BANG! BANG! BANG!
A sharp, urgent knocking suddenly echoed through the room, followed by a man's impatient voice from outside the door.
"Matthew! Why did you kick the makeup artist out? The director and the female lead are already in position. The whole crew's waiting on you, our leading man! You've got fifteen minutes!"
There was a pause. Then, in a colder, almost threatening tone:
"If you're not out in fifteen, I'm coming in to kill you!"
The words buzzed in his ears like a swarm of bees drilling into his skull. Matthew wanted to open his eyes but couldn't—not until the footsteps faded away. Only then, using all his strength, did he manage to pry them open.
Pitch-black eyes stared out with unfocused confusion.
"Where... am I?" The eyes quickly scanned the unfamiliar room. "I've never been here before..." He looked down. "Wait, why am I lying on the floor?"
He was slumped sideways on a wooden floor, his head nearly touching the door. No wonder those knocks sounded like thunder right beside his ears.
Suddenly, a flood of memories surged into his mind—two lives like overlapping film reels, clashing, twisting, tangled beyond reason. The overload made him instinctively grab his head in pain.
As the moments passed, the fog lifted from his eyes. His mind cleared. Bracing himself with both hands, he slowly got to his feet and stood before a large vanity mirror.
The man in the reflection was tall—easily over 6 feet—with sharp, defined muscles etched across his torso. Chest bare, only a pair of pants on. Deep brown hair framed a face that could've been carved by a sculptor: angular jawline, high nose bridge, piercing features. And those eyes—dark as ink, not a hint of familiarity in them.
He bit his lip hard. Pain shot through his nerves—this was real.
And so he stood there, silent for five full minutes, staring at the mirror, coming to terms with one impossible truth: something had happened—something beyond belief.
His last memory was crystal clear. Back in the scorching sun, laboring at a construction site, swinging a sledgehammer. He'd taken a break, wiped off sweat, lifted a water bottle... Then, out of nowhere, a coworker's hammerhead snapped off—flew straight at him, slammed into his face.
Everything after that… went dark.
Guess that miserable 20-year life of mine ended right there.
He'd had a hard life. Grew up in a dirt-poor mountain village. Dropped out after junior high to support his family. At eighteen, his ailing parents died. Alone, broke, no education, no skills, no connections. Just a string of dead-end jobs. Tried saving up to learn a trade—then got stiffed when the boss ran off. Protested for his wages, got beaten back. Ended up breaking concrete on construction sites just to survive.
Now… he was here.
Maybe… death wasn't the worst thing.
That thought crossed his mind. Nothing held him back in the old life. No attachments. No hope.
But judging by this new body, this new place… this life might not be much better.
He slapped his chiseled face hard. Nope—not a dream.
According to the fragments in his head, the guy in the mirror was Matthew Horner, a Texan born in 1980. Nineteen years old. Which meant it was now early 1999.
A mixed-blood American—part Caucasian, part Latino, with one-quarter Chinese blood, though it barely showed except for those ink-black eyes.
Matthew Horner had no special skills, either. Dropped out of high school halfway through. Could barely read complicated English. Writing? Forget it.
His resume? Paperboy. Car washer. Dishwasher. Chauffeur. Construction worker. That hard life sculpted his tough, muscular body.
Last year, someone told him he had the looks to be a star. Dumb as it sounds, he actually believed it. Moved to Los Angeles chasing an acting dream. While moonlighting as a driver for a party service, he got spotted by a talent agent who took a liking to him…
That's how he ended up in this makeshift film studio—a remodeled house in downtown L.A.—where, not long ago, he blacked out in this very dressing room.
"Damn…"
He sighed. The signs were clear. He really was in L.A.
Every poster, every item on the vanity—everything had English text. No question.
He sat in the chair, piecing things together.
Honestly, the previous guy's situation sucked too.
Still no education. Couldn't even read a complicated script. But at least he aimed high—quit his job for this acting gig and landed a leading role?
Wait… leading role?
That jolted him upright. The guy outside had said the director and female lead are waiting. And the whole crew was ready?
So… he's the male lead of the production?
Even if it's just a TV drama—lead roles mean real money, right?
Hold on—what kind of male lead are we talking about? A Hollywood movie?
He thought of those young stars who exploded into fame overnight. He'd seen those popcorn blockbusters during his breaks. Like Transformers—that actress Megan Fox became famous practically overnight.
Excited, Matthew crept to the door and peeked through.
The outer studio was grand—way more luxurious than the dressing room. Six or seven people bustled around a sleek black camera. Across from it, a creamy European-style sofa. A man and a woman stood next to it, talking.
The man wore glasses—probably the director. The woman?
Long golden hair. Beautiful face. Elegant aura.
No doubt—that's the female lead.
Matthew nodded, smiling. The guy before him might've lacked skills, but at least he left behind one hell of an opportunity.
Could this be his golden path to Hollywood?
Maybe this wasn't such a bad deal after all.
After all, becoming a star didn't seem to require a high education. Plenty of Hollywood actors didn't even finish school.
Maybe this is it. My new life.
Just then, the blonde woman turned toward the door. Her eyes landed on him through the gap. She smiled and nodded.
Matthew returned the nod, eyeing her again.
"Why does she look… familiar?"
He shut the door and stepped back inside, rubbing his head. Couldn't quite place her. A movie, maybe?
No time to worry about that. He needed to know what role he was about to play.
But as he focused on the memories again… his face went pale.
Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his cheek. His body tensed like a deer in headlights.
Then, slowly, he turned to look at the bright red tote bag on the vanity. It was the actor's prop kit. Half-open. He could see tissues, towels, baby wipes, rubber gloves…
And a few "tools" he'd only ever seen online… in certain videos.
Matthew stumbled back into the chair, too shocked to speak.
This leading man…
The one he was about to play…
Was the star of a romantic action film.
You know—the kind that never hits theaters.