Jeff woke to the sharp blare of his alarm clock—6:00 a.m., cutting through the stillness of the master bedroom. The space sprawled around him, dark wood and clean lines defining a room that had once been unimaginable for a 16-year-old. But the Chronivac had rewritten reality: Jeff Parker, 38, single father, lead architect—this was his domain now. The king-sized bed bore neutral-toned sheets he’d chosen, a sleek desk in the corner held his sketching pads and laptop, and a framed photo of him and Mike—Mike grinning at 16, Jeff stern at 38—rested on the nightstand. The world had shifted, and he inhabited it fully.
He rolled out of bed, his hairy arms catching the morning light filtering through the blinds. In the mirror, his bearded face stared back—rugged, authoritative, grey-flecked scruff adding years he hadn’t lived. His closet brimmed with a new wardrobe: charcoal and navy suits hung crisp beside pressed polos, smart slacks and leather loafers stacked below, casual henleys and tailored jeans rounding out a mature, sharp style that matched his taste. He pulled on a slate-grey suit, knotted a tie, and clipped his badge—Jeff Parker, Lead Architect—to his chest. Monday awaited.
Downstairs, Mike sprawled at the kitchen table, clad in a faded punk band tee and ripped jeans, his wardrobe a chaotic reflection of his perceived 16 years. His room—once Jeff’s—had transformed: band and game posters plastered the walls, sneakers and hoodies littered the floor, his twin bed a tangle of sheets. He shoveled cereal into his mouth, smirking at Jeff through a drip of milk. "Morning, Dad. Off to boss people around?"
"You know it," Jeff replied, pouring coffee into a travel mug. "You’re biking to school, then McDonald’s after—don’t slack off, kid."
Mike’s smirk widened, all teenage sass. "Yes, sir. Don’t fire anyone ‘til I see you later." Privately, he enjoyed the feeling of Jeff ordering him around.
The drive to the firm was smooth, the city stirring as Jeff pulled into the parking garage. The lobby greeted him with glass and steel, and Karen at reception brightened as he entered. "Morning, Jeff! Team’s ready—high-rise meeting’s at nine. Coffee’s fresh if you need it."
"Thanks, Karen," Jeff said, his badge glinting as he headed for the elevators. Her respect carried weight, layering into a quiet reverence. He grabbed a coffee from the break room, nodding at juniors who straightened at his presence. "Morning, boss," one muttered, and Jeff grinned into his mug. Boss. The title fit like a glove.
His office was a corner sanctuary—floor-to-ceiling windows, a drafting table stacked with blueprints, a shelf of design awards bearing his name in gold. He dropped his bag, sank into the leather chair, and flipped through the high-rise plans. The core team filed in at nine sharp—Tim, an eager junior with his tablet; Sarah, a keen-eyed structural engineer; and Priya, the creative lead clutching her sketchbook. They gathered around the table, eyes fixed on Jeff.
"Alright, let’s hit it," he said, standing to tap the east-side renders. "Supports here need steel, no shortcuts. Sarah, run the load calcs. Tim, chase permits. Priya, tweak the facade—client wants flash, not bland." His voice rang steady, authoritative, and they nodded like it was law. The swap had seeded years of phantom expertise in his mind, but the confidence was his own, honed by the role.
Sarah scribbled notes, glancing up. "You’re on it, Jeff. How do you juggle this and Mike? Kid’s a tornado."
Jeff chuckled, leaning back. "Years of practice. He’s at school now—job later. Keeps him busy." They laughed, a blend of pity and admiration that Jeff was starting to relish. Tim chimed in, "You’re a saint, man."
"Part of the gig," Jeff said, waving it off. The meeting flowed—crisp, efficient, everyone deferring to him as if he’d built the firm from the ground up. Priya lingered after, presenting her facade sketches. "Thoughts, Jeff? You’ve got the eye."
He traced a line, nodding. "Curve it here—softens the skyline. Good work." She beamed, and Jeff felt the rush—in charge, respected. Lunch was a sandwich at his desk, fielding calls from clients who treated him like a titan. "Jeff, we need your sign-off," one said, voice tight with urgency. He gave it, calm and final, and hung up with a grin.
By noon, the office buzzed around him—team checking in, Karen dropping files, juniors scrambling to impress. His reflection caught in the window—hairy arms, suit sharp, beard framing a face people trusted. This was his world now, and he savored every second. He wondered how Mike was faring at school and the fryer—probably stirring his own brand of chaos in that teenage life.
Tonight, they’d compare notes.