Wang Chen woke up with a start, the fluorescent lights of the school gymnasium buzzing overhead. He blinked, trying to make sense of the scene unfolding before him. The locker room was crowded, the air thick with the scent of sweat and old rubber. A sea of young faces, some familiar, some not, all turning towards him with expectant eyes.

"Okay, class, quiet!" Wang Chen's voice, deep and commanding, cut through the chatter. He was still in his worn-out track suit, the familiar fabric a stark contrast to the unfamiliar desperation clawing at him. He glared around the room, his gaze sweeping over the rows of lockers, each one a miniature prison of sports kits and discarded dreams.

This wasn't right. He was supposed to be in his office, staring at the dull grey walls, his mind a razor's edge of boredom and regret. But here he was, back in the gym, back in time? The memory of his last moments flashed before his eyes—the cold, sterile steel of the IED, the blinding flash, the silence.