Chapter 1: Christmas Eve, 1988
Los Angeles, Koreatown.
The night shimmered with Christmas lights. Storefront windows glowed with decorated trees, and the streets carried the hum of holiday cheer.
But in a narrow alley, far from the warmth of the festivities, three hulking men cornered a young man. Their teeth flashed white in the dark as they grinned, menace dripping from their faces.
"Hand over the cash, kid. Now."
The young man sighed and set down a paper shopping bag—the kind used by thrift stores. Inside were a couple of shirts he'd just bought, Christmas discounts and all.
"Come on, guys. Look at me. I can only afford second-hand clothes, even with the sales. You really think I've got money?"
He dug into his pockets with exaggerated care, pulling out a crumpled handful of bills.
"This is it. Thirty-six bucks. If you need it, take it. No reason to get violent, right?"
He'd noticed the way their hands rested against their jackets, as if hiding pistols. This was Los Angeles, after all—the so-called City of Angels, famous instead for gangs, crime, and blood on the sidewalks. Picking a fight here was suicide.
The leader, a broad-shouldered Black man, barked out a laugh. "See? Told you he'd piss himself." He waved his palms in the kid's face, mockingly showing they were empty.
The other two followed, raising their hands too, sneers plastered across their faces. No guns. No knives. Just intimidation.
"Thirty-six bucks, huh? You playing games with us?" The leader snatched the bills and shoved the kid toward the wall. "Hands up. I'm gonna search you."
"Whoa, James," one of his buddies chuckled nervously, eyes widening. "You're not gonna do him right here, are you?"
"Shut up. Just checking if he's got more stashed."
He squatted and grabbed the shopping bag. "What's in here, huh?"
The young man, shoved but unharmed, noticed something: no weapons, no real threat. His lips curled in disdain.
"Robbery," he muttered. "The dumbest trade in the world."
"What the hell you—"
The thug never finished. The kid's boot smashed into his chest with a thud. He collapsed with a grunt, only to catch a brutal follow-up kick to the head. His scream cut off into a gurgle.
The other two lunged.
The young man pivoted—one elbow drove into a jaw, a knee crashed into a ribcage, sending the second sprawling. The last one charged, but a sharp kick between the legs dropped him instantly. A chokehold sealed the deal, grinding him to the pavement.
Two minutes. That was all it took. Three would-be muggers, writhing on the ground.
The young man retrieved his crumpled bills with a snort.
"Pathetic. Broke as hell and you think you can rob me? I make over a grand a month. Save up, treat myself once in a while… and you clowns look down on my thirty-six dollars?"
He grabbed his bag, brushed off his jacket, and strolled out of the alley.
"Merry Christmas," he called over his shoulder.
Behind him, only the groans of three beaten men echoed off the brick walls.
Aaron Anderson returned to a weathered three-story apartment on Sixth Street in Koreatown. His small rented unit sat on the third floor.
"This neighborhood…" he muttered, shaking his head. "Total chaos."
On the wall, a calendar showed the date: December 25, 1988.
His name was Aaron Anderson, born in 1970. Eighteen years old—though with Christmas here, nineteen was just around the corner.
But while the body belonged to Aaron, the soul inside was someone else entirely: a man in his thirties from across the Pacific, who had inexplicably crossed over from the year 2025.
Aaron splashed cold water on his face and stared into the bathroom mirror. A week had passed since the transmigration. Enough time to accept the truth. Enough time to grow used to the striking young face looking back at him—hazel-green eyes, golden hair, and a tall frame of 185 cm. Nearly ten centimeters taller than in his previous life. Stronger, too.
Aaron's past was a bleak one. He had once lived with his father, John Anderson, in East Hollywood. But when the Black Monday crash of '87 wiped out John's fortune, they lost everything. The two moved into Koreatown to rent a cheap place. Not long after Aaron's high school graduation, his father succumbed to despair—leaping from the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco.
Aaron had planned to attend Cal State Long Beach, but with his father gone, those dreams evaporated. Instead, he took a mailroom job at a Hollywood talent agency. Six grueling months later, he was finally about to be promoted—to assistant agent. The night he went out to celebrate in Koreatown, however, fate intervened. His body became Wang Juyi's vessel.
And who was Wang Juyi? In his past life, he ran a modest but growing entertainment company. His family had started small—arcades, then cinemas, then larger entertainment ventures—until Wang took them into the film and television industry. He wasn't a saint, but he was sharp, ruthless, and ambitious. His company controlled over a dozen theaters and had stakes in shows and movies.
Until disaster struck. A powerful figure's money-laundering scheme was exposed, and Wang was set up as the fall guy. Drunk and enraged, he refused to take the blame. Trapped in a car, he grabbed the wheel, dragging the driver and everyone else inside with him straight into hell.
And then… he woke up here, in Aaron's body.
Lying on the bed, Aaron clenched his fists. His new physique was extraordinary, as if transmigration had brought hidden benefits. Without it, he never could have taken down three thugs in an alley earlier that night. As long as they weren't carrying blades or guns, he was confident he could handle seven or eight men at once.
"Hollywood… the entertainment industry," Aaron whispered, a smile tugging at his lips. The timeline might be decades earlier, but he remembered everything: the blockbusters, the scandals, the stars of the '90s. To him, this knowledge was the ultimate cheat code.
The Christmas cheer outside did nothing to disturb his rest. If Santa himself had barged in, Aaron would probably have pinned him to the floor until he begged for mercy.
The next morning, Aaron dressed carefully. He slipped into the Italian suit he had bought second-hand the night before. A little worn, perhaps, but sharp and well-fitted. After styling his blond hair, he looked every bit the young professional—like someone heading to a gala instead of a first job.
Today was his first official day as an assistant agent. He flagged down a taxi.
"Beverly Hills," he said. "CAA headquarters."
The driver glanced at him in the mirror and chuckled.
"Damn, kid—you clean up nice. Fresh out of school and already headed for Hollywood? Did CAA snatch you up?"
Aaron smiled. "So their reputation's gotten that big, huh?"
"You bet. These days, everyone dreams of working for CAA. America's economy's in the dumps, but Hollywood? Hollywood's booming harder than ever."
Aaron listened quietly, smiling but saying nothing. After all, he wasn't just headed to CAA—he was about to step inside as one of their own. Even if only as an assistant.
Hollywood, here he came.