Soundstage No. 7, a relic used only for storage and untouched by cameras for years, was a cavern of thick, midnight gloom. Moonlight lanced through the shattered panes of high windows beneath a sagging roof, falling in diagonal sheets. It illuminated the broken nose of a sphinx, a Gothic arch leaning at a forty-five-degree angle, and withered Kabuki masks with hollow eyes. Plywood and cardboard pyramids, rotting at the edges, rose like dusty tombs in the dark.
At the center of this dead theater, in a cleared patch of floor where a camera might once have stood, eight men were gathered.
Four wore expensive but rumpled suits of Italian cut—West Coast mob. The other four were in dark silk jackets, their queues tucked beneath felt hats—Triad men from Chinatown.
An overturned prop crate served as a table, holding a bottle of whiskey and an open briefcase stuffed with cash.
Suddenly, the air fifteen feet above the floor simply fractured.
First came a sound like a massive sheet of greased paper being torn in half. Then, a violet cloud swirled into a glowing spiral. The light collapsed into a single, blinding point, and from it—as if spilled from a ruptured sack—a man in rags and a strange, heavy jacket plummeted toward the concrete.
He landed on both feet.
The dust hissed beneath his boots. He didn't land like a man weighing eighty kilos; he landed like a Great Cat.
Eight men froze.
I barely had time to tuck. Pain flared in my knee as I hit the floor.
I wasn’t alone. They were armed. But I didn't need a gun here. I felt the cold weight of the iron tag against my skin. On it was a single word:
Verdict.
It meant more than everything.
I straightened up slowly, rising to my full height. I turned my head—not a millimeter of wasted motion. I looked at the Italians first. Then the Chinese.
They were about to wake up.
The one closest to the bottle exhaled a ghost of a whisper: “Madonna mia…!”
I pulled the tactical gloves from my pocket—the ones Eva had tucked there before I left. As I pulled them on, I took a single step forward.
A Kabuki mask hanging nearby slipped from its nail and struck the floor face-down with a dry thud.
A flashlight beam cut through the dark. “Hey! Who the hell are you?”
Four of them—dress shirts, suspenders, revolvers—began to circle. On the other side, the four Chinese men shifted, revealing knives and short-barreled shotguns. The tension was a piano wire stretched to the breaking point.
“He was watching!”
No one fired—not yet. but their fingers were already marriage-bound to the triggers.
I raised my hands.
Silently.
Not in surrender, but to show they were empty. It’s impolite to stop an enemy from making a mistake. I needed them closer.
The first Italian on the left—revolver aimed at my face.
I slipped the line of fire, seized his wrist, and drove a right elbow into his temple. I felt the bone give. A leg sweep sent him down, and before his body hit the concrete, I had ripped the revolver from his hand.
Flash.
The bullet caught the second Italian in the head just as he began to level his piece.
I spun.
The Chinese man with the shotgun pulled the trigger.
I lunged sideways, caught the barrel, and yanked the weapon toward me. His own momentum carried him forward—I drove my elbow into his throat and simultaneously fired the captured revolver at the third man aiming for my back.
Three shots.
Three bodies hit the floor in near-perfect sync.
The remaining five charged at once.
A Triad member—short sword—thrust for my gut. I twisted, caught his forearm, and wrenched. A sickening crack of the joint, and the sword was in my hand. In a reverse arc, I sliced the tendons behind his knee. He went down, screaming in Cantonese.
The second man with a shotgun was at point-blank range. I dove under the barrel, palm-striking the slide upward—the blast tore into the ceiling. I grabbed him, jerked him into me, and slammed a knee into his solar plexus before bringing the butt of the gun down on his skull.
Neutralized.
I hurled the captured shotgun at an Italian; he flinched, shielding his face. A Chinese man lunged from the side. I went into a low slide, hand sweeping along his leg, then exploded upward—he went flying over my shoulder. In mid-air, I snatched his own knife and buried it in his neck.
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The last Italian fired.
The bullet grazed my shoulder—a streak of liquid fire.
One step. I grabbed his wrist, twisting the muzzle back toward his own temple.
Crack!
He slumped to his knees, then pitched forward into the dust.
Silence.
Only the sound of heavy breathing. Eight bodies lay in various states of ruin: some on their backs, some curled tight, one slumped against a plywood pyramid.
I stood in the center of the carnage.
Shoulder, hip, side—several cuts leaked blood through my jacket. A pistol in my left hand, a short sword in my right.
I let them go. They clattered onto the wooden floorboards with a hollow sound.
“Wick’s lessons weren't for nothing…” I whispered, a crooked grin twitching on my face as the adrenaline began its slow retreat.
Then, softly, almost to myself: “…and Issa would’ve just said, ‘Ready for another round?’”
But why did I feel like I was going to heave?
“God damn it!”
I retched, vomiting right onto one of the bodies.
It hit me then. I had just killed a man. For the first time in my life. And I hadn’t stopped at one.
Around me: only moonlight, dust, the scent of cordite, and old glue. Eight motionless figures in a dead theater of props.
I slowly lowered my hands. The gloves were tacky with blood—mostly theirs, a little of mine.
Time to move. Breathe. In for two, out for four… Slower…
It worked.
I looked up at the stars through the collapsed roof. I’m no "Triple Eight"—I can't read the date in the constellations.
“Where am I? When?”
On the crate sat a copy of the Los Angeles Times. On top of it, the briefcase of cash and the bottle of whiskey.
The date: August 26, 1925.
“Hollywood. I’m late…”
I poured myself a glass.
“You won't be needing this anymore.”
I needed money. But I didn't take it all; I didn't want them thinking someone else had cleaned them out. I shoved a few bundles into my pockets.
How did I end up here? The clip was definitely from 1907. In ’22, the fateful meeting between Charlie and Anna was supposed to happen. Now it’s ’25… Why? I don't understand how this thing works. Issa would have known…
But what was I thinking about the moment I jumped?
This place.
Time to get out. Distant sirens were already slicing through the night—someone had called the cops. My knee was throbbing, my shoulder bleeding through the jacket, but there was no time for a bandage.
Behind me, a door creaked—heavy, rusted, like everything else in this place.
Through the strips of moonlight and hanging dust, a man appeared. Mid-thirties. Small stature. He wore a light, silver-gray summer suit: jacket unbuttoned, white shirt, tie skewed to one side. Two-tone oxfords—brown and white—already coated in dust. In his hand, he clutched a pale panama hat, removed the moment he’d heard the shots. Dark, slightly wavy hair; a clean-shaven face; tired creases at the corners of his eyes.
He froze on the threshold.
The stench of cordite, blood, and old glue hit him. Eight bodies scattered in grotesque poses. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
Slowly, he stepped inside. He drew closer.
"Are you... alright?" he asked softly. A light British accent.
"They were holding me here," I rasped, wiping blood from my chin with the back of a gloved hand.
He gestured toward the bodies. "And these men?"
"They took each other out."
"We should call the police."
"The cops are close. They don't need me. We leave—and we forget."
He looked at me for a long time—not at the corpses, but at me.
"Are you wounded?"
"Just a scratch. I don't like hospitals."
He extended a hand—small, but firm.
"I’m Charlie."
"John."
The handshake was brief and steady.
"To my place then." He cast a final glance at the bodies, then back to me. "You’re not from around here, John. Usually, when people see me, they ask for a role. Or an autograph. You’ve asked for neither."
"I have money," I said, patting my pocket.
"Splendid. Tomorrow I'll be getting a bill for the upholstery cleaning."
I snatched an old tarpaulin from the floor and nodded toward the exit. "Better to vanish now."
He put on his panama hat and straightened his tie. We stepped out into the night through the rear door. Me—a man from the future bringing death; him—a man giving the world laughter. The perfect duo.
A 1924 black Ford Model T—top down—shot through the deserted night boulevards. After the blistering speeds of my world, this felt like meditation. The headlights cut palms, billboards, and streetlamps out of the dark, flickering yellow like old film stock. The wind whipped my face, frayed Charlie’s tie, and tugged at the brim of his hat.
I sat in the passenger seat, perched on the tarpaulin. My jacket was in shreds, blood drying on my sleeve, gloves tacky. The wind carried the scent of gasoline, night blooms, and the distant ocean. The sirens faded behind us. The road ran toward us in a strip of asphalt, a reminder that there is no fate.
Charlie held the wheel with one hand, shaking his head.
"Eight men..."
Only the wind and the engine answered him.
"Are you hungry?" he asked again.
I countered with a question of my own: "What were you really doing back there?"
He smirked. "Scouting a stage for development. Away from those meddlesome agents. Then I heard the gunfire." He shifted gears.
The car banked up a hill.
The headlights swept across the "HOLLYWOODLAND" sign—still bearing the last four letters that wouldn't be removed until 1949. Not yet a monument to itself, just a real estate billboard.
A stray beam of light caught our faces.
"Do you know what I film?" Charlie said, his eyes on the road. "Stories about people who fall down. And then they get up. Because there is no one there to lift them."
I looked ahead at the lights drawing nearer.
"I know why you film. So that people don't lose hope. And don't betray their dreams."
He answered after a short beat. "It seems you understand exactly what I mean."
The car crested the hill. Below us, Los Angeles sprawled out—lights scattered like spilled gold.
Charlie hit the gas, and we surged downward into the heart of the era. A world that seemed infinite and bursting with possibility, before the Great Depression and the Second World War crushed it all. I couldn't have stopped that. Even if I wanted to. Perhaps I could only manage to mend two destinies.
After all, the ability to separate the possible from the impossible—that is where wisdom lies.