In a dimly lit apartment tucked away in the bustling streets of Los Angeles, a young man stood in front of a cracked mirror. His sharp jawline, deep-set eyes, and slightly disheveled brown hair gave him a rugged charm. At 1.8 meters tall, he had the kind of presence that could command attention in a crowd—or a camera. In his hand, a crumpled piece of paper, its edges worn from constant handling, shook slightly as he took a deep breath.
He glanced at the lines written on the paper for a fleeting moment before locking eyes with his reflection. His expression shifted abruptly. Terror seeped into his features, his pupils trembling as if staring into the abyss itself. His lips parted, and with a trembling voice, he stammered, "I-I don't know where the girl is! I really don't! Please, let me go!"
His chest heaved, but he wasn't done. His face twisted into a blend of pain and fear so raw it felt almost real. A guttural scream erupted from his throat, reverberating off the walls of the tiny apartment.
Then, just as quickly as it had come, the storm within him subsided. His features softened, returning to their natural state. He exhaled and gave a faint nod to his reflection, murmuring, "That'll do."
It had been a year since he woke up in this world. At first, he'd been ecstatic. He thought he'd somehow returned to his past—a second chance at life. Visions of making a fortune danced in his mind. With his knowledge of future trends, hit movies, and blockbuster songs, he was sure he could become a legend.
But reality had been a cruel teacher.
This wasn't the past. It was a completely different world—a world that bore similarities to his old one but was fundamentally different in every way that mattered. Hollywood existed, but it wasn't his Hollywood. There were no Disney, Warner Bros, or Universal Studios here. Instead, the industry was dominated by three colossal entities: Star Entertainment, Sun Pictures, and Moonlight Studios.
Even the cultural icons he'd idolized in his previous life were nowhere to be found. There was no Spielberg, no Tarantino, no Scorsese. The songs and movies that had once defined eras? They didn't exist here. It was a blank slate—a parallel universe where his so-called "future knowledge" was utterly useless.
He sighed, folding the script and tossing it onto the cluttered desk beside him. A year of relentless auditions, endless rejections, and sleepless nights had brought him to this moment. Here, in this cutthroat industry, only talent and connections mattered, and he had neither—just the faint hope that his persistence might eventually pay off.
But this world wasn't entirely unkind. If nothing else, it had given him a goal.
"Alright," he muttered to himself, shaking off the lingering despair. His voice carried a determined edge. "If I can't borrow success from the future, I'll create it here. Step by step."
And step by step, he would carve his name into this unfamiliar world.