April 1991.
Los Angeles, West Hollywood.
The Poison Tongue Bar.
The deafening echo of overdriven guitars and pounding bass still seemed trapped inside the damp drywall.
In the aftermath of the set, the dive bar panted under dim, amber halogen lights, steeped in its own signature rank aroma: cheap draught beer, stale Marlboro smoke, dime-store perfume, and the sharp bite of dried sweat.
Inside the men’s room, it was five times worse.
A suffocating cocktail of bleach, stale urine, vomit, and pine-scented air freshener fought for dominance.
On the thin plywood stall door, a battered poster of Queen watched over the decay.
Alex Shawn was slumped on the cold, sticky tile of the innermost stall, his chest pressed flat against the porcelain rim of a filthy toilet.
Cheap bourbon was churning in his gut.
A violent heave tore through his chest, but nothing came up—just dry gagging, a blinding migraine, and the suffocating dark of an alcohol-induced blackout.
Thump…
thump…
thump!
A sudden, sharp knocking rattled the thin wooden partition right beside his head.
Someone was rapping their knuckles hard against the wall from the adjacent stall.
The sound acted like a rusty chisel, force-prying Alex’s consciousness back into his body.
“Ugh…
Jesus…” He choked out, struggling to lift a head that felt cast in lead.
His vision swam as the flickering fluorescent tube above split into blinding, overlapping streaks.
Wait…
didn’t I fall?
The thought hit him like a lightning strike—a memory that didn’t belong in this room.
Then came the white-hot spike of agony.
It wasn’t just a hangover; it was a violent collision inside his skull, two entirely separate lives tearing into each other and fusing together.
He remembered the snap of a snapped safety rig, the sickening rush of wind, and the violent, bone-crushing impact against the pavement.
He remembered the bitterness, the jealousy, and the raw fury of dying on a low-budget action set in Atlanta.
Levi Vance.
A thirty-two-year-old burned-out Hollywood stunt double who died in 2026.
Then came the counter-wave: the glare of cheap stage lights, fingers calloused from grinding guitar strings, the burn of bottom-shelf whiskey, and the suffocating despair of an unknown musician drowning at the bottom of the L.A.
food chain.
Alex Shawn.
A nineteen-year-old, raw-talented rock kid who moved from Manchester to Los Angeles in early 1991 to chase a pipe dream, only to get stuck singing for pocket change at dive bars like The Poison Tongue.
“Gah—!
Stop it!”
Alex clawed at his skull, his nails digging into his messy blonde hair.
Two sets of memories, two distinct personalities, two lifetimes slammed together like a head-on collision at eighty miles an hour.
Every fragmented image brought a wave of blinding pain.
His brain felt like it was sitting on an anvil, waiting for the hammer to drop.
Who am I?
Levi?
Alex?
Shut up…
just SHUT UP!
He slammed his forehead against the cold stall partition, using physical pain to anchor his fracturing mind.
Sweat drenched his black T-shirt, sticking it to his chest as he gasped for air.
Seconds bled into minutes.
Slowly, the agonizing storm in his head began to recede, leaving behind a cold, sharp, and terrifying clarity.
Alex leaned back against the stall wall, breathing heavily through his nose.
His bloodshot blue eyes gradually focused.
“Holy hell…” he rasped, his voice rough and gravelly.
“I’m…
I’m back.
I’m actually back.”
Before he could fully process the reality of jumping back thirty-four years into the past, the knocking on the stall wall exploded again.
Thump-thump-thump!
Thump-thump-thump!
It was relentless, impatient, and echoing loudly in the cramped space.
The sharp noise slammed directly into Alex’s raw, freshly fused nerves.
The residual rage from Levi’s sudden death combined with Alex’s volatile, street-bred Manchester temper, lighting a short fuse.
“FUCK OFF!” Alex snapped.
He whipped his head around, his glaring blue eyes locked onto the wooden partition.
He didn’t just shout—it was a full-throated, gravelly growl straight from the back of his throat.
“You knock on that wall one more time, and I swear to God I’ll tear your hand off and feed it to you!”
The sudden, brutal threat echoed off the stained tiles, completely cutting through the muffled bass vibrating from the main bar room outside.
The knocking stopped dead.
Complete silence fell over the stalls.
A few seconds passed.
Then, a raspy female voice—heavy from years of cheap Virginia Slims and tequila—came through the wood, dripping with deliberate, mocking provocation.
“Well, aren’t we feisty tonight, handsome?”
She let out a dry, low laugh, her tone turning thick and suggestive.
“Don’t be like that…
Maybe I can help you blow off a little steam?
What do you say…
feel like having a quick snack?”
Alex squinted, his mind still slightly foggy from the alcohol and the psychic whiplash.
“A snack?”
“Yeah, honey.
Down here…”
Alex frowned, his eyes dropping toward the bottom of the partition near the floor.
There, drilled right into the weather-worn wood about six inches off the ground, was a rough, fist-sized hole.
Pressed tightly against the dark circle was a pair of lips smeared in thick, tacky, fire-engine-red lipstick.
“Jesus Christ!”
Alex bolted upright, moving with the lightning reflexes of a veteran stuntman.
He stumbled back, grabbing the metal frame of the door to steady himself as his stomach flipped in sheer revulsion.
He stared at the red lips squirming in the dark wood cutout like some kind of grotesque parasite.
Bang!
Alex slammed his fist against the partition wall with enough force to shake the entire row of stalls.
“Get your disgusting face away from that hole before I kick this door off its hinges and drag you out by your hair!”
The crimson lips froze instantly.
A choked, terrified gasp sounded from the next stall, followed by a frantic scramble of footsteps, the metallic clatter of a handbag spilling onto tile, and the violent slam of the outer restroom door as the woman bolted into the crowded bar.
Silence returned to the foul-smelling room, broken only by Alex’s heavy, ragged breathing.
He took a deep breath, wiped the cold sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, and unlatched the stall door.
Step one was getting out of this biohazard zone.
He walked over to the cracked porcelain sink and splashed freezing water onto his face.
Catching his reflection in the grime-smeared mirror, he paused.
Standing there was a nineteen-year-old kid with sharp cheekbones, piercing blue eyes, messy blonde hair falling over his forehead, and a raw, dangerous edge that hadn’t been there an hour ago.
He looked at the walls around him—plastered with battered flyers and posters of Guns N’ Roses, The Rolling Stones, Metallica, Michael Jackson, and The Cure.
Alex wiped his face dry.