Chapter One: Hollywood, 1987
The scent of garlic, sizzling butter, and marinara clung to the air like a second skin, mixing with the clang of plates and the murmur of conversation. Somewhere behind the kitchen door, a cook cursed in rapid Italian.
"Eric! The steak for table nine!"
The bark snapped Eric out of his daze. He blinked, straightened up from his slouch at the counter, and grabbed the warm plates without a word.
The couple by the window didn't even glance up as he placed their food. Smiling faintly, Eric retreated, his thoughts already drifting again.
It was July 13, 1987—his third day in this new world. North Hollywood. An Italian restaurant. A borrowed life.
He leaned against the counter once more, letting his eyes wander to the glass window. In the faint reflection, a stranger stared back at him—tall, around six feet, with an angular jawline, a high-bridged nose, and tousled blond curls. That was him now. Eric Williams.
Just three days ago, he was a 35-year-old filmmaker in Mumbai, 2025. An indie darling, some called him. His films won awards, sparked debate, and got snubbed at mainstream festivals. He lived for the art, but died a little every time a producer asked him to "add a dance number" or "dumb it down for the audience."
Then, one night—wine, friends, laughter—and suddenly...
He woke up here.
A different body. A different life. A different world.
"You okay, kid?"
A hand clapped gently on his shoulder. Jeff Jones, the balding, kind-eyed restaurant manager, stood beside him with a dish towel slung over one shoulder.
Jeff wasn't just the manager. He was an old friend of Ralph Williams, Eric's new father in this life. Jeff had once dabbled in production before retiring early. Now, with too much time on his hands and not enough patience for golf, he helped out at the small Italian place Ralph co-owned. Not for the money—just to stay busy.
"Yeah," Eric said quickly. "Just spaced out."
Jeff gave him a knowing smile. "Jet lag still messing with you?"
Eric nodded vaguely. That was the cover story—flew in from New York, needed a reset, helping out at the restaurant until he got his bearings.
"Well, don't let Ralph catch you slacking," Jeff said with a wink. "He might hand you a clipboard and make you schedule shifts."
Eric chuckled. Truth be told, Ralph wasn't the hard-ass he expected. For a man who had built half of CineMax Americana's empire by age 41, he was surprisingly patient. Sharp, yes. Direct, definitely. But there was a warmth there—an effort to connect, even if it came in small gestures. A smile at breakfast. A casual check-in after work. Once, he'd even asked if Eric wanted to catch a Lakers game that weekend.
It wasn't the relationship Eric had with his own father back in Mumbai, but… it didn't feel bad.
Just unfamiliar.
---
That evening, after his shift, Eric slipped into the old Ford sedan parked behind the restaurant. The keys had been waiting for him on the counter the first morning. Ralph's quiet way of saying, "Take your time. You've got space here."
He drove with no destination, letting the LA streets blur past. Palm trees, strip malls, and neon. This version of Hollywood wasn't quite the dream—but it had a heartbeat.
Then he saw it.
A glowing marquee like a beacon in the dusk:
NOW SHOWING: RAMBO III
Starring Sylvester Stallone
He turned into the lot on instinct.
---
The theater was half-full, buzzing with popcorn and whispers. Eric slipped into a seat in the back row, the screen already flickering with grit and gunpowder.
Colonel Trautman stood in a war room. Rambo clenched his jaw. The usual.
But then, something odd happened.
Eric felt it before he understood it.
He knew what line was coming next. He knew the shot, the cut, the background score. Not in fragments—exactly.
His pulse quickened.
He mouthed the next line three seconds before Stallone did.
He closed his eyes.
Titanic.
Jack sketching Rose. The ship splitting in two. The violinists playing till the end. It all played in his head like a full, polished cut.
The Godfather.
Forrest Gump.
Interstellar.
Each film unfolded in perfect clarity—scene for scene, word for word.
He tried one he hadn't seen—Citizen Kane. Nothing. Just static.
It wasn't infinite memory. It was perfect recall.
Of every film he'd ever watched.
Every camera angle. Every line. Every light.
They were all his now.
He could recreate them—frame by frame—years before they were ever made.
When the credits rolled, he didn't move.
Not until the ushers started cleaning.
He stepped out into the cool night air, his breath fogging in the lamplight.
For the first time since arriving here, he wasn't confused or scared.
He was excited.
No. More than that—
He was unstoppable.
Hollywood doesn't know it yet…
But I'm coming.
---
END OF CHAPTER ONE