The author photo was there, just like before. But the picture of him in the hospital gown was gone.


In its place was a man in deep blue prison scrubs. Unshaven, eyes sunken into dark sockets, hair graying prematurely. There wasn't a trace of a smile on his face—just pure, distilled regret and exhaustion.


The photographer really captured the mood. The claustrophobic cell, the pathetic furniture, the single beam of light mocking him through the iron bars. It was depressing as hell.


Max collapsed to the floor, staring blankly at the photo of his potential self.


I thought all I had to do was hurdle over the first trap, he thought, his mind reeling. I thought if I did a perfect split-jump over Pit A, I'd be safe. Instead, I stuck the landing right at the bottom of Pit B.


Life wasn't a simple fork in the road where one path led to darkness and the other to light. It was a maze. You could turn away from the darkness only to walk into a deeper, blacker abyss.


Max finally understood. You can change the future, sure. But that doesn't mean you're changing it for the better.


At least in his previous run-through, A Tragic Life of Max Mason, he'd managed to survive for eighteen years.


This time? It was way more pathetic. He'd kicked the bucket at age ten. A new record for the Death Speedrun category.


Life was just one giant minefield. Apparently, trying to live long enough to die of natural causes was asking too much of the universe.


...


"Hey, Max."


"Shane. You free for lunch?"


"Yeah. What's up?"


"I just need some human interaction. Let's grab food. My treat."


"Huh? Are you okay?"


"No. I'm bitter. I'm feeling bad."


"...You aren't trying to sell me insurance, are you?"


"..."


"Okay, okay. The usual spot?"


"No! I'm trying to eat healthy. Healthy people do not eat greasy kebabs."


"Pfft. Since when do you care about health? You? The guy who practically drinks grease?"


"Since right now. I quit."


The line went dead silent for ten full seconds. "Okay, this sounds serious. Where do you want to go?"


"The Green Lotus Bistro. It's the vegetarian place downstairs."


"Ugh..."


...


Thirty minutes later, at The Green Lotus Bistro.


"And what would you like to order, sir?"


The waitress, a woman in her forties who still had plenty of charm to spare, spoke in a voice like warm honey. She batted her eyelashes and handed the menu directly to... the guy sitting across from Max.


"My friend will order." Shane, looking weirded out, shoved the menu full of alien vegetable names toward Max.


Shane was Max's college roommate and die-hard best friend. He was also disgustingly good-looking.


Back in the day, during the university's annual "Top 10 Campus Heartthrobs" poll, Shane had ranked Number 2.


He was six feet of golden-ratio annoyance: Brad Pitt's eyes, George Clooney's brows, Tom Cruise's nose, Henry Cavill's jawline...


Women looked at him and wanted to plan a wedding. Men looked at him and wanted to leave a size-12 boot print on his 24-karat, five-star, high-definition face.


Basically, the guy was a weapon of mass distraction, a slayer of hearts from ages eight to eighty.


Side note: The guy who ranked Number 1 was the Dean's son. Politics, obviously.


Judging by the waitress's lovesick expression and the way three different waitresses were craning their necks to get a look at him, Shane's lethal effect on the opposite sex was still fully operational.


Max was used to it. He ignored the aura of handsomeness, glanced at the menu for two seconds, and started listing demands.


"One steamed vegetable medley, one poached kale, two bowls of chestnut bisque, and the fresh seasonal salad. Low sugar, low salt, low oil.Thanks."


"Um..."


The waitress blinked, momentarily stunned by Max's culinary sadism, but quickly recovered her dazzling professional smile.


"Certainly! Please wait a moment."


With the Proprietress personally cracking the whip in the kitchen, the food arrived in record time.


It was fancy stuff. Crystal-clear steamed veggies, cabbage cut to look like a blooming lotus floating in broth, a salad that looked color-coordinated by an artist, and chestnut bisque smelling sweet and sticky.


Plus, the sweet-looking waitresses were hovering like moths to a flame, fighting for the chance to refill their water glasses.


That was one perk of dining with Shane: no matter where they went, they got Michelin-star VIP treatment.


Shane looked at the exquisite, oil-free dishes, then watched as Max took up his cutlery.


"What happened to you?" Shane thought loud enough to show on his face. Give me back the normal best friend who eats sketchy street meat, gets food poisoning, and screams about doing it all again the next day!


Finally, Shane asked the question burning a hole in his brain.


"So... you got into a cult or something? What is happening?"


Max, pinky finger extended as he polished a fork, looked dead calm.


"It's called the will to live, Shane."


"..."


It took Shane a long moment to reboot his speech center. "Okay... what exactly happened?"


Max silently stabbed a forkful of salad. He chewed the bland, grassy spinach, his eye twitching slightly as he forced himself to swallow.


He set down the fork and let out a long, heavy sigh.


"Ugh."


Dying of late-stage stomach cancer in two different lifetimes really drove home the importance of a healthy diet.


In his first run, A Tragic Life, he'd been oblivious. In the second, The Hustle, he hadn't been able to afford healthy food.


So now? Wellness was mandatory. It was Priority Number One on the "Change My Destiny" to-do list.


If he didn't stay healthy, he wouldn't even survive the full duration of his sentence here. How tragic would that be?


He was already planning a trip to the hospital for a check-up. A gastroscopy was definitely in order. Preferably the painless kind where they knock you out.


"Nothing happened," Max lied smoothly. "I just hit a hurdle in life that I couldn't jump over, and suddenly realized how precious life is."


Realized how precious life is? Hearing that cliché line, combined with Max's bizarre behavior and depressed vibe, the color drained from Shane's face.


"No way. Do you... do you have a terminal illness? Don't tell me it's something melodramatic like that!"


Max gave him a flat look.


"No. Not yet. But I'm probably due for one soon."


"I..."


Shane had a million sarcastic comebacks ready, but they all died in his throat.


What does "probably due for one soon" even mean? Is cancer something you can schedule?


The problem was, Max actually had a basis for saying it.


Max had just spent a panic-filled few minutes consulting Dr. Google. The prognosis? Stomach cancer. Malignant tumors. From early detection to the bitter end, you usually had about one to three years. Five if you were lucky. The process was terrifyingly fast.


But even if he was living the timeline of the "Max" from the movie The Hustle—who had the survival instincts of a fruit fly—the clock shouldn't start ticking for another five years. And that was the worst-case scenario. The current Max? He was probably just dealing with "mild gastritis." He was in a pre-disaster state. Salvageable.


Shane watched him closely. Max wasn't laughing. He looked dead serious. Shane couldn't figure out exactly what was wrong, so he went into designated best-friend comfort mode.


"Quit messing around. If you can still crack jokes, you aren't dying. We'll cross that bridge when we get there. There isn't a hurdle in life you can't jump over."


Max looked at him, totally earnest. "But what if you jump over the hurdle, and there's just... another hurdle?"


"Another hurdle? Then you jump again! If one step doesn't work, take another. It's not like you're hopping on one leg."


Max froze. He seemed to process this profound wisdom. Slowly, he nodded. "Huh. You make a lot of sense. I actually feel better."


"See? Now, spill it. What's the problem? But ground rules: if this is about a girl, I'm out."


"Right. I know the rules." Max nodded.


Shane's "No Girl Drama" rule dated back to college. One of Shane's buddies had a crush on a sophomore and concocted a brilliant, terrible plan to stage a "hero saving the damsel in distress" moment. He hired some guys to play thugs. Unfortunately, he hired the wrong extras—he asked Shane to fill in.


The result was a disaster. Even with a stocking pulled over his head to play the bad guy, Shane was apparently too handsome to be a villain. His good looks punched right through the nylon disguise. The girl ignored her "hero," developed a severe case of Stockholm Syndrome for the bandit, and the actual hero ended up crying himself to sleep in the bathroom. Shane rejected the girl multiple times, but his friend still blamed him. They became enemies. Shane had been emotionally scarred ever since. It was probably why he cycled through girlfriends so fast now.


Max chose his words carefully. "It's complicated. I can't explain everything. So I'll just tell you the part that makes sense."


"Okay. Shoot." Shane leaned in, ready for a tragic backstory.


"I need money."


"..."


Silence. The awkward kind.


Shane's face went through a rainbow of emotions. Green. White. Black. It was a spectacular light show. He stared at Max until Max had to look away.


"So... you set up this whole emotional scene just to borrow cash?"


"I wouldn't say that," Max said, looking guilty. "I really was feeling down. But after venting to you, I felt better. And when I feel better, I think about business."


Shane looked like he wanted to dump his poached kale on Max's head. "How much?"


"That depends on what our friendship is worth."


"You can't put a price tag on friendship."


"If you could, though... what's the estimate?"


Shane sighed.