The apartment building's hallway was dim and cramped, its walls plastered with graffiti. The stairwell's handrail paint had long flaked off, exposing rusted iron underneath.
An old lady in pajamas shuffled past, tugging a dog that barked wildly at him. Her wary eyes sized him up. Luke recognized her as Mrs. Higgins from the third floor. In the original occupant's memories, she was always griping about him being too loud at night.
Los Angeles in June bathed the streets in sticky, warm sunlight. Luke squinted, standing at the apartment's entrance, taking a deep breath. The air carried the tang of car exhaust, mixed with the distant aroma of onions from a hot dog stand and a faint salty breeze from the ocean.
This was Hollywood, 1999.
He tilted his head back, gazing at the clear blue sky dotted with lazy white clouds. In this era, digital cameras were just catching on, but most films still used celluloid. Streaming services didn't exist, and video rental stores were the go-to for weekend plans. The internet was in its infancy, with the Internet Movie Database barely a few years old.
The Matrix had hit theaters two months ago, and Keanu Reeves' black trench coat was now a street fashion staple. Star Wars: Episode I – The Phantom Menace was raking in box office cash worldwide, though reviews were mixed. Anakin Skywalker's name was everywhere. Christopher Nolan was still hustling for funding for Memento, a film that would redefine narrative structure next year. David Fincher, fresh off promoting The Game, hadn't yet started prepping Fight Club.
And here was Luke, a soul from 2025's film industry, trapped in the body of a washed-up, debt-ridden, borderline hustler of an actor.
"Talk about a hell of a start," he muttered, a smirk tugging at his lips.
As a producer in his past life, he thrived on finding ways out of impossible situations. Twenty years of industry experience—future blockbusters, iconic roles, market trends—were his arsenal.
He patted his pocket. The two models from last night had at least left him twenty bucks and half a pack of Marlboros. He pulled out a cigarette, stuck it in his mouth, and rummaged for a lighter but came up empty.
The newsstand owner, a chubby Latino guy, tossed him one. "Rough night, Leon?" he chuckled, familiar with the kid who often bought smokes on credit.
Luke caught the lighter, lit his cigarette, and took a drag. The nicotine eased his nerves. "Just borrowing a light, thanks, Carlos," he replied, mimicking the original occupant's tone.
The newsstand was stacked with papers and magazines—Los Angeles Times, The New Yorker, and a few entertainment rags. The most eye-catching was Variety, its cover featuring a group shot of The Phantom Menace stars. Ewan McGregor, in a Jedi robe, flashed a boyish grin.
Luke grabbed a copy. "How much?"
"Two fifty," Carlos said.
He handed over the twenty, bought the magazine, and carefully tucked the seventeen-fifty in change into his jeans, pocketing the lighter too. Flipping through Variety, he scanned the classifieds—auditions and crew calls, mostly for low-budget films and TV shows. He found the address of a nearby used bookstore on Hollywood Boulevard.
If he recalled correctly, 1999 was when Fight Club's novel rights were still up for grabs. Chuck Palahniuk had some fame, but the book's dark themes kept major studios at bay. David Fincher, the Se7en director, would start prepping the film in a few months, jumping through hoops to secure those rights.
"Maybe that's where I start," Luke thought, stubbing out his cigarette in a curbside trash can and heading toward the bus stop.
First, though, he had to tackle his immediate problem: the Midnight Scream audition. Then he could think bigger.
The audition took place in a converted warehouse on Melrose Avenue. The space was cavernous, with exposed red-brick walls and a gray cement floor. Piles of discarded props cluttered the corners.
About twenty young guys crowded the waiting area. Some sat on folding chairs, others leaned against walls. One guy practiced a terrified expression in a pocket mirror, brows furrowed, eyes bulging. Another muttered lines under his breath, gesturing dramatically. A few huddled together, smoking and whispering, glancing nervously toward the audition room.
In a corner, a blonde girl in a pink dress, its hem dusted with dirt, quietly sobbed, shoulders shaking. She'd probably just left the audition room, maybe chewed out by the director or crushed by a failed tryout. In Hollywood, scenes like this played out daily.
Luke found a quiet spot, pulled out his audition notice, and skimmed it again. Midnight Scream, directed by Larry Stern, unknown producer, low budget. He was auditioning for "Jason," the heroine's boyfriend, who gets his head chopped off mid-movie—a classic cannon-fodder role.
"Next! Leon Donaldson!" a crew guy in a black T-shirt and baseball cap called out.
Luke took a deep breath, straightened his T-shirt collar, and headed in. Passing the crying girl, he paused but said nothing. Sympathy was worthless in this business.
The audition room was a small space sectioned off by dividers, lit by blinding high-wattage lamps. Three people sat behind a long table: Larry Stern, the director, bald with a goatee, his beard and fingers yellowed from years of smoking; a man in his fifties, gray suit, hair slicked back, checking his watch impatiently—likely the producer; and a young woman with black-framed glasses, in a white shirt and jeans, clutching a notebook, probably the writer or an assistant.
"Your resume?" the producer asked, his tone flat.
Luke handed over a thin folder. The original Leon hadn't bothered updating it—just a few blurry headshots and a sparse list of roles like "Party Guest" or "Pedestrian #1."
Larry flipped through it and snorted. "Martin Cole's Baby? This resume's cleaner than a blank page." He tossed it back on the table with a slap. "Scene three. You find your girlfriend's head in the fridge. Thirty seconds to prep."
Luke glanced at the script page. It was rough: "Jason opens the fridge, sees his girlfriend's head, screams in terror, cries hysterically, vomits, then gets ambushed and beheaded by the killer."
This kind of over-the-top performance was standard in '90s B-horror flicks—exaggerated, one-dimensional, all shock value, no depth. But Luke saw an opportunity.
Back in China, as a producer, he'd watched countless auditions and debated acting with directors. He knew simple roles like this could showcase real skill if played with nuance.
He set the script down and looked at the trio. "Ready?"
No screaming, no wild gestures. Luke stood still, his body relaxed, but his eyes grew vacant, locking onto an imaginary fridge in the empty space ahead. His lips twitched—not in fear, but as if fighting a horrific realization.
His breathing shifted: steady, then rapid, then deliberately slow, like he was forcing himself to stay calm. He took a step toward the "fridge," each movement heavy, hesitant, like his feet were lead. His fingers hovered over an invisible handle, trembling slightly—not cartoonish shakes, but a subtle, uncontrollable quiver, like a faint electric current.
The room fell silent. Even the producer, who'd been checking his watch, lowered his arm, eyes fixed on Luke.
When he "opened" the fridge door, his pupils dilated sharply, as if hit by a blinding light. His breathing stopped, his chest still. For a moment, he was frozen, paused in time.
Then his lips twisted into a grotesque expression—half-smile, half-spasm, like he wanted to laugh but was gripped by terror, pulling his face into something uglier than a sob.
"Hey… babe," he whispered, his voice soft, almost tender, yet laced with a chilling edge, like speaking to a lover while teetering on madness. "Who… made you look so pretty?"
His fingers rose, tracing the air as if stroking a nonexistent head, gentle as if touching fragile glass. Then his hand froze, as if encountering something sticky. He pulled back, staring at his fingertips. The warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by a mix of confusion, disgust, and a flicker of excitement.
Looking at his "fingers," he let out a low, animalistic whimper, stifled in his throat. Then he laughed—not a crazed cackle or a nervous chuckle, but a soft, dawning laugh, like he'd just solved a long-standing puzzle.
"So that's how it is…" he murmured to the "fridge," his eyes growing feverish, glinting with obsession. "I get it… I know what to do."
His hand reached out, searching for something, his face lit with near-religious focus.
The room was dead quiet, save for his breathing. Larry's pen slipped from his hand, clattering across the floor. His jaw hung open, his goatee trembling slightly.
"Holy shit," he muttered, stunned.
The young writer's glasses slid down her nose, her mouth agape, too shocked to adjust them. The producer leaned forward, his earlier impatience gone, studying Luke like he was seeing him for the first time.
Luke dropped the act, his face returning to calm neutrality, as if the unhinged man from moments ago was a mirage. He looked at the trio and asked evenly, "Need me to do the vomiting or screaming?"
"No, no," the producer said, clearing his throat, a trace of excitement in his voice. "That… interpretation was something else."
"Because real psychos don't perform like circus clowns," Luke said, locking eyes with Larry, unflinching. "They think, they calculate, they enjoy. When normal people face extreme horror, they don't scream right away—their brain stalls, trying to rationalize, then traps itself in a loop."
"Terror comes from real psychological breaks, not over-the-top theatrics."
His words, drawn from years of watching films and talking shop with directors, were ahead of their time in this 1999 B-movie setting.
Larry stroked his goatee, eyes narrowing as he sized Luke up, like appraising a high-value asset. "You know this is an $800,000 B-flick, right? Audiences just want blood and boobs. Nobody cares about psychological depth."
"But what if you could make money and get buzz?" Luke stepped forward, his voice confident. "If you tweak this killer role like I'm suggesting, it could steal the show. I can make him a layered, logical psychopath—not just a killing machine. Give me three minutes of screen time and one new line, and I'll make this character a cult classic."
"Three minutes? One line?" The producer raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "What's the change?"
"Turn 'beheaded boyfriend' into the killer's accomplice, who then double-crosses him," Luke said. "Change the line to 'Turns out, we're the same.'"
Larry and the producer exchanged a glance, whispering briefly.
Luke stood calmly, waiting. He knew his edge: insight into human nature and a knack for predicting market trends, advantages that set him apart in this era.
Ten minutes later, he stepped out of the warehouse, sunlight glinting off a new contract. The black ink spelled it out: his pay jumped from $500 to $3,000. His role shifted from "beheaded boyfriend Jason" to "psycho killer's accomplice Leon," upgraded from cameo to supporting role. And in the final column, a penciled note stood out: "Script consultation, with Leon Donaldson added to the writer's credits."
Luke lit a fresh Marlboro, the smoke curling in the California sun. He glanced at the faint Hollywood sign on the distant hills, a subtle grin tugging at his lips.
Step one, done.
But this was just the beginning. He needed more cash, more connections, to truly make it in this cutthroat game.
He thought of the bookstore address from Variety. Maybe it was time to pay it a visit.