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Peter Wells closed his laptop with a satisfied click, leaning back in the butter-soft leather of his executive chair.

The quarterly numbers had exceeded even his optimistic projections – the new Lexus line was practically selling itself, and the certified pre-owned program he'd implemented last quarter was showing remarkable returns.

He allowed himself a moment to savor the victory, eyes drifting across his corner office to the framed photo of Michelle and Chloe at the beach last summer, both of them laughing as they buried him in sand.

Cloe looked just like her mother in the picture, and it was a resemblance that only got tighter as the years went by.

And those years were going by far too fast.

The response came almost immediately: Fresh strawberries for Chloe's lunch tomorrow? And maybe a bottle of that Cab we like? Also…warning: she’s obsessing over her science fair project. Be prepared for an onslaught of info when you get in.

The thought of his daughter's enthusiasm made him smile.

At ten, Chloe attacked everything with the same fierce determination, whether it was mastering her multiplication tables or perfecting her Belle costume from Beauty and the Beast .

Just yesterday, he'd caught her twirling through the kitchen in her yellow dress, singing to their increasingly exasperated golden retriever, Max, asking him to “ Be our guest, be our guest…”

"Speaking of Belle," Peter murmured, pulling up his to-do list. The princess performer company still hadn't confirmed for Chloe's birthday party, three weeks away.

He'd pay double their normal rate if he had to – the thought of his little girl's face lighting up when her favorite Disney princess walked through their front door would be worth every penny.

Rising from his desk, Peter walked through his meticulously appointed office.

The space reflected the success he'd fought so hard to achieve: original artwork on the walls (Michelle's choices – she had the eye for these things), custom mahogany furniture, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the showroom floor.

He paused at the glass, admiring the lineup below.

A metallic blue BMW M8 Competition Gran Coupe caught the recessed lighting perfectly, its curves suggesting motion even at rest. Beside it, a pearl white Porsche Cayenne Turbo GT practically glowed, while a murdered-out Mercedes AMG GT crouched like a predator ready to pounce.

The sight still gave him a thrill, even after all these years.

Sometimes, usually, late at night when he was closing up alone, he'd walk the showroom floor and remember the kid he'd been, pressing his nose against dealership windows, dreaming of just sitting in cars like these.

Twenty-six years ago, he'd been that kid: a college dropout sleeping on his buddy Mark's lumpy couch, eating microwave burritos and desperately applying for any job that would take him.

The used car lot had been his last resort – minimum wage plus the theoretical possibility of commission, working for a manager who looked at him like something scraped off his shoe.

But Peter discovered he had a gift, an ability to connect with people that transcended the usual sleazy car salesman stereotype.

He remembered his first sale: a beaten-up Dodge Neon to a single mom with two kids.

He'd spent hours helping her figure out financing, running numbers until they found a payment plan she could manage.

"You're different," she'd told him after signing the paperwork. "You actually care."

He'd carried that moment with him as he worked his way up from lot assistant to top salesman within two years, saving every possible penny.

When he was twenty-five, he'd leveraged everything he had – including a second mortgage on the tiny starter home he and Michelle had just bought – to secure a loan for his first dealership.

The place had been struggling, the previous owner practically giving it away, but Peter had seen the potential.

Michelle had believed in him even then when they were living on ramen and store-brand cereal when he worked eighteen-hour days trying to turn the business around. "You're building something," she'd tell him, massaging his shoulders after another marathon day. "We're building something together."

Now, at forty-seven, he owned six dealerships across Virginia, two ranked in the state's Top 25 for sales volume.

The success had brought everything they'd dreamed of: the stunning five-bedroom house in Riverside Heights, private school for Chloe, summer vacations exploring Europe.

Chloe's college fund was already substantial enough that she could attend any university she chose.

He'd made another investment in the future recently – one that had led to a rare argument with Michelle.

Peter thought of the New Horizons Cryonics membership card in his wallet, and a trail of scattered memories followed.

The memory of his father's death still haunted him: watching helplessly as the massive heart attack took him at forty-eight, barely older than Peter was now.

He could still smell the antiseptic hospital air, still hear the flat tone of the heart monitor, still feel the crushing weight of finality.

The terror of mortality had never quite left him after that day.

Every time he had a headache, every slight chest pain from too much coffee, every routine physical – they all carried the whisper of his father's fate.

Cryopreservation felt like insurance, a chance at more time with his family, even if Michelle thought it was a waste of money.

"It's not natural," she'd said during their argument three days ago, her voice tight with frustration. "And two hundred thousand dollars, Peter? For something that might not even work?"

"What if it does work?" he'd countered. "What if it means we’re guaranteed to get to see Chloe graduate college? See our grandchildren? Wouldn't that be worth any price?"

“And you expect me to do it as well?” she asked, nearly fuming at that point.

"I'd hope you would. It would suck to be brought back to life only to find you gone." He'd meant it as a sweet sentiment, but it had come off as creepy.

The argument had ended in a stalemate, but Peter knew Michelle would come around. She always did when she understood how much something meant to him. And nothing meant more than time with his family.

"Hey, Rich!" Peter called out as he made his way through the showroom. His night manager looked up from the computer at the sales desk. "Everything set for closing?"

"All good, Mr. Wells. Just finishing up the paperwork on that RS7 we sold this afternoon. That custom order you suggested for Dr. Fabri? He loved it."

"Perfect. See you tomorrow. Oh…and what’s with this ‘Mr. Wells’ crap?”

Rich chuckled as Peter made his way out.

The employee entrance was around back, where Peter's Range Rover sat alone in the reserved parking space.

The evening was still bright, golden sunlight glinting off the endless rows of cars in the lot.

He paused to admire a particularly striking Audi R8, its Daytona Gray paint catching the light like liquid metal.

Maybe for his fiftieth birthday, he thought.

Michelle would roll her eyes, but she'd love it too – she had as much of a speed demon streak as he did, though she tried to hide it.

He came to his car—a basic Tesla, which he planned to drive until the wheels fell off. He reached for the door handle, but that’s as far as he made it.

The first blow caught him completely by surprise – something hard striking the back of his knee, buckling his leg with shocking force.

He felt something snap and loosen completely as he went to the ground.

He opened his mouth to yell, but then the second blow came.

This one struck him hard in the side of the head with a sharp, ringing crack against the base of his skull.

The sound was oddly musical, like a bell being struck underwater.

Peter had a fraction of a second to register the strange thought before darkness rushed in from all sides.

His last conscious image was of Chloe in her Belle costume, twirling in their living room with Max at her heels, singing about a tale as old as time.

Then, nothing at all.