University of Southern California, School of Cinematic Arts — October 1990
Professor Anderson Horowitz stood at the front of the lecture hall, his voice cutting through the low hum of restless students.
"Listen up, everyone. If you haven't completed your required credits, I strongly suggest you get on it. And start thinking seriously about your graduation project. You've got less than a year left, and trust me—if you do this well, it'll be the best résumé you'll ever write."
He scanned the room, eyes settling on a student slouched in the back row.
"Wayne? Wayne Greenberg?"
Wayne blinked, lifting his head slowly. "Sorry, Professor. I didn't sleep much last night. I was working on my project idea."
"Ah, our resident Batman. Maybe you were out saving Gotham and just got back before dawn."
Laughter rippled through the room. Wayne didn't react. He glanced at the source of the joke—a broad-shouldered student grinning beside a blonde girl—then turned his attention back to the professor.
"If anyone wants feedback," Horowitz continued, "bring your script or concept to my office. That's it for today. Class dismissed."
Wayne rubbed his forehead, slung his backpack over one shoulder, and headed for the exit. His mind was still tangled in storyboards and character arcs from the night before.
Just as he reached the door, the same big guy—Adam, a football player turned film major—stepped in front of him, arm wrapped around the blonde girl.
"Hey, Mr. Superhero," Adam said with a smirk. "Katie told me you're planning a feature film for your project. Bold move. Hope you've got the cash for it. Maybe I can give you a few pointers on budgeting—if you're into fantasy filmmaking."
Wayne looked at him calmly. "Thanks, Adam. I'm sure I'll manage. If you ever need help raising funds, I could lend you a hand. Your projects tend to be... short. And I'm not just talking about runtime."
He glanced at Katie, then added with a shrug, "No offense. I'm talking football and cheerleading."
Adam's face flushed. He stepped forward, fists clenched, but hesitated.
"My dad's already backing my film," he snapped. "Katie's the lead, and after graduation, I'll be interning on a real set. You? You'll be stuck doing odd jobs for indie crews until you burn out."
Wayne didn't flinch. He simply pushed past him and walked out, letting the door swing shut behind him.
---
Wayne always felt like time was chasing him—never enough, always slipping through his fingers. It had been twenty years since he arrived in this era, and every minute since had been spent absorbing everything he could about filmmaking.
Whether it was a gift from fate or some divine glitch in the universe, he'd been reborn with a mind that never forgot. Add to that the disciplined study habits from his previous life in China, and Wayne Greenberg had become a machine of relentless learning. Two lifetimes, one mission: master the art of cinema.
Born in 1970, Wayne had mapped out his life with surgical precision. He started his study plan at age five, stuck to it with unwavering discipline, and by seventeen, he'd earned admission to USC's prestigious School of Cinematic Arts. By his junior year, he'd already completed enough credits to graduate.
But Wayne wasn't here to coast. He had a twenty-year plan, and the first step was about to begin: directing his own feature film. That was why he hadn't slept last night. The script he'd been developing for months now felt... off. Something wasn't clicking, and the weight of that uncertainty gnawed at him.
In the parking lot, Wayne climbed into his black F-150 pickup—a gift from his father, who believed every man should drive something that could survive a war. The truck rumbled to life, and he pulled out, heading toward his apartment just five minutes from campus.
The place was modest, but close enough to make class convenient. Even with his credits squared away, Wayne still sat in on lectures from other departments—screenwriting, sound design, even theater. If it touched film, he wanted to understand it. He wasn't just chasing a diploma. He was chasing mastery.
Wayne parked his truck in the lot below the apartment complex, grabbed his keys, and climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. His unit was on the left. He unlocked the door, ready to finalize his film concept and start writing the script.
Just as he stepped inside, the door across the hall opened. A tall blonde woman emerged, dressed in pajamas and carrying a bag of trash.
"Hey," she called out casually. "Back early. No class today?"
Wayne paused, holding the door open. He glanced at her, taking in the tousled hair and sleepy eyes. "I'm graduating soon," he replied. "Still have some things to finish. See you."
He slipped inside and shut the door gently.
Wayne had always been reserved—more of an observer than a participant. He didn't socialize much, not because he disliked people, but because he carried too many secrets. In his early years, he feared saying something that didn't belong in this world. Over time, silence became second nature.
Having lived into his thirties in a previous life, Wayne often felt out of sync with his peers. He understood the old saying: speak too much, and you'll lose something. Even the woman across the hall—someone who might've made him starstruck in his past life—barely registered now. Fame and beauty had lost its shine.
---
His apartment was modest: a small bathroom to the left of the entrance, a narrow balcony straight ahead, and a combined living and sleeping space totaling just over 50 square meters. Most tenants were students or dreamers chasing Hollywood's elusive promise. Rent was cheap, and that suited Wayne just fine.
He collapsed onto the sofa, eyes drifting to the stack of videotapes on the coffee table. Classics, cult hits, obscure gems—he studied them all. In his freshman year, he'd joined the university football team. After just two practices, he was named starting quarterback.
The coach had looked at him like he'd struck gold: strong, agile, mentally sharp, and able to memorize entire playbooks with ease. But Wayne never saw football as his future. He played through high school and into college, then walked away in his sophomore year.
His replacement? Adam Goodman—the same guy who'd mocked him earlier that day. Adam had been Wayne's backup, and the transition left a bitter taste. Coaches and teammates admired Wayne, which only fueled Adam's resentment. Their rivalry simmered for years, culminating in a fight that left a lasting impression—Wayne's fists spoke louder than his words.
Since then, Adam's provocations had become routine. But Wayne's quiet jabs always hit harder. He knew how to push buttons without raising his voice.
Katie, the cheerleader, had once been involved with Wayne. In truth, many cheerleaders had. Wayne wasn't proud or boastful about it—it was just part of the rhythm of youth and ego. Some girls chased status, and Wayne, with his quiet confidence and campus reputation, fit the mold.
He didn't judge. He understood the game. And in moments of calm, they helped him unwind, offering brief escapes from the pressure he placed on himself.