LA at night looks like a giant piece of polished obsidian, with lights spilling over the hills and canyons like glowing veins. It's not sharp or claustrophobic like New York; it has this soft, dangerous vibe. Especially in Beverly Hills. The lights there are loud—obnoxious, even—as if they're a constant reminder that this city runs on three things: ego, opportunity, and the bodies of the people it swallows whole.
Welcome to Hollywood.
It's the world's biggest dream factory, sure, but it's also a world-class meat grinder.
Every year, a fresh batch of beautiful people rolls into town with the exact same look in their eyes: hungry, ambitious, and just desperate enough to sell their souls for a SAG card. They'll tell you they're here for the "art" or the "cinematic spirit," but that's just the PR version they tell themselves so they can sleep at night. Deep down, everyone knows the only rule that actually matters:
Just make it. Just stay relevant.
Tonight, the Hilton's grand ballroom was blinding. Universal was throwing a wrap party for some box-office monster—nothing too crazy, just your standard "we're richer than you" industry bash. The air was a thick cocktail of expensive champagne, fake laughter, and the kind of tension that usually leads to a bad decision in a dark corner.
Typical industry night.
You've got the producers playing power games, the agents swapping cards, and people quietly slipping away only to reappear thirty minutes later looking just a little too "refreshed." The bass from the party downstairs was loud enough to drown out whatever was happening in the rooms above.
The door clicked shut.
What started as a frantic, messy blur of breath and movement finally slowed down. The heavy carpet had taken a beating from stray heels, and the mattress was finally settling after a very rhythmic workout.
A few minutes later, the only thing left in the air was the cooling heat, the scent of sweat, and the lingering sweetness of spilled booze.
The silence lasted for about ten seconds before the rustle of clothes started.
Ethan Walker reached down to grab his Armani jacket off the floor. He winced—the sleeves were a wrinkled mess. Clearly, things hadn't been "gentle." On the edge of the bed, a Chanel evening gown was looking even worse. The zipper was half-busted and the fabric was twisted like it had barely survived a staged accident.
"Total waste of good silk," he chuckled, though he didn't sound particularly sorry.
The girl sat on the edge of the bed, her back perfectly straight, one strap dangling off her arm. She was busy wiping a stray smudge off her jaw with a tissue, her movements way too practiced for someone her age. In the mirror, her face was still flushed—young, gorgeous, and looking deceptively innocent.
"You're something else, Miss Parker," Ethan said, buttoning his shirt while shamelessly checking her out. He wasn't even trying to hide the "that was incredible" look in his eyes.
She looked up, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips.
"You can just call me Drew. Drew Parker."
Her voice was still a little wrecked from the last hour—raspy, low, and honestly kind of magnetic. She tossed the mirror back on the nightstand and pulled her strap back up like the whole encounter had just been a scheduled coffee break.
With most of her makeup wiped away, she looked even more dangerous. She had that "baby-faced but seen too much" look—a mix of pure innocence and absolute chaos.
Drew Parker. The poster child for "Too Much, Too Soon."
She'd been in commercials before she could walk. She became a household name after some epic blockbuster as a kid, and a string of hits followed that put her on a pedestal before she even hit puberty.
Then came the part everyone knew from the tabloids.
Drinking at eleven. Smoking at twelve. Moving on to the "hard stuff" by thirteen. The headlines, the rehab stints, the "is she dead?" rumors. She only managed a comeback because she had a powerhouse godfather who helped her pivot into a new niche: the "femme fatale who knows exactly what she's doing."
She knew exactly what she was selling. And she was cashing the checks.
"And you can call me Ethan Walker," he said, extending a hand as he stood over her.
Drew used his hand to pull herself up, stepping close enough for him to catch her scent again.
"Honestly? That was the best I've had in a minute, Ethan," she said, her eyes twinkling. "I could definitely get used to you."
Ethan laughed, his hand gravitating toward her waist for one last, un-gentle squeeze. "Back at you."
Neither of them meant it, obviously. In this town, "I love you" is just a greeting and "I'll call you" is a polite way to say goodbye. But Ethan had to admit, the girl was a trip. At twenty years old, she had better rhythm and less shame than women twice her age.
He helped her straighten her dress, already calculating his next move. He wanted more of this. He wanted all of it.
Assuming I can stay alive long enough this time, he thought.
His mind drifted back to a year ago.
"Ugh—"
He woke up with a violent heave.
Ethan Walker bolted upright in bed, his throat tight and his stomach doing backflips. He clutched his chest, gasping for air until the nausea finally subsided into a dull, throbbing ache.
His head felt like it had been used as a punching bag.
"God... how much did I drink?"
He stumbled toward the bathroom, fumbling for the light. Click.
The guy in the mirror was a stranger.
Wavy brown hair, dark eyes, sharp features—the kind of face that belonged on a billboard. He was tall, fit, and looked... healthy. Not at all like the guy who had spent the last few years digging through trash cans and living for the next hit of cheap gin and whatever else he could find.
He stared at the reflection for five straight minutes.
Then he walked back to the bed and collapsed. "Nope. Still dreaming. Definitely still a dream."
Two seconds later, he was back in the bathroom, staring even harder. "What the actual hell?!"
He touched his face. It felt real. The guy in the glass moved when he moved.
Panic flared, followed by a cold, terrifying wave of clarity.
"Wait... am I back?"
The memories hit him like a freight train. His parents dying in that wreck. The spiral. The way he burned through every cent he had. The drugs. The streets. Dying alone in the cold without even a decent suit to be buried in.
But right now?
It was 1995.
This Ethan Walker was twenty-five, living large on a trust fund, and hadn't ruined his life yet.
He sat on the sofa and poured a glass of Bordeaux, his hands shaking just a little. "You were such a pathetic, stupid prick," he muttered to his reflection.
But this time? This time was going to be different.
He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window and looked out at the glowing sprawl of Los Angeles. He could feel the ambition—and the greed—bubbling up in his blood.
Hollywood.
This time, he wasn't going to let it eat him. He was going to own it.