After exorcizing Charlize, he forgot to leave his contact info.
Not out of some monk-like humility or desire to shed glory, he just didn't think about it.
In another life, his former self might have had a reason for such behavior.
Back then, Christian was all about the craft—rituals, sigils, and spells came first.
The rest, including women, barely registered.
But that night, as muffled moans drifted through the paper-thin walls of his hotel room, regret crept in like a draft.
The soul calls—echoes of his predecessor's memories—only made it worse.
The old bastard had been a charmer, smooth as whiskey and just as toxic. Now those memories taunted him, a highlight reel of golden opportunities wasted.
Time travel, ironically, didn't mean you could turn back the clock. You could tamper with fate, maybe, but charm? That was something else.
It couldn't be taught like rune work or ritual design. It had to be lived.
And despite all his arcane adventures, Christian was no Casanova.
Just a weathered soul with too much baggage and too little patience.
Still, Los Angeles was a strange place—cosmic, crowded, and karmic. Eventually, he ran into Charlize again.
By then, he'd clawed together a living using scraps of his past life—directing small shoots, leveraging a few old connections, and pretending he knew what he was doing half the time.
He was setting up a scene on a dusty lot when he saw her walk in for an audition—low-budget role, probably nothing special.
They locked eyes. Recognition flickered, but neither mentioned the exorcism.
Days passed. Charlize started visiting. Often. She called it gratitude. Christian called it fate in a cheap suit.
Her audition didn't land, and he told her so later over drinks at The Cider House.
"Congrats," he'd said, "you dodged a role where you'd get torched by a CGI dragon and forgettable dialogue."
Now that honesty was part of the deal, Christian sipped his Kvass while the bartender, Campbell, glared like it offended the bar's aesthetic. It probably did.
Charlize kept auditioning. Kept showing up. Christian teased. She responded.
One night, she stumbled in smelling of vodka and cheap perfume, still in her work clothes.
"You came here in that uniform?" Christian asked, eyebrows raised.
"She won't mind," Charlize mumbled, referring to her friend-slash-manager.
"Just as long as I don't throw up on it."
Christian glanced at his floor—cheap second-hand rugs that felt lived-in. He didn't own a couch. Or chairs.
Hosting was not his thing. They sat on the floor, her slumping closer than sobriety would allow.
"You might want to hit the bathroom before you start redecorating my carpets in vomit chic."
She groaned. "Yeah, yeah. I got this."
"You were a model, right? Use that runway technique and stagger to the sink. Purge like a professional."
"Charming," she muttered, already crawling toward the door.
Christian smirked. Her retching echoed through the apartment like an ancient curse being lifted.
"You ever consider entering Oktoberfest?" he called out.
"You'd crush the beer chugging round."
"Shut up!" came the response, followed by another gag.
He chuckled to himself, lighting a cigarette and enjoying the soundtrack.
Eventually, the noises stopped. Charlize emerged, pale and quiet, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Do you have a spare jacket?" she asked, defeated.
He stared at her, then at the uniform.
"Well," he said, "I hope you didn't like that job."
"She'll kill me," Charlize muttered.
Despite the sarcasm, her voice cracked with genuine concern.
There was something painfully human about her in that moment—messy, embarrassed, vulnerable.
Christian didn't say anything. Just stood, walked over to a coat rack that barely held anything, and tossed her a jacket.
She caught it.
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it. Literally."
Charlize's prediction came true. After too many failed auditions and bills stacking up like bad reviews, she finally caved and took a job slinging plates in a chain restaurant.
It wasn't glamorous, but it paid—barely.
Every now and then, she'd show up at Christian's place with leftovers, calling it "repayment" for the exorcism.
Technically, she owed him. He'd made her sign a promissory note—not because he needed the money, but to draw a hard line between favors and debts.
Still, he didn't press her.
He knew what it was like to be broke and haunted. But at the pace she was going, she'd never pay it off.
Especially not with all the work she skipped chasing roles that never called back.
"You keep this up," Christian said between bites of takeout pasta, "and losing your job's gonna be the least of your problems. One day you'll wake up with some stranger's pipe in your mouth. You remember that line, right? You said it, not me."
He was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, while Charlize lounged across from him, wrapped in a blanket like a hungover ghost.
"That bad, huh?" she smirked, not missing a beat.
"With my luck? You're the most promising candidate for that scenario. Are you confessing something criminal, or just planting the idea?"
"Me?" Christian laughed and looked at her—really looked at her.
Even with soaked hair and circles under her eyes, she was arresting.
The kind of beauty that lingered in the room long after she left. He looked away.
"You're gorgeous when sober. But babysitting a drunk? Not exactly my kink."
"Damn." She shot him a middle finger.
"Keep up that attitude, and you'll be choking on your own celibacy."
Christian took a sip of his Kvass—and immediately choked, coughing hard as the drink went down the wrong pipe.
Charlize raised an eyebrow but didn't flinch. Her blanket took most of the hit.
"It's your blanket anyway," she shrugged.
"You're ruthless," he rasped, flipping her off in return, still coughing.
When he finally caught his breath, the laughter drained out of him.
He sat up straighter and looked at her, his tone turning serious.
"Alright. Jokes aside, listen close. I've got something—an opportunity. I don't repeat myself, so focus. You've been shot down enough times to know the odds. Are you ready for another swing?"
Charlize sat up, the sarcasm fading from her face.
"What kind of opportunity?"
"It's early days. Low-budget horror. Nothing glamorous. Don't get any lead-role dreams. I can maybe get you a shot at one of the supporting characters. That's all."
"A shot is more than I've had in months."
She didn't hesitate. No bravado, no ego—just hunger.
"But listen…" she added, her voice sharpening.
"There aren't any… expectations during the audition, right?"
Christian leaned back, watching her carefully. He knew exactly what she meant.
She'd mentioned the kinds of men she'd met at auditions—the ones who pitched dinner first and scripts later. She always said no. And she always got ghosted.
"Producer's a guy named Anthony Westwood. New face. No dirt I've heard, but I haven't met him. Can't vouch for his soul—or lack of one."
"And the director?"
"Alan B. McElroy. Wrote Halloween 4. I've crossed paths with him. He's a wildcard—brilliant some days, unbearable on others."
Charlize nodded slowly. "Sounds like most men I've worked with."
Christian smiled without warmth.
"Show business, sweetheart. Full of monsters with better PR teams than demons."
----
References-
Oktoberfest contest- the world's largest Volksfest, featuring a beer festival and a traveling carnival.