Ice-cold tap water splashed against Alex Shawn’s face, tracing the sharp angle of his jaw before dripping down into the stained ceramic sink.
He gripped the edges of the porcelain basin with both hands, breathing heavily as he waited for the biting cold to dull the throbbing ache behind his eyes.
The sickening buzz of a severe hangover still clung to him, but the deeper exhaustion came from the violent merging of two separate lifetimes.
He needed to get out of this place and find somewhere quiet to clear his head.
Alex wiped his dripping face and looked up into the cracked mirror.
The reflection staring back was equal parts familiar and unsettling.
It wasn’t the tired, worn-down face of Levi Vance—the stuntman who had spent years getting battered on movie sets.
This face was youthful, sharp, and almost strikingly handsome.
His nose was straight and defined, his jawline cut with high, angular precision.
Beneath that polished structure lay a distinct, raw edge.
A mop of messy, sun-bleached blonde hair fell unevenly across his forehead.
His lips were naturally set in a cold, almost arrogant line, but with a subtle twitch, they could easily curve into a smirk that revealed a flash of sharp canine teeth.
It was a face that could shift in an instant from refined British charm to dangerous, unpredictable charisma.
Alex stared at his reflection, a wave of absurdity washing over him.
Levi’s eye for camera presence and star quality immediately kicked in.
Holy hell…
this kid actually has the look.
It wasn’t the airbrushed, plastic perfection of a boy-band idol.
It was primal, magnetic, and full of raw star power.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t take this face back to 2026 to flex on the studio executives who had treated him like an expendable extra.
He was stuck here—in Los Angeles, in the spring of 1991—forced to navigate a world he only remembered from thirty years prior.
Pushing open the heavy wooden door, Alex stepped out of the restroom and back into the main room of The Poison Tongue Bar.
The dive was a staple of the West Hollywood underground rock scene, and it smelled the part.
The air was thick with stale draft beer, heavy tobacco smoke, cheap perfume, and decades of sweat trapped in the carpet.
Over by the stage, a couple of dim spotlights cut through the haze, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
Countless unsigned bands had passed through this room, screaming covers of Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple, and the Sex Pistols—or testing out original tracks while praying an A&R representative from a major record label was watching from the shadows.
Ever since Guns N’ Roses had exploded out of the Sunset Strip, every dive bar in West Hollywood was packed with kids chasing the exact same dream.
In the dark booths along the walls, talent scouts occasionally mingled with drunken braggarts, and rumor had it that young actors and directors swung by late at night looking for a bit of grit.
Alex’s place in this ecosystem was pretty low on the totem pole.
If the bar’s usual house band, Hard Bones, hadn’t gone down to a music festival near San Diego for the weekend, Alex wouldn’t have landed a twenty-minute acoustic set on a dead Tuesday night.
His vocal control and stage presence were solid—he had the distinctive rasp and attitude of classic British rock—but it was his look that usually earned him the dollar bills stuffed into his open guitar case, along with phone numbers scribbled on greasy napkins.
Sorting through Alex’s memories, Levi felt a small wave of relief.
Despite living the messy life of a broke nineteen-year-old musician in L.A., the kid hadn’t done anything completely desperate to land a contract.
He had kept his nose relatively clean, holding out for a real break.
The bar was filled with low murmurs, clinking pint glasses, and the dull hum of classic rock piped through blown-out speakers.
In the darker hallways near the emergency exits, quick hand-offs were made—small plastic bags containing white powder changing hands for crumpled cash.
As Alex walked past the booths, snippets of chatter hit his ears like static:
“…did you hear about that British band, Suede?
Signed with Nude Records, supposed to be touring the States soon…”
“…man, did you see the news about Rodney King?
Four LAPD guys beat him half to death on camera.
The whole city’s about to explode…”
“…Cameron’s new Terminator movie comes out this summer.
That liquid metal effect in the trailer looks insane…”
“…Miramax just picked up another indie director out of Sundance…”
Information from thirty years ago hit his brain all at once, mixing with the stink of stale alcohol and the flashing neon signs behind the bar.
Alex’s temples throbbed hard.
He felt like he was standing in the middle of a swarm of hornets, his patience wearing razor-thin.
Before he could make it to the front door, a heavy, sweaty hand slammed down on his shoulder.
“Hey!
Kid!”
A rough voice barked in his ear, carrying the sharp, chemical smell of cheap cigar smoke.
“What the hell are you doing?
Snap out of it!
Your set’s up in five, and my crowd is waiting!”
Alex spun around.
Standing under the red neon glow was Carl Massimo, the owner of The Poison Tongue.
Carl was a stocky Italian-American with a completely bald head that glistened under the bar lights, a sharp hooked nose, and a thin line for a mouth.
He wore a loud silk shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, revealing a thick gold chain nestled in graying chest hair.
Between the lingering alcohol in his blood and the blinding headache, Alex wasn’t in the mood to be handled.
He shoved Carl’s hand off his shoulder with a sharp slap.
“Back off!
I need some damn air!” Alex snapped.
Without waiting for a response, he shoved past a high barstool and headed straight for the exit, leaving Carl standing there with a darkened face and eyes flashing with fury.
“Alex!” Carl’s voice boomed behind him, cutting through the noise of the bar.
“Don’t you walk away from me, you arrogant British bastard!
I’ve got a stage to fill!
Where the hell do you think you’re going?!”
Alex didn’t look back.
He shoved his way through the crowd, desperate to get out into the night air.
Just as he reached the front threshold, he collided hard with a group near the entrance.
“Woah, watch it, man!” a deep voice barked.
Alex stumbled back slightly, shaking his head to clear his vision.
A couple of large guys in leather jackets were helping a visibly intoxicated woman out toward the street.
Alex had been moving too fast and had walked right into them.
Already operating on a razor-thin temper, Alex wiped a stray strand of hair from his eyes, his lips curling into a sharp smirk as he looked up.
“I bumped into you,” Alex said, his tone dripping with cold, British arrogance.
“What of it?”