laughter of the city's elite. It was a room full of people who thought they were in control. He knew better. He had seen how their world ended.
He pushed open the heavy oak doors of the Senator's study.
Senator Thorne was standing by the fireplace, a glass of 30-year-old scotch in his hand. He was the picture of power—silver hair, a $10,000 watch, and a heart made of cold flint.
"You're bold, kid," Thorne said, not turning around. "My son is in a clinic with three cracked ribs. He tells me you've gone 'insane.' I was prepared to have the police pick you up at your mother's house tonight. But then my security says you have... Greenwich files?"
Thorne turned, his eyes narrowing as he saw Arthur. He expected a trembling boy in a cheap hoodie. He found a man in a designer suit with eyes that looked like they had seen a thousand years of war.
"The police aren't coming for me tonight, Senator," Arthur said, walking to the desk and sitting in the Senator's own leather chair. "In fact, by tomorrow, you'll be lucky if they don't come for you."
"Get out of my chair," Thorne hissed, his face turning a dark shade of red.
Arthur ignored him. He tapped his phone, and a high-definition audio recording began to play. It was Thorne's voice, clear as a bell, discussing the 'elimination' of a rival developer.
"Make it look like a suicide, Julian. We can't have the Greenwich deal delayed by a ethics committee..."
Thorne's glass hit the floor. The scotch soaked into the Persian rug, but he didn't notice. "That... that conversation happened in my private vault. It's soundproof. It's impossible."
"Nothing is impossible for someone who has already seen the future," Arthur said, leaning forward. The green light from his phone reflected in his pupils. "I know about the offshore accounts in the Caymans. I know about the shell company you used to buy the council members. And I know that tonight, at 10:30 PM, you were going to announce the destruction of my neighborhood."
"What do you want?" Thorne asked, his voice trembling. "Money? A million? Five?"
"I don't want your money, Senator. I'm going to make my own. What I want is your resignation." Arthur's voice was like a guillotine. "You will go down to that ballroom. You will announce that you are withdrawing from the Greenwich Project and donating the land to a community trust. Then, you will announce your retirement from politics due to 'health reasons.'"
"You're destroying me!" Thorne roared.
"No," Arthur corrected him. "I'm letting you live. In the timeline I come from, you died in a prison cell. I'm offering you a quiet house in the country. Take the deal, or the recording goes to the FBI in exactly sixty seconds."
[The Shift]
The door burst open. Julian stood there, his chest wrapped in bandages, his face pale with rage. "Dad! Don't listen to him! He's a nobody! I'll kill him myself—"
Arthur didn't even stand up. He just looked at Julian. The power dynamic had shifted so violently that Julian actually flinched.
"Julian," Arthur said softly. "You used to call me your dog. But look at you now. You're bleeding, you're crying, and your father is about to lose everything because of your incompetence. Who's the 'prey' now?"
The Senator looked at his son, then back at Arthur. He saw the cold, calculated look in Arthur's eyes and realized he wasn't dealing with a teenager. He was dealing with a monster he had helped create in another life.
"I'll... I'll do it," Thorne whispered, collapsing into a guest chair.
[The Ominous Ending]
As Arthur walked out of the study and down the grand staircase, he felt the rush of the 'First Win.' He had saved his home. He had broken his enemy.
But as he reached the lobby, his phone vibrated. A text from Elena:
"You played the Senator well. But look at the North Balcony. You've attracted the attention of a Great White."
Arthur looked up.
Standing on the balcony, leaning against the railing, was a man in an impeccably white suit. He looked to be in his late twenties, with hair as white as his clothes and eyes that seemed to glow with a faint, unnatural violet light.
He wasn't a politician. He wasn't a businessman. He was a "Player." The man in white raised his champagne glass toward Arthur and mouthed three words:
"Welcome back, Ghost."
Arthur's blood turned to ice. He realized then that the "Reborn" world wasn't just about revenge. It was a game, and he had just officially joined the big leagues.