Rock god

 

The beat pulsed in Arthur's chest, not from the music blaring around him but from the anticipation. Tonight, under the neon gaze of dive bars and the hungry eyes of the crowd, he would finally trade his accounting spreadsheets for screaming fans and electric riffs. Arthur, the forty-year-old accountant, was about to vanish, replaced by Ace, the rockstar wannabe he left behind decades ago.

It all started with that strange iPhone. A gruff man, smelling of incense and secrets, thrust it into his hand—a time machine disguised in sleek glass and steel. "Tonight," he rasped, "change your tune." Then, he vanished like a phantom chord.

Skeptical but desperate, Arthur tapped the screen. 1967, London. The year Woodstock pulsed, guitars wailed, and dreams took flight. Arthur, now Ace, stepped into a whirlwind of psychedelic fashion, the air thick with cigarette smoke and rebellion. In a smoky blues club, fate dealt its hand. Ace jammed with a lanky guitarist, their notes intertwining like vines. It was Jimi Hendrix.

Their music ignited the club. "You got fire, kid," Hendrix grinned, his eyes echoing the flames playing on stage. "Let's burn down the world together." And thus, "Phoenix Rising" was born. The duo became more than bandmates; they were soulmates, riding the crest of the rock wave. Ace, once confined to cubicles, now lives on adrenaline and applause.

Years blurred into a kaleidoscope of sold-out shows, chart-topping hits, and groupies. But even rock stars get jaded. The pressure, the scrutiny, the endless road—it chipped away at the joy. Ace started missing the quiet comfort of spreadsheets and the predictability of routines. Was this the life he yearned for?

One rainy night, after a particularly grueling tour, Ace found himself backstage, his reflection staring back from a mirror, weary and lost. Picking up the iPhone, he typed: 2024. Back to the future? Back to the life he ran from?

His finger hovered over the button. This time, the choice was his.