Chapter 2

In 2016, Song Dawei, at the age of thirty-three, was a mobile game engineer. His parents were both alive, he was unmarried but in a relationship, his job was decent, and his salary was acceptable. His life was quite ordinary until he was almost killed by an explosion while using his charging four-star phone. His life had been rather uneventful, spending his time reading web novels, fantasizing about Korean girl groups, following Japanese manga, collecting and watching American TV series, and gathering Victoria's Secret angel photos. He was a complete tech otaku filled with various fantasies.

To be honest, apart from programming, writing a novel was like a fairy tale to him. Of course, he had read plenty of web novels, and he could still draw inspiration from various imaginative ideas. The fusion of soul memories made writing in English not too difficult.

"Hollywood!" Andy muttered. In his previous life, he loved watching American blockbusters. Why not adapt a future movie blockbuster into a novel? After all, once the novel's framework was in place, adding content would be simple. Writing a book should be easy, right?

A sudden thought popped into his head, making his breathing quicken and causing a dizzy spell. Song Dawei supported himself on the floor-to-ceiling glass, his face contorted in pain as he shook his head, trying to drive out the chaotic memory fragments in his brain.

Buzz.

Song Dawei struggled to stand up straight, tasting blood in his mouth. He wiped it away, and his nose was bleeding again. He walked into the bathroom, washed away the blood, and looked at himself in the mirror, his face covered in water.

If this was the benefit of reincarnation, would I bleed to death from my nose? Just now, the memory fragments in his brain had gone wild, reassembling into their original form. They were the movies, music, and American TV series stored in the phone that had killed him, along with a dozen novels.

However, the sad part was that only two or three of the dozen novels were usable; the rest were Chinese web novels. Among the movies, some were part of series that had already been produced, leaving no chance for plagiarism. The music, mostly in English, could be problematic if he suddenly started writing songs as a writer, but he would need a reasonable opportunity to present them.

What frustrated Song Dawei the most was that none of the mobile games in the phone's memory appeared. Of course, even if they weren't there, he could still develop them, as he made a living by developing mobile games.

Now, the first priority was to continue Andy Smith's identity. Any sudden changes could raise questions from the people around him and his family. So, he would play the role of a mediocre writer, write a novel to make money, develop mobile games when smartphones were available, start a company, and become a new IT tycoon. Perhaps he could even get close to the beautiful women he had admired through the screen.

He wiped his gaunt, pale face, combed his black hair, and looked at his features in the mirror. "Not bad, a bit like a young Keanu Reeves," Song Dawei said, stroking his face with a self-indulgent smile. His sunken eyes, a deep blue, shone with a profound light.

Standing 188 cm tall but weighing only 110 pounds, how could he survive like this? Song Dawei looked at his frail body, which, against the backdrop of his white skin, resembled a terminally ill patient.

The most important thing now was to take care of his body. As he watched the yellow liquid stream from his satisfied "big thing," Song Dawei knew his body was on the verge of collapse.

Barefoot, he walked into the luxurious walk-in closet, looking at the array of clothes and shoes. Song Dawei couldn't help but sigh, "The life of a rich person is truly blissful." He opened all the drawers, which were neatly filled with watches, glasses, ties, underwear, and socks.

Song Dawei, who had been nearsighted and always wore glasses, found a pair of black-framed glasses with light brown lenses and put them on. He also took out a Cartier watch and put it on his wrist, fondling it lovingly.

He picked up a rectangular black velvet box, opened it, and found a black Montblanc pen. As he took out the pen and opened it, he shook his head with a bitter smile. "What a damn nouveau riche."

He put on white CK underwear, found a gray Adidas hoodie, and the pants were a bit long, dragging on the ground. He stuffed a pair of socks into a pair of white Adidas sneakers.

Holding the shoes in his left hand and playing with the pen in his right, he walked into the living room. The luxurious large sofa almost surrounded the entire living room, and the coffee table in the middle could almost serve as a bed. The carpet on the floor was very intricate, soft, and had a great feel, especially since he had fainted on it for a long time last night.

He threw the shoes on the ground and walked to the kitchen. The entire villa had two floors, four bedrooms, five bathrooms, two fireplaces, a study, a gym, a game room, a movie theater, and a geometrically shaped large swimming pool surrounded by tall palm trees. The lawn and various plants and trees enveloped the villa, which covered an area of about 700 square meters. The kitchen was spacious and open, with a kitchen island, and it felt quite nice.

He opened the double-door refrigerator, which, apart from neatly arranged high-end mineral water and a few cans of milk, was empty.

He took out a 1000ML bottle of Fiji natural mineral water, opened it, and drank several gulps, the coolness refreshing his soul. He wiped his mouth and looked at the various notes stuck on the refrigerator door.

He put down the mineral water, returned to the living room, and took out a Nokia N93 from the pocket of the pants on the floor, weighing it meaningfully in his hand and smirking. Next year, the bitten apple would launch its first generation, and the death knell for Motorola and Nokia would sound.

He called the delivery service and ordered a very hearty breakfast. When Song Dawei mentioned a medium-rare veal steak, the person on the other end of the phone was slightly taken aback but continued to ask for the delivery address.

He drank a large bottle of mineral water, hoping the coolness would alleviate the discomfort from his hangover, and turned on the large-screen LCD TV.

He flipped through several channels, all of which were showing news about Neil Patrick Harris, the actor who had come out after starring in "How I Met Your Mother," and several Republican congressmen who had resigned due to scandals.

Due to the fusion of souls, Andy found that English had become his second native language. He lounged on the sofa, waiting for the delivery.

His phone buzzed. He picked it up from the table and answered without looking, saying weakly, "Hello, who is it, calling so early?"

"Damn it, you finally answered my call! It's Carl, FUCK, where are you now?"

The deafening roar made Song Dawei inexplicably irritable. "I'm at home." He hung up, checked the call log, and saw his agent's name. The image of a middle-aged bald fat man appeared in his memory...

Ding dong.

Song Dawei rushed out of the living room, opened the door, and watched the delivery guy carry all the food through the messy living room and place it on the dining table. He handed the server the prepared dollars, watched the server leave happily with a $20 tip, and then eagerly started eating.

Pizza and steak filled his empty stomach. He drank water and patted his belly, satisfied, and let out a contented burp.

The pounding on the door startled him. He slowly walked to the door, looked through the peephole, and saw a lecherous fat face. Andy felt an inexplicable disgust.

"Damn, Andy's negative emotions really affect me!" He slapped his face, calmed himself down, and took a few deep breaths. "Stay calm. Just keep a straight face, speak less, and show impatience, and it will be fine."

"Open the door, Andy, it's Carl, open the door! I... " The fat Carl, seeing Andy open the door with a cold face, held back his roar.

Song Dawei, no, Andy Smith, turned around expressionlessly and walked back into the house, ignoring his chattering agent, and sank back into the large, soft sofa, flipping through TV channels with a remote control, looking like he had given up on life.

Then came the scene where Andy watched his agent start complaining, rubbing his temples, and using illness as an excuse to retreat to the second-floor bedroom. Once the noisy agent was gone, the villa returned to silence.

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