Richard’s last memory was a line of red text on the screen—”The Doomsday Heist: Failed.”
He cursed at those words, then white light exploded before his eyes, and his consciousness felt like it had been unplugged.
When he opened his eyes again, the shape of the water stains on the ceiling looked very familiar.
Blue Hill Apartments.
The cheapest save point in the game.
“Crap…” Richard sat up abruptly, his head hitting the low-hanging chandelier, making him grimace in pain.
The worn-out fabric sofa, the faded map of Los Santos on the wall, the pile of takeout boxes in the corner—everything was exactly the same as in the game, smelling of cheap air freshener and stale sweat.
He looked down at himself: a white T-shirt, dark jeans, and a pair of worn-out canvas shoes on his feet.
In his pocket was an old-fashioned bar phone; the screen lit up, showing the date: April 2, 2013.
Four months before the start of the main GTA 5 storyline.
“I transmigrated!
I actually transmigrated?!” Richard took three deep breaths.
“Okay, calm down.
First, confirm if this is a dream.”
He pinched his thigh hard.
The pain almost brought tears to his eyes.
Then he tried shouting, “Open map.”
No response.
“Attribute panel.”
No response.
“Spawn a GT sports car, the cheat code is—RAPIDGT.”
The phone suddenly vibrated.
A text message with no number:
[Los Santos Survival System activated.
Current functions: Favorability View, Mini-map Markers (Beginner).
Please increase [Street Rep] for more functions.]
A translucent radar map appeared in the corner of the phone screen, identical to the mini-map he had spent three thousand hours looking at in the game.
Several green dots were marked on it—all nearby residents, their names too small to read.
Richard stared at the mini-map for three seconds, then laughed.
“Holy thunder!
A cheat!
A bit stingy, but it’ll keep me alive!”
He rolled off the sofa and rolled his shoulders.
Although it wasn’t his original body, its coordination was good, and it even felt stronger than his real-world self.
The original owner was likely a street thug, but unfortunately, no memories were left behind.
The phone vibrated again.
It wasn’t the system, but a text from an unknown number:
[Hey man, heard you can fix cars?
Come to the alley behind Vinewood tonight.
Finish the job and I’ll give you two hundred.]
Richard raised an eyebrow.
Lamar.
Lamar Davis, the king of trash talk in GTA 5, Franklin’s best “bad influence” friend, and the most unreliable yet loyal black brother in all of Los Santos.
If he appeared in a text, then Franklin shouldn’t be far away.
“Two hundred bucks?” Richard laughed at the text.
“In Los Santos, two hundred bucks won’t even buy a decent burger meal.
But—a mosquito’s leg is still meat.”
He put on his jacket and pushed the door open.
Evening in Rancho looked like it had been set on fire, with orange and purple swirling together.
A few teenagers were playing dirty ball on the street basketball court, a beat-up car stereo was blasting West Coast rap, and the air smelled of a mix of weed and grilled meat.
Relying on his game memory, Richard navigated the twists and turns to the alley behind Vinewood.
Half the streetlights were broken, and a person was crouching by a trash can, watching a video on his phone with a loud, incredibly infectious laugh.
The person looked up when he heard footsteps.
Bald, wearing a baseball cap, headphones around his neck, and an “I never do anything productive” expression on his face.
Who else could it be but Lamar Davis?
“Oh, you’re here?” Lamar stood up, sizing Richard up.
“You’re that…
uh…
what was your name again?”
“Richard.”
“Richard?
Fine, whatever, it’s just two syllables.
Lamar Davis, just call me Lamar.” Lamar patted his shoulder with enough force to hit a punching bag.
“Say, are you from C-country?
it’s pretty rare that you’d know how to fix cars.”
Richard resisted saying, “I know how to fix cars because I’ve stolen three hundred of them in the game,” and just smiled.
“I know a bit.”
“A bit?
Let me tell you, this job isn’t simple.” Lamar lowered his voice.
“There’s a gang’s modified car parked in the alley opposite us.
The owner owes our boss money.
We drive it away, take it to the scrapyard out in the Desert, and two hundred bucks is ours.”
“Just two hundred?” Richard couldn’t help but ask.
Lamar took it for granted.
“It’s our first time working together, a trial period.
There will be plenty of big jobs later.
Besides—” He winked, “you don’t even have to split it with that stick-in-the-mud Franklin.
He’s not willing to do these ‘dirty little jobs.’ That’s why I came to you.”
Richard thought to himself: Franklin isn’t willing to do it because your plans are always like crap, Lamar.
But he said, “Fine, where’s the car?”
Lamar led him deep into the alley.
A silver-grey Willard—one of the dorkiest four-door sedans in the game.
The body was covered in lowrider stickers, the windows were taped up, and three of the four tires were low on air.
“This is it?” Richard almost laughed.
The cheapest car he’d ever stolen in the game was better than this.
“Don’t underestimate it; the engine’s been modified.” Lamar patted the roof.
“You’re in charge of hotwiring; I’ll be the lookout.
Hurry up, there are a lot of cameras around here.”
Richard pulled the door open and leaned down to look at the steering column.
In the game, hotwiring was just a button press.
In reality—he stared at the colorful wires, sweat beads forming on his forehead.
“You don’t know how to hotwire?” Lamar’s voice came from outside, sounding a bit panicked.
“I do.” Richard took a deep breath.
He had watched car theft tutorials on YouTube, though that was research for writing a novel.
Red to red, black to black, and the remaining one…
should be the ignition wire.
He tried touching the two wires together.
“Sizzle—” The dashboard lit up.
“YES!” Before Richard could celebrate, the car radio suddenly blasted a Mexican folk song at maximum volume, loud enough for the whole block to hear.
“Oh!
Shit!!
You mother—” Lamar covered his ears.
Richard scrambled to turn the volume knob but ended up snapping the antenna.
The radio went even crazier, looping “LA VIDA ES UNA LOTERÍA—”
Windows on both sides of the alley lit up one after another, and people looked out, cursing.
“Go!
Go!
Move it!” Lamar pulled open the passenger door and jumped in.
Richard slammed on the gas, and the Willard let out a shrill scream—the exhaust pipe fell off.
It dragged the metal can, sending sparks flying as it charged out of the alley like a tin dog that had its tail stepped on.
In the rearview mirror, a shirtless brute holding a baseball bat chased after them, followed by two tattooed lackeys.
“Faster!
Faster!” Lamar screamed.
Richard jerked the steering wheel, and the car drifted around the corner, the right side mirror knocking off a row of trash can lids.
Relying on his thousands of hours of driving experience in the game, he weaved through the evening rush hour traffic, shaking off all pursuers ten minutes later.
The car stopped next to a gas station, smoke billowing from the hood.
Lamar slumped in his seat, panting for a long time before slowly turning his head to look at Richard.
“You call that ‘knowing a bit’?”
Richard rubbed his nose.
“I really didn’t know much about the hotwiring part.”
“You don’t know hotwiring, but you’re a pro at escaping.” Lamar suddenly laughed, revealing a row of white teeth.
“Fine, you passed.
I officially announce that the Lamar Davis Crime Crew has gained another formidable member.
Although this car probably won’t even sell for two hundred bucks now—”
The exhaust pipe finally fell off completely, hitting the ground with a “clatter.”
The two were silent for three seconds, then both burst into laughter.
“Let’s go,” Lamar hooked his arm around Richard’s shoulder.
“I’ll take you somewhere good.
Franklin’s at the ‘Bulk Beer’ bar tonight.
That kid owes me a favor; you gotta meet him.
In Los Santos, it’s easy to die if you’re solo.
With two people, you die a bit slower.
With three—you can die with a bit of dignity.”
Richard followed him into the night.
On the system mini-map on his phone, a green [Favorability: 35] quietly appeared next to Lamar’s name.
He smiled and said in his heart: Franklin, here I come