Matthew sat dazed in the chair as more memories surged into his mind, confirming that the crew was indeed preparing to shoot a romantic action film.
Even more importantly, the previous person in this body had not only been informed and willing but had also signed an official contract.
And the reason? Obviously—for money!
The agent had sweet-talked him, saying this was a shortcut into Hollywood, a backdoor into the film industry.
Matthew couldn't help but roll his eyes. Even someone as unfamiliar with America as he was knew that doing these kinds of films meant kissing any Hollywood dream goodbye. That guy wasn't naïve—just blinded by money.
That person had come to Los Angeles for a few months, had a terrible time, couldn't even get a background extra role, and was both broke and disheartened. Add in that sleazy agent's manipulative sales pitch, and—given his good looks and even better physique—he, like many young people, lost his head and almost took a road of no return.
No, almost—after all, the filming hadn't started yet, had it?
Thinking of this, Matthew let out a breath of relief. If the film had already been shot and widely distributed, how could he show his face again?
For someone like him—without education or skills—acting might be a way out, but this kind of acting was a dead end!
Matthew would rather be knocked out cold again than appear in such a film.
Now certain of his decision, he looked at his nearly naked self, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts. He rummaged around the dressing room using the memories in his head and quickly found his own clothes. Without hesitation, he put them on.
It was an old denim outfit, so washed out it had turned pale, but as he pulled it on, Matthew felt a sense of calm. While dressing, he understood why that agent had targeted the previous guy.
He did have decent potential—tall, fit, handsome in a rugged, sunny way, and a dream of becoming a star...
Knock! Knock! Knock!
A sharp knock at the door broke the moment, and the familiar voice rang out from behind the door. "Matthew! What the hell are you doing?"
The voice carried a hint of anger. "I told you to come out in fifteen minutes, and now…"
Matthew walked over and opened the door. Seeing the bald white man with glasses outside, information popped up in his mind: this was Maurice, the scamming agent.
"@##!"
The bald Maurice cursed loudly—dropping an F-bomb—as soon as he saw Matthew wearing his own clothes. He stepped in and slammed the door behind him, glaring. "What the hell are you doing?"
"I'm not doing it!" Matthew replied flatly.
Maurice's eyes widened as if he didn't understand. "What did you say? Don't talk with that damn Texas hick accent!"
Matthew had just blurted out a weird mix of Chinese and English, and even he found it awkward. He coughed, adjusted his tone, and said, "I... I... said... I'm not doing it."
Clearly, he still needed to adjust to American English.
"You're not doing it?" Maurice thought he was joking. "Cut the crap and change back. The whole crew is waiting for you."
"I said…" Matthew steadied his voice and now spoke more smoothly and seriously, "I'm not doing it. This isn't a joke."
Maurice studied Matthew's face and realized he was serious. His eyes turned cold. "Are you crazy? This isn't some taxi-driving job you can just quit! You signed a contract with the crew. If you break it…"
His tone grew menacing. "You'll have to pay a ton of money!"
"I don't have any money," Matthew replied, having already checked his pockets—he had only a few dozen bucks.
"Then shut the hell up and stop fooling around!" Maurice's voice softened, adopting a coaxing tone. "This contract gets you eight thousand dollars! You've got the looks and the body. You'll be a star, earn big money! In the future, fifty grand, even a hundred grand for a film is totally possible!"
As someone who made a living luring young people into traps, Maurice knew exactly what strings to pull. "With money, you'll never have to drive a cab again. You can do whatever you want. This is your big break! Miss this and there won't be another!"
He pointed to the hallway. "I introduced you to Jessica, remember? Think she's hot?"
Matthew recalled the tall blonde and nodded slightly.
Maurice suddenly shifted into a sleazy tone. "Jessica is a recognized beauty in the business!"
He patted Matthew's shoulder. "Money and women are right in front of you. Don't you want them?"
"I... I…"
After twenty years of struggle, the temptation of money and women hit Matthew hard. He swallowed. "Of course I do!"
Hearing that, Maurice smiled. These broke kids from the countryside—how many could really resist this bait? Sure, some tried to back out at the last minute, but they all gave in eventually.
This one would be no different.
Maurice opened the door and gestured toward the hallway, confident the sight of Jessica would seal the deal. He noticed Matthew's eyes drifting toward her.
Perfect. Back under control.
Maurice even started planning ahead—once the audience got bored with this new guy, maybe it was time to push him into...
But Matthew, despite his surging hormones and overheated brain, wasn't some green kid just out of high school. He'd clawed through life's filth for years. He knew full well what it meant to grab at fame and fortune the wrong way—it could cost him everything.
He forced his gaze away from the blonde and steadied himself.
Maurice didn't notice the change and reached out to pat his shoulder again. "Matthew, follow me and you'll be a star. Big bucks, fast cars…"
But his hand stopped mid-air. Matthew had stepped aside, clearly rejecting the touch.
Maurice's eyes bulged. Before he could speak, Matthew said firmly, "I like money. And I like women."
He smiled slightly.
"But not like this."
"What?" Maurice shouted. "What did you say?"
"I said it plainly." Matthew pointed at himself. "I'm not doing it."
"You…"
Maurice jabbed a finger at him. But Matthew raised his voice and shouted, "I'm not doing it, dammit!"
His voice echoed through the studio. Heads turned. The bespectacled middle-aged director walked in.
"What's going on?" the director asked.
"I'm out," Matthew said before Maurice could speak. "Get someone else."
"What the hell are you playing at?"
The director—also the producer—looked at Maurice, who shook his head as if this wasn't his fault. But his bald head was flushed with anger. The director gestured at Matthew and snapped, "Fix this."
"You know what breaching a contract means?" Maurice's face darkened. "You'll owe a huge penalty! Costumes, props, condoms—everything prepared for you must be repaid tenfold! And don't think you can walk out of—"
Matthew cut him off. "Don't try to scare me. I've got nothing. I'm flat broke."
He pulled out a phone from his pocket and waved it. "All I have to do is press this and call the cops. We're in a busy part of L.A., right? Want to mess with the police?"
"Hmph!" Maurice snorted. Times had changed—this wasn't the '70s or '80s. Things could get ugly fast in this shady industry.
The director-producer said coldly, "You want to quit? Fine. But the penalty is five times your contract fee, plus all production costs spent on you. Our legal team will file a lawsuit for fifty thousand dollars."
In this industry, actors quitting mid-shoot wasn't rare. If he couldn't find a replacement, the director himself would fill in. Matthew might have potential, but he wasn't worth wasting time on.
"I'll have our legal team deal with you," the director said as he turned to leave. Before exiting, he threw a line over his shoulder to Maurice: "Get someone reliable next time."
Once he was gone, Matthew shrugged at Maurice. "Goodbye."
He turned to leave.
"Better prepare that fifty grand!" Maurice barked, stepping in his way. "I'll ruin you. You'll come crawling back to me!"
"Whatever." Matthew brushed past him. "L.A.'s a big city—you think you run it all?"