Tuesday morning came with the same ritual alertness, Nick's eyes snapping open at 5:30 AM without needing an alarm. The raw memory of his own death was enough to jolt him awake. He lay still for a moment, heart racing, processing the strange reality of his situation: memories of a murder that hadn't happened yet, knowledge of betrayals still years away, and skills from two lives—one not fully lived, one from another world entirely. The visceral memory of the knife sliding between his ribs made him instinctively touch his side, finding it whole and unharmed.
Yesterday had been his first full day at Westlake University—Biology and Calculus, plus that unexpected encounter with Sarah and Matt after class. Today's schedule included Statistics and Intro to Business, completing his first-week rotation. In his previous life, he'd barely scraped by in these subjects. This time would be different.
He reached for his phone, checking for messages out of habit. Sarah's unread text from last night still sat there, unanswered: "Hey, great seeing you again today! We should catch up properly soon. - Sarah" He felt a cold tightening in his chest as he remembered how quickly he would have responded in his previous life, desperate for her attention. No, he wouldn't be pulled into their orbit again.
He rose silently, slipping into his workout clothes with practiced efficiency. The campus would still be quiet, most students sleeping off their first-night orientation parties or nursing anxieties about the unfamiliar environment. Perfect.
The cool morning air bit at his skin as he began his run, feet pounding a steady rhythm against the empty pathways. His younger body protested, muscles not yet conditioned to the punishing pace he set. Nick pushed through the discomfort, embracing it. Pain was clarifying. It reminded him of what was real.
Two years until they try to kill me, he thought, his breath forming small clouds in the dawn air. Two years to ensure they fail.
By 7:00 AM, he had showered and dressed, carefully selecting a plain navy button-down and dark jeans—understated, forgettable. In his previous life, he'd dressed to impress, desperate for attention and validation. That version of Nick had died in an alley, betrayed and alone.
This Nick would be a shadow, watching and planning from the periphery.
Morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the statistics classroom, casting bright, clean rectangles across the floor. The room smelled of fresh whiteboard markers and lemon-scented disinfectant, with undertones of coffee from the students clutching their travel mugs like lifelines. Chair legs squeaked against the polished floor as students settled in, the low murmur of voices echoing slightly off the high ceiling. The room was cooler than the humid air outside, the air conditioning creating a barely perceptible current that stirred papers and rustled through Nick's notebook.
Nick took a seat at the front, close enough to clearly hear the professor's every word and see each detail on the board. He set up his tablet on the desk, activating the note-taking app with a gesture, a habit Arlize had developed during war councils—preparation was non-negotiable.
The classroom filled gradually, nervous freshmen claiming seats with the tentative movements of people in unfamiliar territory. Nick kept his focus forward, avoiding unnecessary eye contact while maintaining awareness of his surroundings—another battlefield skill that had transferred across lives.
A familiar face appeared in his peripheral vision as Jordan dropped into the seat beside him, coffee cup in hand, just as he had in yesterday's Calculus class.
"Morning," Jordan said, dropping his backpack with a thud. "You're here early."
Nick glanced at him, noting the same casual demeanor as yesterday. "Always am."
Jordan took a sip of his coffee, a drop spilling onto his wrinkled shirt. "I checked the dining hall hoping to find you for breakfast, but you must've been up at dawn or something."
Nick shrugged. "Early start, early advantage."
"Man, you're intense," Jordan chuckled, fumbling slightly as he pulled out his tablet. "You were like this yesterday too. Most freshmen are still passed out from orientation parties."
"Not my style," Nick replied simply.
Jordan studied him for a moment. "So, those people from yesterday. Matt and Sarah? What's their deal?"
Nick kept his expression neutral. "High school classmates. Nothing special."
"Right," Jordan replied, clearly not believing him but letting it go as he glanced toward the door. "Looks like we're about to start."
Professor Feldman entered promptly at 8:00 AM, a thin stack of papers clutched in her hand. She was a slight woman with steel-gray hair cut in a severe bob, her sharp eyes surveying the room behind rimless glasses. Those eyes lingered briefly on Nick, a calculating assessment that reminded him uncomfortably of military officers evaluating new recruits.
"Good morning, everyone. Welcome officially to your first statistics class," she announced crisply, placing her papers neatly on the podium. "We'll spend today going over the syllabus to ensure you understand exactly what you're getting yourselves into, and then discuss some fundamental concepts that will form the backbone of our work this semester."
Jordan leaned toward Nick, whispering, "Looks like we're starting slow, at least."
Nick remained silent, pulling his tablet closer. In his previous life, he'd struggled with statistics, barely scraping by with a C+. The formulas had seemed arbitrary, disconnected from reality. But now, with Arlize's tactical mind merging with his own, he saw patterns and probabilities where once he'd seen only confusion.
As Professor Feldman explained confidence intervals, a memory from Arlize's life surfaced with startling clarity. During the Aurilian Wars, Arlize had once needed to predict enemy troop movements with limited intelligence. He'd developed a system for calculating probabilities based on terrain, weather conditions, and past enemy behavior—essentially a medieval form of statistical analysis. The battle-hardened calculation method had saved his regiment when they were outnumbered three to one.
Nick found himself sketching Arlize's probability notations in the margins of his notes, the symbols flowing naturally from his hand. Then he paused, staring at the unfamiliar markings with a mixture of fascination and unease. These weren't just memories—they were skills, experiences, and knowledge transferred across lifetimes. How deep did this connection go? And could he truly control which aspects of Arlize emerged in critical moments?
As Professor Feldman began explaining confidence intervals and probability distributions, concepts that had once bewildered him became crystal clear—like troop movements on a battlefield map. Just as he had with yesterday's calculus quiz, Nick found himself understanding statistical concepts with an intuitive clarity that would have seemed impossible in his previous life.
Nick and Jordan grabbed a quick lunch at the campus café, discussing the morning's class while carefully avoiding personal topics. Nick steered the conversation toward campus resources and opportunities, gathering information while revealing little about himself.
"You're different than most freshmen," Jordan commented, studying Nick over his sandwich. "Most people I meet are either terrified or trying too hard to seem cool."
"Just trying to focus on what matters," Nick replied, maintaining his casual tone.
Jordan's eyes narrowed slightly. "You know, it's weird. I was talking to some guys from Westridge last night at the dorm mixer. They seemed surprised when I mentioned you'd aced that calculus quiz."
Nick felt a cold prickle along his spine but kept his expression neutral. This wasn't part of his plan—he hadn't expected people to discuss him so soon.
"One of them—Ryan, I think?—said something about you barely passing math last year," Jordan continued, his tone casual despite the pointed observation. "Said you were more of a sports guy than an academic." He bit into his sandwich, seemingly unconcerned, but his eyes remained watchful.
Nick's mind raced, Arlize's tactical training kicking in. Deny everything? No—partial truth was always more convincing than a complete lie.
"I had a wake-up call last summer," Nick said, keeping his voice even. "Family situation. Made me realize I was wasting my potential. Spent three months doing nothing but studying and getting my act together."
Jordan nodded, a bit of mustard catching in the corner of his mouth. "That makes sense. Sometimes it takes something big to change your direction, you know?" He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Sorry about whatever happened, though."
"Thanks," Nick replied, relief hidden beneath his composed exterior. Crisis averted, but a warning noted: word was getting around about his unexpected academic performance. Another variable to factor into his calculations.
Jordan nodded slowly. "Fair enough. Just curious about your story. Most people don't show up to college already knowing exactly what they want."
Nick met his gaze evenly. "Bad experiences teach good lessons."
By afternoon, Nick had mentally prepared himself for his Intro to Business class—a different battlefield altogether. He arrived ten minutes early again, choosing a seat that offered good sightlines of both entrances and the professor's podium.
Sarah Chen was already seated when he walked in, her dark hair cascading loosely around her shoulders, eyes bright with anticipation as she chatted with another student. Nick felt a sharp twist in his chest at the sight of her—memory and emotion colliding with bitter knowledge of what was to come. He recalled her text from last night, still unanswered, and the false warmth of her greeting yesterday after Calculus.
Sarah had been the quiet, brilliant girl in his high school AP classes—always a step ahead of everyone academically but somehow still approachable. When she'd shown interest in him during their senior year, Nick had been flattered but cautious, unsure why someone of her caliber would notice him. They'd maintained a friendly distance through graduation, both knowing they were headed to the same university.
He deliberately chose a seat several rows away, angled where he could observe without being obvious. A moment later, Matt Harrington sauntered in, commanding attention with his practiced confidence—the same smug self-assurance Nick had observed yesterday when Matt casually invited him to that party. Matt spotted Sarah immediately, moving to take the seat beside her, his hand casually brushing her shoulder in greeting, that same subtle possessiveness Nick now recognized.
Matt—star quarterback, class president, and legacy admission to multiple top universities—had been the golden boy of their high school. His family's wealth and connections had ensured his path was smooth, while Nick had fought for every opportunity. Despite attending the same high school, they'd occupied different social universes—Matt at the center, Nick at the periphery. Only when they'd both chosen Westlake University had Matt suddenly shown interest in "reconnecting," something Nick now recognized as calculated networking rather than genuine friendship.
Nick watched the interaction with clinical detachment, noting details he'd missed before: how Matt's eyes constantly scanned the room, assessing social dynamics; how his friendly gestures toward Sarah contained subtle possessiveness; how his charisma seemed calculated rather than natural, the same performance he'd put on when inviting Nick to that Alpha Phi party yesterday.
Soon after, Professor Williams breezed in—a stark contrast to Professor Feldman's severity. He was younger, energetic, with the polished appearance of someone who'd worked in corporate America before academia.
"Alright, future tycoons and entrepreneurs!" he announced, his voice carrying effortlessly through the room. "I'm Professor Williams, and this is Intro to Business. Before we dive into the syllabus, I want to talk about why we're all here—to understand how business shapes the world, and how you might one day shape business."
Nick found himself genuinely engaged as Professor Williams outlined his teaching philosophy and expectations. The professor emphasized practical applications over rote memorization, case studies over textbook theories. This approach resonated with Nick's new perspective—knowledge was worthless without strategic application.
"Today we're discussing competitive advantage—the lifeblood of business strategy," Professor Williams continued, moving seamlessly from administrative details to content. "What gives a company—or an individual—the edge over competitors?"
He paced energetically across the front of the room, describing strategic positioning, resource allocation, and market dynamics. Nick took detailed notes, seeing connections to his own situation that he'd never appreciated before. Every strategy, every tactic in business had parallels in warfare and survival.
Midway through the lecture, Professor Williams paused, scanning the room. "Let's make this practical. I need a volunteer to give us an example of leveraging a hidden competitive advantage."
Nick deliberately kept his eyes on his notes, not wanting to be called on. But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
"How about... you, in the navy shirt? Your name, please?"
Nick looked up, meeting the professor's expectant gaze. "Nick Valiente."
"Well, Mr. Valiente, could you give us an example of leveraging a hidden competitive advantage?"
If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
Nick felt the eyes of the room on him—including Sarah's curious gaze and Matt's suddenly focused attention. He met Matt's stare evenly before responding.
"Certainly," he began steadily. "A hidden competitive advantage could be information asymmetry—knowing something crucial your competitor doesn't. Like a weakness they've overlooked, or a future market shift only you can see coming."
Matt's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Sarah tilted her head in curiosity at his answer, and Nick was struck by the stark difference between her reaction now and in his previous life, when she'd viewed his academic contributions as merely adequate—never impressive.
"Excellent example," Professor Williams praised. "Information asymmetry is indeed powerful. Care to elaborate on how someone might ethically exploit such an advantage?"
Nick chose his words carefully, aware of the unintended meanings layered beneath them. "By positioning yourself ahead of anticipated changes. If you know something others will eventually discover, you can prepare while they're still reacting. The advantage isn't just in having information first—it's in what you do with that time."
"Precisely," Professor Williams nodded approvingly. "Always look for the unseen edge, but remember that true sustainable advantage comes from what you build with your head start. Thank you, Mr. Valiente."
After class, as Nick gathered his materials, Professor Williams approached his desk while other students filed out.
"Mr. Valiente," he said, lowering his voice slightly. "That was quite an insightful answer about competitive advantage. Have you considered applying for the Coleman Business Fellowship? It's usually reserved for sophomores, but I'm on the selection committee, and we occasionally make exceptions for promising freshmen."
Nick felt a surge of satisfaction—a small victory, but significant. In his previous life, he hadn't even heard about the Coleman Fellowship until junior year, when it was already filled with Matt's friends.
"I'd be very interested, Professor," Nick replied, maintaining his composed demeanor while internally celebrating this unexpected acceleration of his timeline. "What would the application process involve?"
"Stop by my office hours this week, and I'll give you the details," Professor Williams said. "The deadline is early October, so you'd have time to prepare a strong application."
"I'll be there," Nick promised, adding, "Thank you for the opportunity."
As Professor Williams walked away, Nick allowed himself a brief moment of triumph. His first concrete advantage gained—and judging by Matt's scowl from the doorway where he'd overheard the exchange, his competitors had noticed.
As the remaining students gathered their things, Nick deliberately took his time, watching as Matt leaned in to Sarah with a look of mock surprise.
"Did our Nick just say something intelligent?" Matt's voice carried a familiar patronizing tone—the same one he'd used throughout high school when Nick was within earshot. "Color me impressed. Didn't know you had it in you, champ."
Sarah laughed, a practiced sound that didn't reach her eyes. "I guess miracles do happen." Her voice was soft but carried an edge that could cut glass. The perfect balance of sweetness and venom that had always been her specialty.
Nick kept his movements measured, giving them time to approach. He didn't have to wait long.
"That was quite an answer," Sarah said as they stopped at his desk, her tone carrying that familiar condescension thinly veiled as encouragement. "Where'd that come from? The Nick Valiente I remember barely spoke up in econ last year."
As he looked up at her, Nick recalled their entire history—the calculated way she'd shown interest in him during senior year, always with Matt hovering nearby, their sudden inclusion of him in their social circle after years of indifference. The emotional imprint of those interactions remained vivid even when specific conversations had begun to fade with time.
"You could say I've learned some lessons the hard way," Nick responded, meeting Sarah's gaze evenly.
"People change," Nick replied evenly, holding Matt's gaze.
"Sure they do," Matt said with a laugh that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Hey, about that Alpha Phi mixer on Friday I mentioned yesterday—the offer still stands. Lots of Westridge people will be there."
The invitation felt exactly like it had in high school—more of a dismissive gesture than a genuine welcome. An opportunity to remind Nick of his place in their social hierarchy. It was the same party he'd declined yesterday, now repackaged as if Nick might have forgotten.
Sarah chimed in, "It'll be fun. Might be good for you to network a bit." Her eyes flicked briefly to her phone, and Nick wondered if she was thinking about her unanswered text.
Nick knew the subtext. In high school, "network" had always been code for "try to fit in with us, but we both know you won't." Just like yesterday's interaction, they were performing the same old play.
"I'll think about it," Nick said, the same non-commitment he'd given before.
As they walked away, Nick caught Matt's quiet comment to Sarah. "Can't believe he's actually trying to sound smart now."
Sarah's response was equally low. "Maybe college will finally teach him something."
These remarks weren't just casual observations; they were performances. Subtle reminders of the social order Matt had once ruled, where Nick was relegated to the role of the intellectually inferior athlete.
Nick saw it all, clear as day. The setting had changed, but the script remained the same. Matt was still the star, and Nick? He was supposed to stay in his place. Nick refused. That Nick was long dead.
After watching them leave, Nick gathered his belongings, considering the interaction. The challenge had been set, the pieces were moving into position. But this time, he wouldn't be the unwitting pawn in their game.
He would be the player they never saw coming.
The campus activities fair was scheduled for later that afternoon, but Nick had another priority first. He headed to the library, finding a quiet corner in the reference section where he could work undisturbed. He needed to strategize, to map out the academic and social landscape before diving in blindly.
Finding a secluded corner table in the library's reference section, Nick spread out a blank sheet of paper and began mapping his strategy. Instead of typing everything into his phone where it might be glimpsed by passersby, he developed a personal shorthand—part Arlize's military notation, part his own creation. At the center, he wrote "NV" and drew concentric circles around it, each representing layers of his plan. In the innermost circle: academic excellence. The next: financial independence. Then: strategic alliances. The outermost circle: intelligence gathering. From each circle, he drew lines to specific targets and actions, creating a web of connections only he could interpret.
When finished, Nick studied the diagram, memorizing each element before systematically tearing the paper into small pieces and disposing of them in different trash cans throughout the library. The physical act of destroying the evidence felt satisfying—another habit from Arlize's life of wartime secrecy. The plan remained intact in his mind, ready to be executed with precision.
Next, he made a different kind of list—people to watch. Matt and Sarah topped the list, of course, but he added Jordan's name as well, with a question mark beside it. Something about his dorm neighbor's convenient appearance and practiced friendliness raised Nick's suspicions. In his previous life, he couldn't remember ever meeting anyone named Jordan. A coincidence, or something more?
He also added names of other Westridge High graduates who were attending Westlake—potential allies or threats depending on how he navigated the social terrain. Unlike his previous life, where he'd tried desperately to shed his high school identity, this time he would leverage those connections strategically.
By mid-afternoon, Nick had crafted a comprehensive strategy for his academic and social positioning. It was time to attend the activities fair—another battlefield requiring careful navigation.
The campus quad had transformed into a kaleidoscope of color and sound. Vibrant banners snapped in the afternoon breeze, their fabric rippling above tables draped with logo-emblazoned cloths. The air carried a mixture of scents—grilled hot dogs from the welcome booth, fresh-cut grass underfoot, sunscreen on bare shoulders, and the distinct tang of new promotional materials just unpacked from cardboard boxes. A cappella groups performed near the fountain, their harmonies occasionally drowned out by bursts of laughter or the thudding bass from the dance club's speakers. Bodies moved in controlled chaos, creating eddies and currents of human traffic between the rows of booths.
Nick wove through the crowds with purpose, the sensory overload filtering through his heightened awareness as he approached each booth with specific goals in mind. Unlike his previous life, where he'd drifted aimlessly until joining recreational sports clubs, this time he was strategic—targeting organizations that would position him for success.
"Free donuts for Business majors!" called a senior from behind a brightly decorated table. "Come sign up for the Business Leaders Association!"
Nick approached, remembering that in his previous life, he'd joined this club in his junior year—too late to make meaningful connections or take advantage of their internship pipeline.
"What's the commitment look like?" he asked, signing the interest sheet with deliberate casualness.
The senior—Tyler Davidson, Nick recognized with a jolt of déjà vu—launched into his pitch. "Weekly meetings, some networking events. But the real value is in the mentorship program. We pair freshmen with seniors and alumni in their field."
Nick nodded, mentally filing the information away. "And applications for that open when?"
"Next week," Tyler replied, surprise flickering across his face. "Most freshmen don't know about that part."
"I do my research," Nick said with a slight smile, taking the club's brochure. Another advantage gained.
He continued through the fair, methodically signing up for organizations that would serve his purposes—the Chess Club (for strategic thinking), the Investment Club (where he would eventually use his foreknowledge to build financial independence), and the Pre-Law Society (networking with future powerful alumni).
As he moved between booths, the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stood on end—a sensation he'd learned to trust. He turned slowly, scanning the crowd until his eyes locked on a familiar figure.
Jordan stood across the quad, talking with a group of upperclassmen Nick didn't recognize. There was something different about his demeanor—more alert, his casual slouch replaced by a straight-backed attentiveness that looked almost military. He nodded once to whatever was being said, then resumed his relaxed posture as soon as the conversation ended.
Interesting, Nick thought, making a mental note to observe Jordan more carefully in different contexts. If his instincts were correct, there was more to his neighborly dorm mate than met the eye.
As the afternoon progressed, Nick continued methodically covering the fair, building his new academic and social infrastructure with the precision of a military campaign. By the time shadows lengthened across the quad, he'd established the foundations for his freshman year—strategic club memberships, potential research connections, and a clear academic pathway.
The crowd had thinned somewhat, many students retreating to air-conditioned buildings as the heat intensified. Nick wiped sweat from his brow, deciding to head to the dining hall for an early dinner before returning to his dorm to organize his notes and prepare for tomorrow's classes.
As he turned toward the campus center, a familiar voice cut through the ambient noise.
"Nick! Hey, Nick Valiente!"
His shoulders tensed. He knew that voice all too well.
Matt Harrington jogged toward him, all perfect teeth and designer clothes, his hand raised in greeting. Behind him trailed two other freshmen—including Ryan Cooper, another Westridge grad who'd been part of Matt's inner circle.
"Thought that was you!" Matt clapped him on the shoulder, the casual physical contact making Nick's skin crawl. "Been looking all over. Sarah was wondering if you got her text—radio silence isn't your usual move, is it? Back in high school, you'd practically break your phone responding to her."
Nick forced his lips into what he hoped resembled a friendly smile. "Been busy."
"Right," Matt laughed, though there was no real warmth in it. "Listen, we're getting a group together for drinks tonight. Off-campus spot that doesn't card. You in?"
In his previous life, this had been the moment—the invitation that had drawn him into Matt's orbit. He'd gone that night, eager to be accepted by someone with Matt's social capital, flattered that the high school golden boy was suddenly treating him like a friend. That one decision had set him on the path to destruction.
"Can't tonight," Nick said, keeping his tone neutral. "Got some things to handle before tomorrow's classes."
Matt's smile faltered for just a heartbeat. "Things to handle? Since when do you plan ahead?"
The casual dismissal, the assumption that Nick couldn't possibly be organized or focused—it was all there from the beginning. How had he missed it the first time?
"People change," Nick replied simply, echoing his words from their earlier encounter.
Matt studied him for a moment, something calculating flickering behind his friendly facade. "Well, the offer stands if you finish early. We'll be at The Cellar downtown." He turned to go, then paused. "Oh, and about that Alpha Phi party Friday—exclusive invite, remember? Think about it."
"I'll think about it," Nick said, knowing he wouldn't.
Matt nodded and rejoined his companions, immediately resuming whatever conversation Nick's presence had interrupted. As they walked away, Nick saw Matt lean in to whisper something to Ryan, both glancing back with barely concealed amusement.
The familiar anger surged, hot and demanding. In his previous life, he'd been the butt of their jokes without realizing it—the charity project, the outsider they tolerated for their own entertainment.
Nick took a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his fists. The anger was useful, but only if controlled. Cold, calculated revenge would be far more satisfying than a momentary outburst.
The dining hall buzzed with activity, freshmen clustered in nervous, newly-forming friend groups while upperclassmen moved with the confidence of familiarity. Nick filled his tray with grilled chicken, brown rice, and steamed vegetables—the athlete's meal his coach would eventually recommend to optimize performance. Another adjustment to his timeline, another small advantage gained.
He chose a table in the corner with good sightlines to both entrances, a habit from Arlize's battlefield experiences that seemed to have transferred to this life. Old soldier's instincts in a college freshman's body.
As he ate methodically, Nick reviewed his mental notes from the day. He'd avoided the first critical error of his previous timeline—falling into Matt's social trap. He'd positioned himself for academic success with strategic class participation. He'd maintained emotional distance from Sarah while still capturing her interest.
His phone vibrated with another text from Sarah: "Saw you at the activities fair but you disappeared. Still thinking about Friday?"
Nick set the phone down without replying. Let her wonder. Let her chase for once. Her curiosity would be a tool he could use when the time was right.
Back in his room, Nick added another layer to his encrypted planning document. He titled it 'Phase One: Foundation Building' and began mapping out specific targets:
Academic Position: Secure top grades in first midterms to establish credibility with faculty. Identify key professors for future research opportunities.
Financial Security: Initialize investment strategy using future knowledge. First target: small pharmaceutical company that would announce a breakthrough in three months.
Matt Surveillance: Document patterns, contacts, and weaknesses. Primary goal: understand his connection to Sarah's family and potential links to larger conspiracy.
Sarah Assessment: Maintain distance while gathering intelligence on her family connections. Determine her role in the events leading to his death.
Jordan Investigation: Background check using university resources. Determine if his presence is coincidence or surveillance.
Nick studied the list with cold determination. Phase One would establish his foundation. By the end of the semester, he would be positioned to begin Phase Two: Targeted Disruption. Every move had to be precisely calculated—a single misstep could alert his enemies that he was no longer the naive target they remembered.
A successful second day, by any measure. The foundation was laid.
Tomorrow would be another step forward in the campaign to reclaim his future—and ensure that this time, he wouldn't be the one bleeding out in an alley.
