The hangover headache was like a dull knife, slowly and cruelly slicing through Luke's nerves. Each pulse sent a sharp stab through his temples, as if countless steel needles were piercing in sync. Instinctively, he reached for his phone on the nightstand, but his fingers brushed against something cold and smooth—a glass bottle, an empty wine bottle, its surface still sticky.
"Damn it…" he muttered, his voice hoarse, like it had been scraped raw with sandpaper. His throat burned with a dry, fiery ache, a harsh reminder of last night's indulgence. But his memories were shrouded in fog, fragmented like a swamp under heavy mist, with only fleeting images drifting through his mind.
Something was off.
His apartment had warm oak floors, the kind where you could feel the wood's grain under your bare feet. But now, his palm pressed against a rough, pilling synthetic carpet. His nose was assaulted by a chaotic mix of smells: sickly-sweet perfume, the sharp tang of cheap alcohol, and the unfamiliar scent of a man's cologne.
Luke's eyes snapped open, his eyelids heavy as if filled with lead, each movement a monumental effort. He stared at an unfamiliar ceiling, its plaster yellowed and cracked, with spiderweb-like fissures at the edges. The overhead lamp was coated in dust, its tungsten filament faintly visible in the morning light. The lampshade's paint had peeled away, revealing a rusted metal frame underneath. His gaze shifted to the walls—peeling wallpaper exposed dark patches of the building's frame, and clumps of dust gathered in the corners, clearly untouched for ages.
This wasn't his apartment.
His place was in @#$%^, with floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing city bustling skyline. His smart home system would automatically adjust the room's temperature in the morning, and his diffuser always filled the air with the crisp scent of cedar and citrus. But here, the room was dim and cramped, the air thick with visible dust, like an abandoned warehouse forgotten in some city corner.
He bolted upright, the sudden movement triggering a wave of dizziness from the hangover. The room spun, forcing him to grip the bedframe tightly, his knuckles whitening. His stomach churned, the alcohol from last night staging a vicious rebellion, acid rising in his throat with a burning sting.
A lazy moan came from beside him, and a warm body pressed against his back, the soft touch filtering through the thin bedsheet. A woman's breath, sweet with the scent of champagne, brushed across his shoulder blade.
"Leon… what time is it?" The woman's voice was syrupy, heavy with sleep, her words drawn out.
Luke froze.
The name hit him like an ice pick, piercing through his muddled thoughts.
Leon?
That wasn't his name.
He was Luke, forty-six years old, a moderately successful film producer who'd been grinding in movie industry for twenty years. Just yesterday, he was at the launch party for The Wandering Earth 3, clinking glasses with director, discussing the progress of the studio setup. How could he suddenly be someone named "Leon"?
Slowly, he turned his head.
A cascade of dazzling blonde hair spilled across the pillow, soft and voluminous. The woman faced away from him, her bare shoulders elegantly curved, her skin glowing like pearl in the dim light. But what caught his eye were the suspicious red marks—hickeys—scattered across her pale skin.
Worse still, on the other side of the bed, another blonde woman was curled up, clutching a floral pillow. Her long eyelashes cast a faint shadow beneath her eyes as she breathed softly, evenly. Her sleep dress was open at the neckline, revealing a delicate collarbone and more ambiguous marks.
Luke's heart pounded, threatening to burst from his chest. His eyes dropped to his own body—his bare chest was covered in crisscrossing scratches, some scabbed over, others still pink and fresh. Around his waist hung a pair of lace panties, adorned with tiny bows, clearly not meant for a man.
"What the hell…" His voice trembled with barely contained panic, a tidal wave of fear washing over him.
He stumbled toward the bathroom, the cold air making him shiver as his bare ankles brushed against scattered clothes on the floor—a woman's skirt, a wrinkled shirt, and a few mismatched high heels. Just as he reached the bathroom, his peripheral vision caught a glimpse of a full-length mirror on the wall. Its wooden frame was chipped, the glass slightly foggy, but clear enough to reflect his image.
Luke stopped dead in his tracks, rooted to the spot.
The mirror showed a stranger—a white man, about six feet tall, lean but with defined muscles that spoke of regular workouts. Messy golden-brown curls clung to his forehead, mixed with a few dry, straw-like strands. His blue eyes, like gems submerged in water, were wide with shock, underscored by dark circles that looked like he'd been punched. His jawline was sharp, almost sculpted, like something from a Renaissance statue—except for the fresh scratch mark running from his cheekbone to his jaw.
"Fuck me," he muttered, his voice low and raspy.
The man in the mirror mimicked his words, his blue eyes mirroring the same shock and disbelief.
This wasn't a dream.
The bathroom faucet dripped, the drip, drip echoing loudly in the silent room. Luke gripped the edge of the sink, the cold ceramic grounding him slightly. He stared at the infuriatingly handsome face in the mirror, searching for any trace of familiarity, but found none.
His fractured memories flickered like a broken projector—flashing, jumping, overlapping.
2025, l Movie Metropolis. The launch party for The Wandering Earth 3. The banquet hall was ablaze with light, the massive backdrop looping highlights from the first two films. As a modestly successful producer, he was dressed in a tailored suit, toasting with director. The chandeliers sparkled, the air filled with the scent of champagne, gourmet food, and the weight of a major project's kickoff. He remembered drinking heavily, his assistant helping him back to his hotel suite…
Then—
1999, Los Angeles, a villa by Santa Monica Beach. Deafening music shook the walls, colored spotlights sweeping wildly over the crowd. A young man with golden-brown hair held a tequila bottle, laughing with two stunning blonde women. He was Leon Donaldson, a struggling, bottom-tier Hollywood actor. "Ladies, tonight's on me!" he shouted, downing half the bottle, prompting giggles as the women pressed closer—one wrapping her arms around his neck, the other tugging at his wrist. Things blurred after that, a haze of alcohol and hormones. He vaguely recalled being ushered out of the party, piling into a taxi…
"Reborn? Time travel? Or am I just losing my damn mind?" Luke muttered, his fingers digging into his palms, the pain confirming this was real.
He yanked open the bathroom medicine cabinet, the glass door creaking from the force. Inside was a mess: a nearly empty tube of toothpaste, a rusty razor, and a white pill bottle. He grabbed the bottle, the label starkly clear—Alprazolam, for anxiety. Below it, a name and date that shattered his last shred of hope: Leon Donaldson, May 17, 1999.
"1999…" Luke set the bottle down, the glass clinking against the sink. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart.
1999, Los Angeles, a struggling actor named Leon Donaldson…
He needed to stay calm, to think clearly. Twenty years as a producer had taught him that the more chaotic things got, the more you needed a clear thread of logic.
A rustling sound came from outside, like someone getting dressed. Luke quickly pulled on a pair of wrinkled Calvin Klein boxers from the sink's edge, the elastic loose and sagging. He rushed out just in time to see the two blonde women, now dressed.
The taller one wore tight jeans that hugged her long legs, applying lipstick in front of a mirror while chewing gum loudly. She glanced at him casually. "Gonna borrow your bathroom, babe," she said, brushing past him with a cloud of overpowering perfume.
The shorter one, petite in a pink minidress that barely covered her hips, was stuffing things into a Gucci bag with practiced haste. Luke's eyes locked onto the black wallet in her hand—his wallet, or rather, Leon Donaldson's.
"Hey!" he barked, striding toward her.
She looked up, rolling her eyes with blatant disdain. "Chill out, hotshot." She tossed the wallet onto the bed, where it landed with a soft thud. "There's only twenty bucks in there. Not even enough for a cab."
Luke grabbed the wallet and flipped it open. Sure enough, it held a single crumpled twenty-dollar bill, a few old business cards, and a grocery coupon. He rubbed the bill's edge, feeling its texture.
Fifteen minutes later, the apartment was quiet again. The women had taken the half-empty bottle of champagne from the table. The taller one kissed his cheek, leaving a sticky lipstick mark, while the shorter one swiped the only carton of milk from the fridge. As they left, he overheard their conversation.
"Leon's getting broker by the day. Can't even cover a cab."
"Should've stuck with us at the party. Could've met some producers."
"Whatever, at least he's still hot…"
Their voices faded. Luke stood still, touching the lipstick mark, then walked to the window and pulled back the heavy, dust-covered curtains. Blinding sunlight poured in, making him squint.
Outside was a typical L.A. neighborhood—low houses lined up neatly, cars passing occasionally, and tall palm trees swaying in the distance. Sunlight streamed through the grimy window, casting mottled patterns on the floor. One beam illuminated a bill on the nightstand, the glaring negative balance catching his eye: -1,850 USD.
Luke sat on the bed, taking stock of his new reality. On the nightstand was a curled copy of The Hollywood Reporter, stained with wine. The headline celebrated Star Wars: Episode I – The Phantom Menace's box office success, with a photo of Natalie Portman. The date in the corner read: June 3, 1999.
On the floor was a black pager, its screen dark but a blinking light showing thirteen unread messages. He picked it up, the screen lighting up with short, urgent messages from "Martin Cole." The latest, from 3 a.m.: Leon, you're done if you're late to tomorrow's audition.
In the drawer, a bank statement showed a $200 deposit from two weeks ago, but a $2,050 withdrawal yesterday left the account at -1,850. Flipping through earlier records, Luke saw Leon's spending consistently outpaced his income, mostly on bars and parties.
A crumpled paper under the bed caught his eye—a casting call for Midnight Scream, listing the studio address, time, and a role: Jason, $500, two-week shoot. In Leon's jumbled memories, this was his agent Martin's "last chance." If this audition failed, Martin would drop him.
Luke held the wrinkled paper, his fingers tracing the "$500" text. He stood, surveying the unfamiliar apartment. The living room held a worn leather couch with cigarette burns, a coffee table littered with empty bottles and pizza boxes. An old CRT TV sat in the corner, frozen on a movie frame from last night. The walls were plastered with posters—Pulp Fiction, Blade Runner, and one of Leon himself, young and smiling in a suit.
He returned to the mirror, staring at the stranger's face—golden-brown curls, piercing blue eyes, a chiseled jaw, and that glaring scratch. This face was undeniably handsome, a quintessential Hollywood heartthrob.
Luke raised a hand, touching the cold mirror. The man in the reflection did the same, his blue eyes losing their confusion, replaced by the calm, calculating gaze of a seasoned producer. He tugged at the sagging boxers, then grabbed a wine-stained shirt and jeans from the pile by the door.
belamy20