Leon Donaldson's apartment bathroom had a mirror speckled with water stains.
A thin layer of steam clung to the glass. Luke reached out, dragging his finger slowly across the foggy surface, leaving a clear streak behind.
His golden-brown curls were a chaotic mess, like a bird's nest ravaged by a storm, thanks to last night's booze and wild antics.
A few stubborn strands hung over his forehead, dripping with water he hadn't bothered to wipe away.
High, sharp cheekbones, a straight nose, and a clean, chiseled jawline.
This face would've been considered handsome in any era, but the exhaustion and recklessness in his eyes dragged his whole vibe down.
A fresh scratch on his left cheek stood out, a jagged line from his cheekbone to his jaw.
"Leon Donaldson…" he muttered, the name rolling off his tongue.
His voice echoed in the cramped bathroom.
Fragments of the original owner's memories flickered in his mind like torn film reels—
Martin's sneer after a failed audition:
"All you've got is that pretty face." The sharp clink of vodka bottles.
Deafening music at a party, the bass thumping so hard it hurt his chest.
The cloying mix of a stranger's perfume and the sweet tang of weed.
More vodka, until his vision blurred and the world spun like a kaleidoscope.
Luke tugged at the corner of his mouth, and the guy in the mirror flashed a mocking smirk.
He touched his cheek, his fingertips grazing firm muscle beneath the skin. This was a young body—twenty-two, brimming with squandered potential.
He could feel his heart pounding steadily in his chest, each beat pulsing with raw vitality, a stark contrast to the forty-six-year-old body he'd left behind, worn down by late nights and stress.
"What a loser," he said to the mirror, his tone flat, almost emotionless.
His fingers traced the scratch, and a flash of memory surfaced: a tall blonde woman, wild in bed last night, probably the one who'd clawed him.
A sudden pounding on the bathroom door—bang, bang, bang—nearly made him slam his fist into the mirror.
His knuckles whitened, his fist clenched, a reflex honed from years as a producer dealing with unexpected chaos.
"Leon! You dead in there or what?"
A rough male voice bellowed, followed by even louder banging that rattled the door.
Luke frowned. A greasy face flashed in the original owner's memories—Martin Cole, his "agent."
If you could call a sleaze who pimped out third-rate actors an agent.
Mid-forties, always stuffed into ill-fitting suits, his collar stained with food crumbs, eyes sizing people up like livestock at an auction.
"Gimme a minute!" Luke shouted back, mimicking the original owner's irritated tone.
The guy's memories carried a mix of dependence and disgust toward Martin, making the outburst feel authentic.
Luke scanned the bathroom.
It reeked of damp mold and sour alcohol.
The medicine cabinet hung open, revealing a bottle of alprazolam and half a bottle of whiskey, its label blurred from water damage.
A used razor lay in the corner, stray curly hairs stuck to the blade.
Most glaring was the sink's edge, where a small pile of suspicious white powder sat—evidence last night's party had spilled into the bathroom.
"What a damn mess," Luke muttered, pocketing a rolled-up bill.
He twisted the faucet, and cold water gushed out.
He splashed his face, the icy sting snapping his foggy brain awake.
The face in the mirror, dripping with water, looked rough but sharp-eyed.
He grabbed a towel from the rack, grimacing at its stale sweat smell, and wrapped it around his waist.
Before opening the door, he took a deep breath, burying his own calm beneath Leon's reckless exterior.
Martin Cole stood in the living room, his dress shoes grinding coffee stains into the grimy carpet, leaving clear prints.
Mid-forties, he wore a tight brown suit that strained over his round gut, looking ready to burst.
His tie sported a bright yellow mustard stain, probably from breakfast.
A cigarette dangled from his hand, a long ash teetering on the edge.
"You know what time it is?" Martin shook his wrist, flashing a gold watch with a smudge of black grime on the band.
"The Midnight Scream audition starts at ten, and you—"
He squinted, eyeing Leon's towel-clad figure up and down, sniffing dramatically.
"You reek."
Luke didn't respond, heading straight for the bedroom closet.
The closet door hung crooked, one hinge broken.
He yanked it open, and a wave of sweat, perfume, and mold hit him.
Leon's fashion sense was a disaster:
A black leather jacket studded with rivets, the shoulders cracked.
A few sequined shirts, some missing buttons, others stained.
Several ripped jeans.
At the bottom, a crumpled Hawaiian shirt with faded pineapple patterns.
"This is supposed to be clothing?" Luke grumbled internally, digging through until he found a semi-decent black T-shirt and dark jeans.
The T-shirt's collar was loose, and the jeans had a small tear at the knee.
"Listen, kid," Martin said, following him, his breath reeking of garlic and cheap coffee.
He stood too close—Luke could see spinach stuck in his teeth.
"This audition? I had to beg for it."
"The director, Larry Stern, is a freak, but he's got investors."
"All you gotta do is show your face, say a couple lines, let them chop your head off—literally, it's a horror flick—and you're five hundred bucks richer."
Luke paused while buckling his belt.
The buckle triggered a memory: Leon bought it last year for a Western role audition.
Didn't get the part, but the belt cost three hundred bucks, nearly forcing him to pawn it when rent came due.
"Chop my head off?" he asked, his voice steady.
"Fake head, you idiot," Martin snapped, waving a hand, spit nearly hitting Luke's face.
"The real point is, there's a private party next week. Investor named Charles? He's into your… type."
Martin raised an eyebrow, his gaze lingering on Leon's exposed collarbone.
"Wear less, sweet-talk him, and you might land a regular role on Bay Hospital. That's a weekly show, five hundred an episode—enough to cover three months' rent."
Luke's stomach churned.
Bay Hospital was a trashy soap opera. Martin's promises of "opportunities" were a constant lure in Leon's memories.
Last year, Martin sent him to schmooze a bald producer at a party, promising a GG endorsement.
Leon drank until his stomach bled, got nothing, while Martin pocketed an "introduction fee."
"I'll do the audition," Luke said, slipping on brown leather boots, scuffed but decent.
His calm tone caught Martin off guard, like he wasn't expecting this usually obedient kid to push back.
"But the private party? Hard pass."
Martin's face froze, like he'd been slapped. His jowls quivered, eyes bulging.
"What'd you say?"
His voice spiked, cigarette ash finally falling onto the filthy carpet.
"Leon Donaldson, you know who you're talking to?"
Luke stood, realizing this body was taller than he'd thought—six-foot-two, about one-eighty-eight in metric.
Tall enough to loom over Martin's balding head.
He tilted his chin, sharpening his profile.
"I said no."
Each word landed like a hammer on steel.
"No drinking, no private parties, no 'auditions' outside the script."
He leaned into "auditions," dripping with sarcasm.
Martin's face turned liver-red, from forehead to neck.
He jabbed a trembling finger at Leon's nose.
"Who do you think you are? Al Pacino? Robert De Niro?"
His laugh was shrill, like nails on a chalkboard.
"You're a nobody who can't pay rent. Your bank account's in the red, your electric bill's two months late. Without me, you wouldn't even get cast as a corpse!"
Luke grabbed the crumpled audition notice from the counter.
The paper's edges were worn, the ink smudged from being handled too much.
Leon's memories showed excitement when he first got it, then despair—five hundred bucks wouldn't even cover his credit card's minimum payment.
"Ten o'clock audition, old warehouse on Melrose, right?"
He opened the apartment door, sunlight flooding in, casting a long shadow behind him.
He gestured for Martin to leave, a cold smirk on his lips.
"Tell Charles if he's looking to screw someone over, you'd be perfect—both greasy enough to match."
Martin's roar exploded as the door slammed shut, followed by the crash of something breaking.
Luke leaned against the door, feeling it vibrate.
He pulled the rolled-up twenty from his pocket, counted it—exactly twenty bucks.
He shrugged and headed downstairs.