Los Angeles, Koreatown, December 1988
Christmas lights glittered on the storefronts along Wilshire Boulevard, neon bulbs competing with the colorful decorations. Music drifted from bars, laughter spilled onto the street, and carolers shouted cheerfully despite the chill. Vendors sold cheap plastic Santas and fried snacks from pushcarts, while children pressed their noses to toy store windows, begging their parents for gifts.
But in the back alleys, the holiday spirit didn't reach.
The neon glow gave way to shadow, and the cheer turned into the echo of footsteps. There, three tall men closed in on a young blonde figure, their grins flashing sharp white in the darkness.
"Money. Now." One cracked his knuckles, the sound sharp against the night air.
The young man exhaled slowly, dropping the paper shopping bag in his hand. Inside were second-hand clothes, snatched up during a Christmas clearance sale. His fingers still stung from bargaining with the shopkeeper earlier.
"Really?" He spread his arms helplessly. "Look at me. I can't even afford full price. You think I'm walking around with stacks of cash?"
He fished into his pocket and pulled out a few crumpled bills. "Thirty bucks. That's all. Take it if you're that desperate."
The men chuckled, puffing out their chests like they were hiding pistols under their jackets. For a moment, it worked. The young man leaned back against the wall, conceding, his heartbeat steady.
Then they opened their hands. Nothing. Just mockery.
The leader snatched the cash, giving him a shove. "Against the wall. Don't waste my time."
The man's friends smirked. "James, you're not gonna rough him up, right?"
James crouched, reaching for the paper bag on the ground. "Search first. Maybe he's holding out on us."
The young man's eyes sharpened. For a week, he had been testing this body, getting used to its strength. His lips curled.
"Amateurs."
His foot snapped forward, slamming into James's chest. The man flew back, crashing into the brick wall. Before he could groan, a second kick landed on his ribs, silencing him with a wheeze.
The second attacker lunged recklessly. The young man sidestepped, driving his elbow into the man's jaw with a crack, then brought his knee up into his chest. The air whooshed out of the thug as he collapsed to the ground.
The last one charged, but ended up doubled over, gasping, after a savage strike below the belt. A chokehold followed, the man's flailing arms weakening until he was forced to the pavement, coughing.
Two minutes later, all three lay groaning on the cold pavement, their Christmas cheer extinguished.
The young man dusted off his hands, reclaimed his thirty dollars, and muttered, "Pathetic. And here I thought L.A. gangs would at least be competent."
He collected his shopping bag, tossed out a casual, "Merry Christmas," and strolled back toward Sixth Street.
The apartment he rented was in a run-down three-story building, its stairwell stinking of cigarettes and cheap liquor. The plaster walls were cracked, the carpet smelled of mildew, and the neighbors argued loudly through thin walls. But it was cheap, and more importantly, it was close to Hollywood.
Inside, a wall calendar showed the date: December 25, 1988.
The young man studying his reflection in the bathroom mirror wasn't who he used to be.
His name, at least now, was Adrian Knight. He was supposed to be 19, though the soul inside this tall frame belonged to someone else: Arjun Mehra, an Indian entrepreneur who had lived in 2025.
Arjun's life in India had been a climb through fire. His family started small, running dingy video game arcades in Delhi, before expanding into neighborhood cinemas and then multi-screen chains. By his thirties, Arjun had carved a name for himself, not only managing theaters but producing television shows and backing independent films.
It hadn't been easy. He fought off corrupt politicians, greedy distributors, and rival businessmen who played dirtier than the scripts on screen. Yet he survived and built a company worth billions of rupees.
Until betrayal struck. His so-called "partners" set him up in a money-laundering scandal. Cornered, drunk, and furious, he refused to take the fall. Rage drove him into recklessness, and his story ended in twisted metal and fire on a highway.
And yet, he woke up here.
Now he wore Adrian Knight's skin—green-brown eyes, golden hair, standing nearly 190 cm tall, far more handsome than his old self. His predecessor's story was bleak: Adrian's father had gone bankrupt during the stock market crash of '87, losing everything in weeks. The man's despair grew heavier until he walked across the Golden Gate Bridge one foggy morning and never returned.
Adrian, left alone, abandoned college dreams. He scraped by as a mailroom assistant at a Hollywood agency, running errands and delivering coffee for half a year. The bright lights of stardom were close enough to blind him but far enough to remain out of reach.
A week ago, that changed. Arjun's soul slipped into this shell, and Adrian Knight was reborn.
Adrian clenched his fists, testing the strength in his arms. The fight in the alley confirmed it. This body wasn't ordinary. Not a superpower, but strong enough that seven or eight unarmed men no longer scared him.
And more importantly, he knew.
The Hollywood that lay before him was about to enter its golden age, the 90s boom of blockbusters, stars, and billion-dollar studios. He remembered the future hits, the careers that would skyrocket, the investments that would pay off. The names of actors, producers, and even which movies would flop or triumph were etched into his mind like a secret ledger.
"Entertainment industry, huh?" He smirked at his reflection. "Looks like fate's giving me a second chance. This time, I'll own Hollywood itself."
The next morning, dressed in his best second-hand Italian suit, Adrian looked every bit the polished young professional. The cut was slightly dated, but on his tall frame, it screamed confidence. He tightened the knot of his tie, slicked back his golden hair, and glanced once more at the mirror.
"Today," he muttered, "the game begins."
He hailed a taxi outside, his polished shoes clicking against the cracked sidewalk.
"Beverly Hills. Creative Artists Agency headquarters," Adrian said, his tone calm but firm.
The cab driver glanced back and whistled. "You look sharp, kid. CAA signs you as talent?"
Adrian chuckled. "Something like that."
"Lucky guy. People kill to get their foot in the door there. Hollywood's the only thing thriving these days. Rest of the country's a mess, but the movies just keep getting bigger."
The driver wasn't wrong. From the window, Adrian watched Los Angeles blur past the skyscrapers of downtown, the graffiti-marked underpasses, the palm-lined streets leading toward Beverly Hills. This was a city of contradictions: glittering stars above, shadows crawling below.
Adrian leaned back, a small smile on his lips. He wasn't just stepping into CAA as an assistant agent. He was stepping into history with a future only he knew.
And this time, he wasn't here to play small.
He was here to rewrite destiny.