I stared at Mylo, my mind reeling. This couldn't be real. I'd been dying—I should be dead. Yet here I stood, fifteen years old again, in a city that had been vaporized over a decade ago.

  "Occam's Razor," I muttered, trying to organize my thoughts. "The simplest explanation is usually the right one."

  Mylo's tail flicked as he stared at me with those impossible eyes.

  In the background, my old radio crackled to life automatically with the morning news cycle.

  "Goooood morning, Union space! This is your boy JC coming at you live from Galactic Pulse headquarters!" His voice was younger, less polished, but unmistakably the same irritating personality. "Breaking news today as the Navy unveils their brand new Class VII cruiser! Perfect for those exquisite parties at the very edge of a star, without being melted... again!"

  I ignored his babbling and focused on my impossible situation.

  Time travel isn't just impossible, it's a violation of the universe's fundamental architecture, like trying to divide by zero using reality itself as the calculator. The past isn't behind us, it's gone, erased by entropy, sealed by causality, and anyone who thinks otherwise hasn't lived long enough to feel the bones of time groan when you step where you don't belong.

  "—and folks, I'm told the buffet on this baby has seventeen different types of synthetic caviar! Because nothing says 'we're here to protect you' like fancy fish eggs, am I right?"

  As such, based on Occam's Razor theory and my understanding of what happened, I must be in an alien virtual reality. But if that were the case, there would be no point in any kind of struggle against a race capable of creating something on this level.

  Fortunately, there is a loophole that can still explain what happened to me without completely breaking everything I believe in. Time doesn't flow backward, not in any way that matters, but Mylo doesn't follow time at all. I'm not sure what he is, or what he sees when he watches the world, but he's not bound by the rules that keep the rest of us marching forward. When I died, I think he… did something. Reached back, maybe. Found a version of me still alive and let what remained of me bleed into her. Not a clean swap. More like an echo layered over itself, old thoughts settling into a younger mind. It's not science, and it sure as hell isn't magic. It's just Mylo—doing what things like him do, for reasons I'll never understand.

  "—so remember folks, the future is bright! Almost as bright as standing next to an exploding star without proper shielding! This has been JC with your morning update!"

  The knock rattled my door—three sharp raps that echoed through my tiny apartment. My heart skipped. Five days. That's all I had left before everything went sideways.

  "Coming!" I kept my voice level, fighting back the surreal feeling of reliving this moment. After facing down hordes of void-spawned horrors, this conversation shouldn't shake me. Yet my hands trembled as I approached the door.

  The rusted iron panels slid apart with a hydraulic hiss, revealing Mama Dana's stocky frame. Her cybernetic eye glowed a dull red through its patchwork of duct tape. Smoke curled from her endless cigarette, forming lazy spirals in the flickering hall lights.

  "We need to talk, girly." Her voice ground like metal on concrete.

  "Then talk. No need to dilly dally." The words fell from my mouth automatically—muscle memory from a lifetime ago. Back then, I'd been nothing but attitude and sharp edges, a scared kid playing tough.

  "Hah, I'm already old, girly. Can't you at least offer me a chair and a glass of water?" She hunched her shoulders, playing up the frail old lady act. The same woman who could bench press an engine block.

  "Come in."

  Her augmented eye whirred, focusing on my face. That wasn't how this conversation went last time. The old me would have made her work for every inch.

  The apartment's motion sensors detected us, bringing the neon strips to life. Their purple-blue glow painted harsh shadows across the cramped space. Two metal chairs unfolded from the floor with precise clicks. I grabbed a glass from the cabinet, filled it with purified water from the tap, and set it on the table that extended from the wall with a soft whine.

  Mama Dana settled into the chair, which groaned under her weight. She took a drag from her cigarette, the tip glowing eerily in the dim light of my apartment. Mylo watched her from his perch on my bed, his tail swishing lazily.

  "I have some bad news for you girly... And some even worse," she said, taking a small sip from the water.

  "Let me guess," I interjected, making her pause. "My parents cut me off and the junkyard claimed me." I spoke with certainty, the words flowing naturally.

  "H-how did you..." her voice flickered with surprise, something that almost never happens with Mama Dana. Her mechanical eye whirred, focusing and refocusing on my face.

  "I have five days left," I added, not allowing her time to even breathe. "15k per year, right?" She paused, staring at me. "If I can pay that, can I continue the apprenticeship?"

  She hesitated, which was normal under the circumstances. I'm sure she was surprised, even shocked. Well, maybe I'm exaggerating but not by much. Normally my parents would have paid for the apprenticeship, but at this point in time, my younger sister Lina had already proved to be a far better bet than my old self.

  I don't hate them for this. It's normal. In a world where money can buy anything, including lifespan and status, investing everything in the one that has the greatest chance to succeed makes sense. My elder brother Ty would agree, even though he is now most likely rotting at the Junkyard.

  "Do we have a deal or not?" I asked.

  She studied me, taking longer than usual. The smoke from her endless cigarette curled around her face, giving her the appearance of some ancient oracle contemplating a particularly difficult prophecy.

  "Girly, if you can get 15k credits in five days I'll not only give you another year but also upgrade you to Grade 2 apprenticeship."

  Damn, really? That was a boon I didn't expect, not that I would be unable to reach Grade 2 by myself in no time. Even so, this would advance my plans, as messed up as they might be, even further.

  "Deal," I extended my hand.

  Mama Dana grabbed it, shaking it hard. She stopped and looked me in the eyes, her mechanical single normal eye glowing with conflicted emotions. "You've changed," she said.

  "You have no idea."

  ***********************************

  From the rickety balcony of my apartment, San Marino spread below like a broken circuit board. Towers of crushed metal stretched toward a smog-stained sky, their jagged edges catching the morning light. Cranes swayed between buildings, their shadows dancing across streets that wound like copper traces on a motherboard.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Lower down, the city's arteries pulsed with life. Plasma torches sparked in makeshift workshops, their blue-white glare mixing with the neon signs that never quite died. Steam rose from vents, carrying the sharp tang of burnt metal and recycled air.

  At street level, the real San Marino emerged. Vendors crammed their stalls between towering walls of compacted scrap, selling everything from bootleg power cells to synthetic meat. The crowd moved like liquid metal, flowing around obstacles, merging and splitting in practiced patterns.

  Old Man Chen's noodle stand sat wedged between a parts dealer and a defunct betting shop. Six seats lined his counter, worn smooth by years of shifting workers and salvage crews. The aroma of real pork, a luxury in these parts, cut through the industrial miasma.

  I stirred my breakfast, watching ribbons of steam curl past my face. The noodles burned just right, sending pleasant tingles across my tongue. Maybe I'd overdone it with the chili oil, but my older taste buds remembered worse.

  Mylo sprawled across the counter like he owned it, his fur somehow staying pristine despite the ever-present grime. Chen's daughter, Mai, reached over to scratch behind his ears. Her small hands moved with careful precision, like she was handling something precious. Smart kid.

  "More broth?" Chen called from his cooking station, barely visible through the steam of three bubbling pots.

  "I'm good." The spice had my nose running, but that's how you knew it was the real deal. Not the synthetic stuff they pushed in the upper levels.

  Mai giggled as Mylo stretched, his paws extending far longer than they should before snapping back to normal size. If she noticed anything strange, she didn't show it. Kids were like that, they saw the impossible and just rolled with it.

  I watched a group of kids my age, well, my physical age, scurrying between the scrap heaps, hunting for salvage. That used to be me, before I learned better. The real money wasn't in copper wire and circuit boards. Those were survival scraps, barely enough to keep your stomach full.

  In San Marino, legitimate work for teenagers meant factory shifts or data entry, mind-numbing jobs that paid just enough to keep you coming back. The black market offered better opportunities, but those came with risks. Gang recruiters prowled the lower levels, promising quick credits and protection. Most kids who took those offers ended up as spare parts themselves.

  I could have designed something revolutionary, a new engine configuration, an improved power coupling. My older mind held enough patents to reshape this entire sector. But that kind of innovation would draw attention. Questions. Investigation. The last thing I needed was the Union's eyes on me, not with what was coming.

  But there was another option, one that had literally appeared on my doorstep not to long ago. The Union's latest obsession: The Void. Their scientists should have detected it recently, this space-between-spaces that defied their instruments. They were throwing credits at anyone who could provide even the smallest scrap of data about it.

  The going rate for verified Void readings was astronomical. Even basic sensor logs showing void signatures could fetch thousands of credits. The Union's desperation to understand it had created a whole underground market of researchers and data brokers.

  I glanced at Mylo, who had materialized beside my empty bowl without moving. He was my personal window into the Void, though he'd probably be insulted by that description. All I needed was a way to document his... peculiarities... without revealing too much.

  "Thank you for the meal, Chen!" I swiped my card against the counter, watching the credits vanish from my balance. "Come Mylo, let's go. We got work to do."

  Mylo stretched before draping himself across my shoulders like living silk.

  "Bye Mylo!" Mia waved from behind her father's counter, twin buns bouncing.

  The streets opened before me, a maze I'd forgotten I knew. Past the corroded signs and steam vents, through narrow passages where salvage crews hauled their finds. Every turn sparked a memory: the dented mailbox where kids stashed contraband, the crooked drain pipe that marked safe territory, the exact spot where the surveillance cameras had blind spots.

  I ducked under low-hanging cables, muscle memory guiding my steps. The deeper I went, the darker it got. Neon signs buzzed overhead, casting sickly rainbows across chrome-plated faces. The crowd thickened, mechanics, scrappers, anyone trying to climb out of the lower levels.

  The building rose ahead, its double doors swinging constantly as people streamed in and out. Most wore their augments proudly, exposed metal gleaming under harsh lights. Some had whole limbs replaced, others just fingers or eyes. Each modification told a story of desperation or ambition.

  Mixed among them were the kids, teenagers like me, though their eyes held none of my old fire. They shuffled through those doors like they were walking to their own funeral. Maybe they were.

  I inhaled deeply, letting the familiar cocktail of industrial chemicals fill my lungs. "The smell of burnt oil and shattered dreams. I missed this place."

  The Free Market's entrance swallowed me whole, dumping me into a canyon of noise and desperate commerce. Stalls stretched in every direction, their displays crammed with salvaged tech that blinked and hummed and sparked. The air tasted like ozone and despair.

  A merchant to my left waved a cybernetic arm, its fingers twitching. "Premium grade! Only dropped once!"

  "Fresh organs! Lab-grown, no questions asked!" Another called from the right.

  I kept moving, Mylo's weight steady across my shoulders. The crowds parted around us, more interested in the flashier merchandise than a scrawny teenager who looked one meal away from collapse. My reflection caught in a polished chest plate; pale skin, dark circles under my eyes, the kind of face that made people look away.

  "Could get you some color in those cheeks," a augment dealer leered. "Got some nice circulation enhancers, barely used."

  Row numbers ticked by. The deeper we went, the more desperate the sales pitches became. By row 200, merchants were practically begging passersby to browse their wares.

  A wall of holographic displays caught my eye – military-grade sensor arrays, perfect for documenting void anomalies. The price tag made me wince. Maybe later, after I'd built up some capital.

  Finally, row 317. The stalls here had a defeated air, hope ground down by years of marginal profits. Except for number 1037, where a mountain of a woman dominated the counter. Daisy Ren's bald head gleamed under the strips lights, today's wig apparently not worth the effort. Her massive arms, corded with natural muscle, not chrome, crossed over her chest as she watched the thin crowd with predatory focus.

  I made my way to Daisy's stall, memories of a future that hadn't happened yet washing over me. She'd been there when everything fell apart, when Lina decided family loyalty had a credit limit. But that was another lifetime, one I intended to change.

  Her stall sprawled across three units, a graveyard of forgotten tech. Corroded power cores leaked rainbow puddles onto warped deck plating. Stripped sensor arrays hung like metal skeletons from rusted hooks. The real treasures lurked beneath layers of grime, quantum processors, military-grade AI cores, pieces that could sing if you knew their language.

  But even the good stuff here wouldn't fetch more than 50k total. Not enough to escape the lower markets, not enough to match the protection fees the guilds demanded. I watched Daisy's eyes slide over me, dismissing another waste-of-time browser, another kid hoping to strike gold in the garbage.

  I reached for the first chip, military-grade targeting system from a Mark VII combat drone. The casing was cracked, circuits exposed like broken bones. Worthless to most. I stacked it carefully in my palm.

  The next came from a different bin – navigation processor, Union Fleet standard issue. Scorched black around the edges. Another piece of space trash. I added it to my growing collection.

  Daisy's attention shifted, curiosity breaking through her professional indifference. I kept going.

  My fingers moved with purpose, picking through the technological debris. Combat targeting arrays. Life support regulators. Waste management controllers. The pile in my hands grew, a tower of broken dreams and discarded potential.

  Daisy watched, saying nothing, but her eyes narrowed with each addition to my stack. She knew these chips were worthless, that's why they were here, gathering dust in the back of her stall. But something about my methodical selection had caught her interest.

  I stacked the hundredth chip on top, my arms trembling slightly under the weight. Pathetic. Even these small components felt heavy – my teenage body was seriously out of shape. Something to fix once I had the credits.

  Daisy's eyes tracked me as I approached her counter, dumping the pile of supposedly worthless tech between us. She picked through them, each chip passing under her scrutiny.

  "100 credits," she growled, voice like gravel under tank treads.

  Perfect. These chips were garbage to most people, not even worth the scrap value. But Daisy played it straight; no haggling, no attempts to squeeze extra value. Not with kids from the lower levels.

  I checked my balance: 103 credits. The numbers glowed mockingly on my display. Buying these would mean five days of Union Goo, that free synthetic paste they handed out in the welfare centers. The taste lingered for days, like cardboard soaked in engine oil, with a texture that made slugs seem appetizing.

  "I can pay." I held up my card, then paused. "Or we could try something different."

  Her eyebrow shot up, nearly reaching the metal strip above her eye. "What you got in mind?"

  "I'll bring them back in five days. If I make anything, we split it fifty-fifty."

  She hesitated. I could see the math running behind her eyes. A hundred credits could feed her family for a week. The chances of me returning were practically zero, and making money from this junk? Even less likely.

  "Take them," she finally said, waving her hand dismissively. "Now scram. You're blocking actual customers."

  I scooped the chips into my satchel, fighting to keep the smile off my face. In my previous timeline, Daisy never made it past row 200. This time, she'd crack the top ten within days.