Victor took several deep breaths, willing his racing heart to slowdown. The surreal nature of his situation threatened to overwhelm him, but he forced himself to think practically. What good would questioning reality do? Whether this was some cosmic joke, a hallucination, or an actual second chance at life, he needed to approach it with clarity.
"Just live it," he muttered to himself, straightening his shoulders. "Whatever this is, it's happening now."
He'd spent his previous life dwelling on past failures, always looking backward instead of forward. If this truly was a second chance, he wouldn't waste it questioning the impossible mechanics behind it. He had knowledge from a lifetime in the industry and two incredible talents to guide. That was enough to focus on.
Victor checked his watch—nearly six in the evening. The mental and emotional whiplash of the day had left him exhausted. Sleep seemed like the most sensible next step. A good night's rest would help him process everything and approach tomorrow with a clear strategy.
He patted his pockets for car keys, then froze.
"Wait," he whispered, the realization hitting him. "Where exactly am I going?"
Victor had no idea where he lived in this reality. Did he have an apartment? A house? Was he still in that cramped studio above the laundromat like in his early agent days? He didn't even know if he owned a car or took public transportation.
He checked his pockets again, this time more thoroughly. He found a wallet, a set of keys, and a smartphone—an iPhone. The wallet contained his driver's license with an address in Panorama City, credit cards, and about two hundred dollars in cash.
"Panorama City," he muttered, studying the unfamiliar address. It wasn't anywhere he'd lived before.
Victor stared at the keys in his palm—a car key fob, what looked like apartment keys, and a small mailbox key. None of it familiar, all of it apparently his.
Victor wandered through the parking lot beside the CAA building, clicking his key fob repeatedly as he listened for the responding beep. Row after row of gleaming luxury vehicles—Mercedes, BMWs, Corvettes—reflected the fluorescent lighting overhead. The kind of cars successful agents drove. The kind he'd never been able to afford in his previous life.
"Come on, where are you?" he muttered, continuing to press the button.
A faint chirp finally responded from the far corner of the lot. Victor followed the sound to find a Honda Civic that had seen better days. The once-blue paint had faded to a dull gray-blue, with a noticeable dent in the rear bumper and a spider-web crack spreading across one corner of the windshield. The passenger side mirror was held together with duct tape.
"Of course," Victor sighed, unlocking the door. The interior smelled like old fast food and cheap air freshener. Empty coffee cups littered the passenger floorboard, and the upholstery was worn thin on the driver's seat. When he turned the key, the engine coughed twice before reluctantly coming to life.
Following his GPS, Victor navigated through evening traffic, the car's suspension protesting every pothole. Forty minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot of a three-story apartment complex that had probably been considered modern in the early 1980s.
His apartment was on the second floor, at the end of an open-air walkway. The key stuck in the lock, requiring a specific jiggle he somehow already knew how to perform. The door swung open with a creak.
Victor flipped on the lights and took in his new home. A studio apartment with barely enough room for the essentials. A futon that doubled as both couch and bed dominated the main space, facing a small TV perched on a particleboard stand. The kitchenette consisted of a mini-fridge, a microwave with yellowed plastic, and a two-burner stove. Dishes were piled in the sink, and takeout containers crowded the small counter space.
The bathroom was barely large enough to turn around in. A single window offered a view of the building's dumpsters and the parking lot beyond.
"Just like starting over," Victor murmured, dropping his keys on the wobbly coffee table.
He surveyed the mess of his apartment with tired eyes. His mind still reeled from the day's impossibilities—Scarlett Johansson and Bruce Lee sitting across from him, both unknown talents waiting to be molded into legends. The weight of opportunity pressed down on his shoulders, simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying.
He kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the futon, springs protesting beneath him. The ceiling had water stains in the shape of what looked like Australia. A pile of mail sat unopened on the coffee table, bills peeking out from between takeout menus.
"Tomorrow," he muttered. "I'll figure it all out tomorrow."
He didn't bother changing clothes or brushing his teeth. The emotional whiplash of the day had drained him completely. Whatever cosmic force had granted him this second chance would still be there in the morning, along with all its impossibilities and opportunities.
Victor rolled onto his side, pulling a threadbare blanket over himself. The sounds of the city filtered through the thin walls—car horns, distant music, the hum of countless lives continuing around him. In his previous life, he'd spent nights like this staring at the ceiling, cataloging regrets and missed chances. Tonight, despite the strangeness of his situation, a strange calm settled over him.
"Just sleep," he told himself. "Everything else can wait."
His breathing slowed. The tension in his shoulders gradually released. For the first time in what felt like decades, Victor Grayson fell asleep without the weight of failure pressing down on his chest. Whatever this new reality held—he would face it after rest.
*****
Victor woke with a start, momentarily confused by the unfamiliar ceiling above him. Sunlight streamed through the thin curtains, casting long rectangles of light across the cramped apartment. He blinked, memories of yesterday flooding back—the office, Jones, Scarlett, Bruce.
"Right," he muttered, sitting up. "That actually happened."
He got up and surveyed his apartment with fresh determination. If this was truly his second chance, he wouldn't waste it living in a shithole.
"First things first," he said to the empty room. "Clean this mess, then food, then work."
Victor attacked the dirty dishes first, scrubbing away days of crusted food. He gathered scattered clothes into a laundry pile, tossed out old takeout containers, and wiped down surfaces that hadn't seen a cleaning cloth in months. With each completed task, the apartment transformed—not into luxury, but at least into something habitable.
An hour later, sweaty but satisfied, Victor stood in the center of his now-orderly studio. The trash was bagged, surfaces cleared, and even the bathroom sparkled. His stomach growled, reminding him of the second item on his agenda.
The refrigerator offered little—half a carton of eggs, some questionable cheese, and a container of orange juice. It would have to do. He cracked eggs into a pan, determined to fuel his body properly for the day ahead.
Victor polished off his makeshift breakfast and rinsed the plate, feeling a strange sense of accomplishment from this simple domestic task. With his hunger satisfied, he settled onto the small couch and opened his laptop, simultaneously checking his phone. Time to figure out exactly what kind of life he'd stepped into.
The laptop booted up, requesting a password. He tried several combinations before landing on "0123"—apparently his alter ego wasn't particularly security-conscious. The date in the corner of the screen confirmed what he'd suspected: May 15, 2014.
"A parallel world," he muttered, scrolling through his emails. "Not time travel. A whole different reality."
He opened his banking app, curious about his financial situation. His savings account showed $8,246.17, while his checking account held $2,532.09. Not terrible for a 24-year-old starting out independently.
"Could be worse," Victor said, nodding to himself.
Then he saw it—the student loan portal bookmark. With a grimace, he clicked it. The number that appeared made him wince: $139,874.32 in outstanding debt.
"Jesus Christ," he whispered, running a hand through his hair. "Six figures of debt before I've even started."
Victor leaned back, staring at the ceiling. He pulled up his contacts list next, scrolling through the sparse entries. Mostly industry names, a few delivery places, his landlord. No family contacts. No girlfriend. Not even friends checking in on him.
"So I'm an orphan in this life too," he said with a bitter laugh. "What a surprise."
The sarcasm in his voice couldn't quite mask the pang of disappointment. He'd secretly hoped this new reality might include parents, siblings—some kind of family connection he'd always lacked.
Victor set down his phone and gazed around the apartment. The silence was complete. No texts, no calls, no one wondering where he was or how he was doing. Complete isolation.
"Well," he said, squaring his shoulders, "at least I don't have to explain my sudden personality change to anyone. Clean slate."
He turned back to his laptop. Time to research his clients and start planning their careers.
Victor scrolled through industry news sites, his eyes widening with each headline. The numbers didn't make sense at first—he had to double-check several times to make sure he wasn't misreading.
"Two billion dollars?" he muttered, staring at the worldwide box office for the latest superhero film. "That's... impossible."
But it wasn't. Film after film showed staggering budgets and even more staggering returns. Movies that would have been considered blockbusters in his previous life barely registered as mid-tier successes here. Productions routinely cost north of $200 million, with marketing budgets nearly matching.
Victor pulled up celebrity net worth sites, nearly choking on his coffee when he saw the figures. A-listers commanded $30 million per picture, plus backend percentages that could double or triple that amount. Even some B-list actors were pulling eight figures annually.
"This is insane," Victor whispered, diving deeper into the research.
Social media metrics showed celebrities with follower counts in the hundreds of millions. Their endorsement deals reached into territories Victor had never imagined—not just fashion and fragrance, but technology, automotive, even government initiatives. When stars spoke, entire markets moved. When they endorsed products, sales didn't just increase—they exploded.
He found articles analyzing "celebrity influence indices" that tracked how star power translated to economic impact. The numbers were staggering. A single Instagram post from the right person could generate more revenue than some small countries' daily GDP.
"No wonder everyone's clawing to get in," Victor said, leaning back in his chair. "The stakes are higher than I ever imagined."
The flip side was equally apparent. The competition was brutal. For every success story, thousands of failures littered the landscape. Talent agencies were cutthroat enterprises with resources that dwarfed anything from his previous reality. CAA wasn't just prestigious—it was a global powerhouse with tentacles in every aspect of entertainment and beyond.
Victor rubbed his temples. "Higher mountains, deeper valleys," he muttered. The path to success would be steeper, the obstacles more formidable. But the potential rewards...
He thought about Scarlett and Bruce. In his original world, they had become legends. Here, with the right guidance, they could become something even greater.
Victor scrolled further through entertainment news, his confusion growing with each search. While many actors looked familiar, the projects they headlined were completely unfamiliar. He recognized Tom Hanks, but there was no "Forrest Gump" or "Saving Private Ryan" in his filmography. Harrison Ford appeared in blockbusters, but none called "Star Wars" or "Indiana Jones."
"This can't be right," Victor muttered, typing "Star Wars" into the search bar.
The results showed nothing resembling George Lucas's space opera. He tried "Marvel," "Avengers," "Spider-Man"—nothing matched what he remembered.
His fingers flew across the keyboard, searching for "Jurassic Park." The results showed wildlife documentaries, but no Steven Spielberg film about dinosaurs running amok on an island.
"What the hell?" he whispered, his voice tight.
He tried more searches. Each query returned results for different films or unrelated topics. The cinematic landmarks that had shaped his understanding of film simply didn't exist here.
Victor leaned back, his mind reeling. It wasn't just that he'd been transported to a parallel world—he'd landed in one with an entirely different cultural landscape. The foundational films that had defined generations of moviegoers and filmmakers in his reality were absent here.
"It's not just a different timeline," he realized, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. "It's a completely different creative universe."
Victor stared at his laptop screen, his initial shock giving way to a surge of adrenaline. His heart pounded against his ribs as the implications sank in.
"Holy shit," he whispered, jumping up from his chair to pace the small apartment. "Holy. Shit."
If Star Wars didn't exist here, if The Godfather never happened, if Jurassic Park was just a paleontological concept—then all these cultural touchstones were up for grabs. The plots, characters, concepts that had defined cinema in his world were untapped resources in this one.
"I know these stories," He muttered, running his hands through his hair. "I know what works, what resonates, what becomes legendary."
He returned to his laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard as he searched for more titles: The Shawshank Redemption, Pulp Fiction, The Dark Knight. Nothing. These cultural monuments simply didn't exist.
Victor leaned back, a smile spreading across his face. His mind raced with possibilities. He could guide filmmakers toward these stories. He could connect directors with concepts that he knew would resonate. He could shape the entire entertainment landscape.
"This isn't just a second chance," he breathed. "It's the opportunity of a lifetime."
He spent hours digging deeper, researching the current state of Hollywood, the top directors, the studio systems. He examined box office trends, audience demographics, and production budgets. Everything was similar enough to be familiar, yet different enough to offer fresh opportunities.
He scribbled notes frantically, mapping connections between potential projects and filmmakers who might bring them to life.
As evening fell, his excitement remained undiminished. His apartment walls now displayed hastily taped notes and timelines. His laptop battery had died twice from continuous use.
"This is it," Victor said to himself, surveying his work. "This is how I build something that matters."