Chapter 1
James Carter died on a Tuesday.
It wasn't noble. It wasn't heroic.
It was KFC.
One second he was halfway through a spicy wing, binge-watching Peaky Blinders with the lights off. The next—
A bone jammed in his throat.
Panic clawed at his chest.
He kicked over his drink, knocked over the table.
Then—darkness.
Followed by light.
Not a peaceful, white glow.
No tunnel.
No angels.
This light pulsed. It shifted, colors bending and fracturing like oil on water.
The air tasted like static and electricity.
James floated—or maybe stood—in a vast, empty void.
Weightless.
Breathless.
In front of him, something appeared.
Not a man.
Not a god.
Something else.
It wore robes that shimmered between black and gold, and its face—if it had a face—was a swirl of stars and storms.
Its voice hit like a hammer and a whisper all at once.
> "James Carter," it said, a hundred voices folding into one.
"Welcome to your... reroll."
James blinked.
"I died eating chicken wings?"
> "Indeed. A ridiculous end. But the universe is not without humor."
James coughed, or tried to. His throat still felt phantom-clogged.
"You have been... noticed."
James frowned. "By who?"
> "By me."
It spoke like that settled everything.
"Why me?"
> "Because you watched. Because you read. Because you remember."
"Let's see what that's worth."
Without waiting for permission, a massive golden wheel materialized beside the being.
Inscribed with symbols James couldn't read, it spun slowly in the electric air, humming.
> "Spin it. Twice."
James hesitated.
Then shrugged.
It wasn't like he had anything else lined up.
He stepped forward and gripped the wheel.
It was solid, warm, vibrating like a living thing.
He spun.
Click. Click. Click.
The wheel slowed. Glowed.
PERFECT MEMORY.
> "You will retain everything from your former life. Everything you've seen, heard, learned... even what you didn't know you remembered."
James staggered back slightly, overwhelmed.
Every book. Every movie. Every second spent half-absorbing trivia, skills, useless facts.
All of it—locked in.
"Second spin?" he croaked.
> "Yes. Choose your final gift."
James wiped sweaty palms on jeans he no longer wore and grabbed the wheel again.
This time, the spin slowed faster.
Click. Click. Click.
SKILLSET OF JOHN WICK.
It hit him like a shot of pure ice down his spine.
Instinct. Muscle memory.
The knowledge of movement, combat, violence.
Ancient, perfect violence.
He could feel it settling into his bones, sharpening the edges of his mind.
Before he could speak—
> "Good luck, James Shelby."
"Wait—Shelby!?"
But the being was already gone.
The void shattered like glass around him.
He woke to hell.
Mud in his mouth.
Gunfire hammering the air.
The smell of burning flesh, rot, steel.
Pain ripped down his shoulder.
He gasped, rolling over.
The sky was black with smoke.
Men screamed.
Artillery cracked the earth like a vengeful god.
A body landed beside him—
Not dead.
Not yet.
The man's face was smeared with blood and soot, but James knew him immediately.
John Shelby.
His brother.
John was shouting over the chaos.
"James! Jesus Christ, where'd you go!?"
He grabbed James under the arms and yanked him up, ducking low as machine gun fire tore up the mud around them.
"You got clipped! Fookin' Fritz nearly took your head off!"
James blinked.
Memories—not just memories, but entire lifetimes—smashed into place.
Small Heath.
The Shelby family.
The war.
The years to come—Tommy's rise, the betrayals, the violence.
He wasn't James Carter anymore.
He was James Shelby.
Twin brother to John.
Ghost in the canon.
A variable in a story that had once been inevitable.
He looked down at his hands—
Calloused.
Gunmetal-stained.
Worn from a life he hadn't yet lived.
A battered Lee-Enfield rifle hung from his shoulder.
Blood soaked his sleeve—but it wasn't his.
He heard it again, faint but fierce:
> You're not a spectator anymore.
A mortar whistled overhead.
The ground heaved as it hit nearby—mud and blood spraying like rain.
John grabbed him again.
"Snap outta it, mate—we're up next!"
James sucked in a breath.
The world around him was chaos.
Screams.
Gunfire.
Death.
But inside him—
There was only calm.
Only clarity.
He wasn't afraid.
He had the memories of a world that hadn't happened yet.
He had the skill to survive anything this world could throw at him.
He steadied his rifle.
His lips curled into a feral grin.
"Let's fookin' go."