Chapter 1

"Andy, you can't go on like this. You haven't produced any work for two years, and you know you still owe the publisher a book!"

"Even if you can't write that garbage, you shouldn't refuse the jobs I find for you!"

"Seventeen magazine has asked you to write a blog. They like your style. This is work, I'm your agent, I'm trying to help you!"

Andy Smith watched the bald middle-aged man ramble on for the entire morning, his head buzzing. He pressed his temples, which felt like they were about to explode, and curled up on the sofa, saying painfully, "Alright, alright, Carl, stop nagging. FUCK, my head is about to explode. No, I need to take a painkiller and sleep for a while. I won't see you out."

Carl watched Andy Smith rub his temples and stagger up the stairs. He raised his hand, his lips moving as if to speak again, but then he lowered his hand and sighed softly, "Rest well, and remember to call me when you're feeling better."

Andy Smith lay on the large, messy bed, his eyes tightly closed, his face contorted in pain. He recalled the past 12 hours, which seemed utterly surreal.

"Cough... cough..."

Song Dawei climbed out of the cold swimming pool, vomiting and coughing up water. After a while, he regained his senses, feeling weak and with a splitting headache.

Damn, where am I? Wasn't I killed by my phone while charging it? He held his throbbing head, wiped the water from his face, and slowly stood up. Using the faint light in the villa, he walked into the house and found the bathroom.

Click. As soon as he turned on the light, Song Dawei was stunned. In the bathroom mirror, he saw a strange face: black hair, blue eyes like lake water, soft features, and a sickly pale complexion. He was about 180-190 cm tall but very thin, looking quite out of place. However, he looked exceptionally young and fresh.

He stared at the mirror, his eyes vacant. The nearly forty-year-old Song Dawei turned and walked out of the bathroom, his wet feet leaving marks on the soft carpet. He lay down on the white sofa in the living room, muttering, "Damn, did I possess and travel through time?"

As a seasoned online bookworm, he quickly realized what had happened. A mix of emotions surged through him: excitement, fear, and perhaps even joy.

Suddenly, Song Dawei's head was hit by a sharp pain, as if a red-hot iron was stirring inside his brain, making his brain boil. He screamed, clutching his head and rolling on the floor. After an unknown amount of time, blood flowed from his nose, and he fainted.

In a daze, Song Dawei saw a grayish-white cloud with tiny electric currents merging with a white cloud, the currents breaking down the white cloud.

"What... what just happened?" Song Dawei sat up, confused. When he woke up, his head, which had been in pain, was now clear. He felt something sticky under his nose and found it was blood.

He quickly stood up and walked to the bathroom to look in the mirror. The blood had dripped to his mouth. After a few seconds of thought, he closed his eyes and recalled. He swallowed hard, opened his eyes, and broke out in a sweat. Another wave of dizziness hit him. The name of the body's owner was Andy Smith, 21 years old, a young writer who had become famous at a young age. His mother was a Tiffany jewelry designer, and his father was a lawyer and partner at a New York law firm. The most exciting thing was that the current time was April 2006!

Looking at the messy, dimly lit living room, Andy turned on all the lights. The villa was simply and brightly decorated, with white as the main color. It had European-style furniture and a modern feel. A large family photo hung on the wall behind the sofa. From his memories, he knew his grandfather was Chinese, his mother was mixed-race, and he had one-quarter Chinese blood. His family was very wealthy.

Andy had been very smart since childhood, proficient in piano and guitar, and an avid reader. At 16, he wrote his first novel, "Vampire Academy," which made him famous. He then wrote "Paper Town," which made him a well-known young writer in America.

Andy stripped off his clothes and soaked in the large, white, modern bathtub, watching the steam fog the three mirrored walls. He closed his eyes and continued to recall. Until "Paper Town" was bought by a Hollywood film company, he was tricked by his sleazy agent into moving from New York to Los Angeles and enrolled at the University of Southern California.

Los Angeles, Hollywood.

In this world filled with pleasure-seekers, time plays tricks on you. One day you dream, and the next, your dream becomes reality. It was a good time, but if someone tells you that you've made mistakes, been hurt, and learned harsh lessons, and when you indulge in meaningless women, you start to decay under the warm California sun.

In the year and a half since he came to Hollywood, he lost his inspiration and faced a so-called midlife crisis, unable to write anything. This was terrible because he was a writer, a professional writer. Now, he couldn't even write a damn sentence.

Women, marijuana, alcohol, and drug abuse had wrecked his once-healthy body. He had sunken eyes, a sickly pale complexion, and a thin frame, which looked very strange with his 188 cm height. Finally, under the influence of marijuana and alcohol, he slipped and drowned in the pool outside, which was how Song Dawei ended up in his body.

Wearing pajamas, Song Dawei wandered around the villa, looking at the familiar yet strange decorations and photos, the spacious study filled with books, the luxurious movie theater, and the gym with a marble pool table and various fitness equipment...

"Truly... like a dream." Andy looked at the sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, scratching his messy hair. He spent the night organizing his memories and checking the villa's condition. Despite not sleeping, the memory reconstruction and the effects of marijuana and alcohol didn't make him feel exhausted; instead, he felt unusually excited.

Although Andy didn't understand why, he didn't worry about it, thinking it was just the excitement of possessing and traveling through time.

As mentioned earlier, this guy, Andy Smith, became famous at a young age. He earned about 5 million from book royalties and film adaptation rights. The villa was bought by his parents for over 2 million dollars, and he had a red Ferrari F430 worth 250,000 dollars from his grandfather and a Porsche Carrera GT worth 460,000 euros from his grandfather.

Although millionaires are common in Los Angeles, this amount of money wasn't much. Moreover, in the year and a half he spent in Los Angeles, he lived extravagantly, lost his inspiration, and couldn't write, which caused him great mental distress. He spent recklessly, drinking without restraint, and now he didn't know how much money he had left. The clearest number in his memory was about 2 million dollars. Fortunately, the publisher still paid him annual royalties, and both of his books were included in the American education department's recommended reading list for teenagers, which increased sales. This was a steady income and perhaps the only good news for the previous Andy Smith.

No matter what, I've inherited everything, his identity, his life. I am Andy Smith.

Andy shrugged and stretched at the floor-to-ceiling window. Although his head still hurt, he started to think. So, what should I do now?

Andy squinted, blocking the glaring sunlight, and licked his dry lips. A wave of excitement he had never felt before enveloped him, making him tremble slightly.