The night streets of Los Angeles glimmered under a veil of darkness, and Inoue Tachibana walked aimlessly, releasing a heavy sigh into the cool air. His mind kept circling back to the last day he had spent in Tokyo. He had carried his script—the work into which he had poured all his passion—from studio to studio, only to hear the same weary line again and again: "We're sorry, but this doesn't suit us." Each rejection had carved deeper into his pride until anger and despair finally drove him to make a reckless choice. Gathering every last bit of his savings, he bought a one-way ticket to the dream capital of the world, Hollywood.
Yet the dream, once he arrived, had shown its true face—cold and indifferent. The sprawling city that had promised boundless opportunity now seemed like a labyrinth with no exit. On this night, his steps dragged with the same hopeless weight he had carried in Tokyo, and he feared that his failures were destined to repeat themselves here. Then a blaze of neon caught his eye. A strip club called Stardust bathed the corner in shifting colors.
He stood staring for a moment, then muttered under his breath, "To hell with it. My life's already ruined. What worse could happen?" With nothing left to lose, he paid the entrance fee with his last crumpled bills and stepped inside.
The night blurred into alcohol and smoke. Drink after drink dulled his thoughts until his body gave way to reckless movement on the dance floor. He was making a spectacle of himself, but no one seemed to care—this was America, where people minded their own business. That illusion shattered when he stumbled into someone. Blinking through the haze, he raised his head to apologize and froze. He rubbed his eyes, shook his head once, twice, as though trying to banish a mirage.
Standing before him was none other than George Bradley, the living legend of Hollywood, the very director Inoue had idolized for years.
"Oh—sorry!" he stammered, bowed clumsily.
The great man only laughed and waved it off, continuing on his way with an ease that left Inoue dumbfounded. He had heard the rumors—that Bradley was as infamous for his cruelty as he was celebrated for his genius. The man had wrecked not only his own family but those of others, leaving a trail of scandal behind him. Lately, though, gossip had gone quiet since his marriage to a famous actress almost forty years his junior. Inoue couldn't help but feel a stab of envy as he thought of it.
His thoughts were cut short when two towering men—bouncers with arms like steel cables—stepped into his path.
"If you're drunk, go sleep it off," one said.
"Or we'll help you out ourselves," the other added.
Before Inoue could react, their hands clamped down on his arms. Panic flared and, in his intoxication, he fought back with curses. His resistance only earned him rougher treatment. A moment later, he was hurled out into the night. Pain exploded through his body as he hit the pavement, and for a breathless instant he thought his chest would cave in. His vision blurred, the world spinning into a haze between sleep and unconsciousness. Is this how I die? he wondered. And then the darkness swallowed him whole.
He dreamed. At least, he thought it was a dream. He saw his own body being wheeled somewhere—perhaps a hospital. Naked, motionless, like a corpse. Hovering above, he watched as a woman bent over him, cleaning his limbs with practiced care. Her face was hidden, but her body was sculpted like something from a fantasy. He felt a strange mix of awe and resignation. If this was death, then at least he had been granted one final, illicit blessing.
But then her hands lingered lower, and against all reason, his body responded. Shock gave way to a guilty thrill. Memories of past lovers flickered in his mind, regret twisting through him—if he truly was dead, he wished he had lived more recklessly, indulged more freely. The woman's touch grew bolder, and suddenly, she leaned down. His eyes widened.
No way…
With desperate clarity, he prayed, If I'm dead, let me stay here with her. If it's a dream, never let me wake up.
But wake he did. His eyes opened to find a woman, very real, bent over him, lips wrapped around his most intimate part. For a second, he believed he was still caught between worlds, until her face lifted into view.
Recognition slammed into him.
"Kate Bretzel?" he whispered, stunned.
Her eyes flicked up at him, a hint of a smile dancing there. And Inoue's mind reeled, for Kate Bretzel was none other than the young wife of George Bradley himself.