Chapter 3: The First Clients
Victor followed Jones down the sleek corridor of CAA, his mind finally catching up with the whirlwind of events. The marble floors echoed with each step as they walked toward the conference room where his first clients awaited.
What the hell just happened? One moment he'd been drowning his sorrows at The Rusty Nail, and now he was walking through the hallowed halls of the most prestigious talent agency in the world. The contract he'd signed still felt warm in his memory, yet he couldn't recall how he'd arrived here or when he'd interviewed for this position.
His thoughts raced frantically. Had he blacked out? Was this some elaborate dream? The walls around him seemed too solid, the sounds too crisp for a dream. Jones walked ahead, his back straight and purposeful, completely unaware of Victor's internal crisis.
"Conference room's just ahead," Jones called over his shoulder. "Try not to look as lost as you do now."
Victor nodded mechanically, his feet carrying him forward while his mind spun. Something wasn't right. The memories in his head felt doubled—layered somehow. He remembered failing for years as an agent, yet simultaneously felt like he was just starting his career.
A flash of movement caught his eye—his own reflection in the glass wall of an empty meeting room. Victor froze mid-step.
The face staring back at him wasn't his own. Or rather, it was, but decades younger. Gone were the creases around his eyes, the gray at his temples, the weathered look of a man beaten down by years of disappointment. Instead, he saw a young man in his early twenties—broad-shouldered with intense blue-gray eyes and thick dark hair styled in a perfect side part.
Victor raised a trembling hand to his face. The reflection did the same. He touched his smooth jaw, feeling the light stubble of a recent shave rather than the familiar roughness of his usual three-day growth.
"What the fuck," he whispered, leaning closer to the glass.
The young man in the reflection was undeniably him, yet impossibly youthful—vibrant in a way he hadn't been for decades. Victor's heart hammered against his ribs as the impossible truth dawned on him.
Victor stared at his reflection, a surge of understanding washing over him like a wave. This wasn't just some bizarre dream or hallucination—it was something far more profound.
A second chance.
The concept hit him with startling clarity. Somehow, impossibly, he'd been given another shot at life. The gods he'd never believed in, the cosmic forces he'd dismissed with cynical jokes all his life—had they actually taken pity on him? Had they seen his regrets, his loneliness, his failure to build anything meaningful despite decades of grinding work?
His mind raced through the implications. If this was real, if he truly had been transported back to the beginning of his career but with all his knowledge intact, the possibilities were staggering. He could avoid every mistake, leverage every opportunity, build the career and life he'd always wanted but never achieved.
"Grayson!" Jones's sharp voice cut through his revelation. "You planning to join us today or should I tell your clients you're busy admiring yourself?"
Victor snapped back to attention, straightening his tie. "Sorry, sir. Just... collecting my thoughts."
Jones narrowed his eyes, then pushed open the conference room door. "Try collecting them faster next time."
Victor took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders as he followed Jones into the room. The conference room gleamed with polished wood and glass, sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a panoramic view of Los Angeles—the city that had broken him once before.
*****
Two people sat at the far end of the table, their postures betraying their nervousness. His first clients. People whose careers—whose lives—he now held partial responsibility for.
"Mr. Grayson will be handling your representation moving forward," Jones announced, his tone businesslike. "He's new, but he comes highly recommended."
Victor felt a strange calm settle over him as he stepped forward. If this truly was his second chance, he wouldn't waste it. Not this time. He'd build the connections he'd failed to nurture before. He'd create the family he'd never made time for. He wouldn't die alone and forgotten again.
Victor stepped forward, ready to meet his first clients, when his world was flipped upside down.
All coherent thought vanished from his mind as he stared at the young woman seated at the table. His body operated on autopilot—extending his hand, offering a practiced smile—but his consciousness seemed to float somewhere above the scene, watching himself go through the motions.
That face. Those unmistakable features. The full lips, striking green eyes, and golden blonde hair casually pulled back. The heart-shaped face with those defined cheekbones that had graced countless magazine covers and movie posters in his previous life.
Scarlett Johansson.
Not the globally renowned superstar she would become, but a younger version—perhaps twenty-four, still carrying the nervous energy of someone on the cusp of greatness rather than drowning in it. She sat with perfect posture that couldn't quite mask her uncertainty, fingers fidgeting slightly on the polished table.
"Victor Grayson," he heard himself say, his voice surprisingly steady despite the earthquake happening inside his mind. "I'm looking forward to working with you."
When she took his hand, her grip was firmer than he expected. Her smoky voice washed over him as she introduced herself, but Victor barely registered the words. His mind raced with flashing images—her future iconic roles, the magazine covers, the awards ceremonies, the blockbuster franchises that had made her one of the most recognizable faces on the planet.
In his past life, representing someone of her caliber had been beyond his wildest dreams. She was the kind of talent that only the most powerful agents at the top firms could hope to sign—the very pinnacle of success he'd never even come close to achieving.
And now she sat before him, unknown and unproven, her legendary career not yet begun.
Victor's hand trembled slightly as he released hers, the full weight of the opportunity before him finally sinking in. This wasn't just a second chance at his career—this was a cosmic gift beyond anything he could have imagined.
Victor's mind had barely processed the shock of meeting a young Scarlett Johansson when he turned to greet his second client. His heart nearly stopped.
Seated beside her was a lean, intense-looking Asian man with chiseled features and a posture that radiated disciplined power. Even in a simple button-down shirt, his physique was evident—compact, muscular, and perfectly balanced. Those piercing dark eyes held the same intensity Victor had seen in countless films and documentaries.
Bruce Lee.
Not the legendary icon whose fighting philosophy had revolutionized martial arts cinema, but a younger version—perhaps twenty-nine, already physically magnificent but still years away from becoming the global phenomenon Victor remembered.
"And this is—" Jones began the introduction, but Victor barely heard him.
Was this real? Or had he died and stumbled into some bizarre afterlife where he represented two of the most iconic figures in entertainment history before they became legends? Victor's throat went dry. His palms dampened with sweat as he extended his hand mechanically.
Bruce rose to meet him, his movements fluid and economical, not a wasted motion. His grip was firm but controlled, like everything about him.
"Bruce Lee," he said simply, his voice carrying that distinctive cadence Victor recognized from interviews he'd watched in his previous life.
"Victor Grayson," he managed to reply, fighting to keep his voice steady. "It's a pleasure."
The martial artist nodded, his expression revealing little, but his eyes assessed Victor with laser-like focus.
Victor's mind raced through the timeline. Two of the most influential talents of the twentieth century sat before him, unknown, unproven, and now... his responsibility. His clients.
Victor's mind reeled as he settled into his chair across from his new clients. The conference room seemed to tilt around him as he struggled to process what he was seeing. Bruce Lee and Scarlett Johansson—sitting side by side as unknowns at the same agency, at the same time.
This didn't make any sense. In his previous life, these two icons weren't even from the same era. Bruce Lee had died in 1973, a decade before Scarlett Johansson had even been born. Victor had grown up watching Bruce's films—Enter the Dragon, Fist of Fury, Way of the Dragon—studying them as cultural touchstones of martial arts cinema. They were classics, relics of a bygone age.
Yet here they both sat, not only contemporaries but appearing to be similar in age to him, both at the starting blocks of their careers. The timeline was completely wrong. Impossible, even.
Victor fought to maintain his composure as Jones continued speaking about paperwork and upcoming meetings. His hands felt clammy as he gripped the armrests of his chair. Was this some bizarre dream within a dream? Had his mind constructed this fantasy from fragments of pop culture as he lay dying in his previous life?
He studied Bruce's face carefully. The man before him wasn't the mythologized legend from documentaries and tributes. This was a living, breathing person with ambitions and frustrations evident in the tight set of his jaw and the calculating look in his eyes. Not yet a legend, just a hungry martial artist trying to break into an industry that might not understand his vision.
And Scarlett—not the confident A-lister who commanded millions per film, but a young woman with raw talent and uncertainty written across her features. She tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, a nervous gesture that humanized the icon she would become in Victor's original timeline.
Whatever strange reality Victor had awakened in, the rules were clearly different.
Victor took a deep breath and forced his racing thoughts into submission. The impossibility of the situation could wait. For now, he'd focus on what mattered: these were his clients, and they needed an agent who believed in them. The cosmic joke of their identities was secondary to the job at hand.
"As I was saying," Jones continued, drawing Victor back to the present, "Bruce has been training for years in various martial arts disciplines but has struggled to find meaningful screen work beyond a few minor television ads. Studios seem reluctant to cast an Asian lead, especially one who insists on authentic fight choreography rather than the stylized approaches currently in fashion."
Victor nodded, studying Bruce's stoic expression. The martial artist's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at Jones's blunt assessment.
"And Scarlett has raw talent but limited formal training. She's been waiting tables while pursuing auditions, with a few callbacks but no significant bookings yet. She's had difficulty breaking through the typical 'pretty face' typecasting."
Scarlett shifted in her seat, a flash of determination crossing her features despite her obvious discomfort at having her struggles laid bare.
Jones turned to the clients. "Having Victor as your dedicated agent means you'll have someone fighting exclusively for your interests. He'll negotiate contracts, pursue suitable roles, arrange meetings with casting directors, and help shape your career trajectory. He'll be your advocate, your strategist, and occasionally, your reality check."
Victor leaned forward, making eye contact with each of them. "My job is to open doors, but you'll need to walk through them. I'll push for auditions that showcase your unique talents, not just what the industry thinks you should be."
He saw something spark in Bruce's eyes—recognition, perhaps, of someone who might actually understand his vision.
"The relationship between agent and talent is a partnership," Victor continued, drawing on decades of experience from his previous life. "I need to know your goals, your boundaries, what roles excite you, and what you absolutely won't do. That way, I'm not wasting your time or mine on opportunities that don't align with your career aspirations."
Jones nodded approvingly as Victor settled into the role he was born to play—twice.
Victor leaned forward, studying his clients with newfound intensity. The initial shock of their identities had settled into a focused curiosity. These weren't the legends they would become—they were hungry artists at the beginning of their journeys.
"Let's start with the fundamentals," Victor said. "I need to understand exactly what you want from your careers and where your boundaries lie."
Bruce straightened in his chair, his movements precise and controlled. "I want to show real martial arts on screen. Not the fake, exaggerated movements Hollywood thinks martial arts should be." His words carried the weight of years of frustration. "I've trained my entire life to perfect these techniques. Directors want me to make them look sloppy, more dramatic. I won't compromise the integrity of my art."
Victor nodded, remembering how Bruce's philosophy had revolutionized action cinema in his previous life.
"What about roles? Are there specific types of characters you're interested in?" Victor asked.
"I want complex characters who happen to know martial arts—not just silent fighters or wise mentors spouting fortune cookie wisdom." Bruce's eyes flashed with determination. "I refuse to play stereotypes with broken english"
Victor turned to Scarlett, who had been listening intently. She met his gaze with surprising steadiness.
"I want to be recognized for my ability as an actor," she said, her distinctive voice carrying quiet conviction. "Not just as a pretty face they can put on a poster."
She leaned forward slightly. "And I want to make this absolutely clear—I will not do any special favours to anyone. I've already had producers and directors suggest that certain... arrangements... might help my career." Her expression hardened. "I will not degrade myself for this industry. I know that's why I haven't received many callbacks, but it's a point I'm adamant on."
Victor knew what she was implying. In his previous life, he'd seen countless stories about the casting couch culture that had pervaded Hollywood for decades. He did not agree with it, but he also knew that he could do nothing about it. He had always respected his clients choices. If they were okay with it, he would arrange such meetings for them, but it they were not, then no one could ever lay a hand on them.
"That will never be an issue with me," Victor said firmly. "Your boundaries will be respected, period. We'll build your career on talent, not compromises."
Jones continued outlining the contractual details—commission percentages, communication expectations, and the agency's resources available to them. Victor nodded at appropriate intervals, but his mind was working overtime, cataloging every subtle reaction from his clients while processing the impossible situation he found himself in.
"CAA will take twenty percent of all negotiated contracts," Jones explained. "Victor will be your primary point of contact, but you'll have access to our entire network of industry connections."
Bruce's posture remained rigid throughout, his eyes occasionally darting to Victor as if assessing whether this new agent truly understood his vision. Scarlett took notes on a small pad, her handwriting neat and precise despite her nervous energy.
As the meeting wound down, Victor collected their headshots and résumés, painfully thin portfolios that belied the legendary careers that awaited them—or at least had awaited them in the timeline he remembered.
"I'll be in touch within forty-eight hours with initial strategies for each of you," Victor promised as they all rose from the table.
After brief handshakes and measured goodbyes, Jones led the clients out, leaving Victor to gather his thoughts before following. He watched through the glass wall as Bruce and Scarlett walked down the corridor, two future icons currently invisible to the world that would one day worship them.
Twenty minutes later, Victor pushed through CAA's revolving doors and stepped onto the sunlit sidewalk of Wilshire Boulevard. The rush of warm Los Angeles air hit his face, carrying with it the scents of exhaust fumes, nearby restaurant kitchens, and the faint trace of jasmine from decorative planters.
For the first time since waking in this new reality, Victor had a moment to breathe. He moved away from the building's entrance, finding a quiet spot beside a concrete planter where he could process everything without being in anyone's way.
His hands trembled slightly as he loosened his tie. The weight of what had just happened finally hit him with full force. Bruce Lee and Scarlett Johansson—two icons from completely different eras—were now his clients, both young and unknown, existing in the same timeline.
Victor leaned against the cool concrete, letting the impossible reality wash over him. Whatever godly force had given him this second chance had apparently also rewritten the rules of history itself.