December 22, 2012.
The world didn't end.
The sun rose quietly over the city of Beijing, its faint light washing across icy rooftops and dust-colored streets. The daily machine of life roared into motion once again. For countless dreamers across the capital, a new day began just like all the rest—no miracles, no catastrophes, just the same old grind.
Doug Feng hadn't slept all night.
At 5:10 in the morning, he boarded Bus 691, the first one of the day, dragging his weary body onto the damp, cold seats. He shut his eyes and tried to catch a little sleep, but the smell of someone noisily eating a chive bun nearby made him feel sick to his stomach. That familiar sense of dread settled over him.
Six years.
It had already been six years since he arrived in Beijing. Four years spent in a garbage-tier university in the outer suburbs, and two more drifting between dead-end jobs in the city proper. Seven jobs in total. Fired from three, quit the other four.
His current manager had just chewed him out the day before:
"If you can't hit your sales target by the end of this month, then pack your stuff and go. What do you think this is? Charity?"
Doug had walked out of the office with his head low, back to his cubicle. He turned on the ancient Windows XP computer and opened the customer service interface on Taobao.
Yes. He was now working as a customer service rep for a store selling… adult products.
A message popped up:
"Hey, is this the C-Sensei inflatable model? Does it come in size 38D?"
Doug responded without blinking:
"Yes! That's our best-seller! Add 10 yuan and we'll even throw in a 'special DVD'!"
He'd answered messages like this so many times he could do it in his sleep. He clicked through pages filled with suggestive images and lewd product names, and suddenly, a thought floated into his mind:
What if the world really had ended today? That might've been nice.
No more rent. No more soul-sucking job. No more pretending.
Or maybe… just maybe…
If I could start over. Go back in time and redo everything.
His head sank onto the desk, and his vision slowly faded to black.
⸻
A sudden flash of light.
Doug's eyes snapped open.
He could hear voices reading aloud, pages flipping.
"Huh?"
A sharp tug on his ear jolted him upright.
"Doug Feng! Falling asleep during morning study again? Did you sneak off to the internet café last night?"
He blinked.
That voice…
"Ms. Fang?!"
Standing in front of him was none other than his high school homeroom teacher, Ms. Qing Fang. She looked just like he remembered—early twenties, stern but pretty, with that signature cold expression that could freeze your blood.
Doug looked around.
Desks. Textbooks. Chalkboard. Students in uniform.
He was back.
Back in high school.
Back in his final year—two months before the college entrance exam.
Ms. Fang's voice rang out again. "If you keep this up, you're not even making it into a third-tier university. Don't waste your parents' money, Doug."
Doug stared in disbelief.
He remembered Ms. Fang had just started teaching then, freshly graduated herself. She was strict with underachievers like him and would lecture him for hours after class. At the time, he'd thought she was just being mean.
Now, as a 24-year-old man in a 17-year-old's body, he could see it for what it really was—she cared.
"Sixty-five days left until the college entrance exam," she said, turning to the class. "Every second counts. This is the moment that decides your future."
The classroom suddenly felt electric. Students sat up straighter, flipping pages more urgently.
Doug turned to look at the big red countdown banner on the back wall.
"65 Days to Gaokao"
It was real.
He had gone back.
Time travel? A dream? A glitch in the matrix? He didn't know.
Ms. Fang glanced back and caught him spacing out.
"Stop staring and start reading. And tell your parents to call me tonight."
Doug flinched. "Again?"
How many times had he been called into parent meetings? But now, the fear was gone. He had a second chance. A real one.
He wasn't that helpless kid anymore.
He was a grown man with six years of hard lessons behind him. And now, he had the chance to rewrite his future.
He looked back at Ms. Fang again—sharp heels, black stockings, pencil skirt, blouse buttoned to the collar, hair tied in a perfect bun. She looked more like a strict office manager than a high school teacher.
As he stared, something strange caught his eye.
Above Ms. Fang's head, a glowing number had appeared.
69
Doug blinked. "What the hell…?"
When she moved, the number moved with her.
It was like a video game HUD—floating right above her.
Before he could make sense of it, Ms. Fang frowned.
"Doug Feng! What are you staring at now?"
Doug averted his eyes immediately. "N-nothing, ma'am."
"Good. Your English is a disaster. This weekend, memorize Chapters 4 through 8. I'll quiz you myself."
"…Yes, ma'am."
He lowered his head to pretend to study, but couldn't resist sneaking another peek.
68
The number above her head had decreased.
His eyes widened.
He looked around the classroom.
Everyone had numbers above their heads.
His desk mate, Howie, had 96.
Class president Linda had 62.
Most students were in the 70s or 80s.
Doug tried to look up and see his own number—but there was nothing.
Then Howie nudged him.
"Hey, wanna hit the arcade after school? Tell your mom we're at tutoring again?"
Doug turned to him, eyes slightly teary.
This goofball. His best friend. The one who, in his previous life, had died in a traffic accident shortly after graduation.
Doug's voice was soft but firm. "No. Not today. Let's actually study."
Howie gawked at him. "Whoa, who are you and what have you done with Doug?"
Doug smiled faintly. "Let's just say… I've got a lot to fix."
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