While Alex and Meg were settling into the apartment in North Hollywood, a group of uninvited guests arrived outside The Poison Tongue.
They wore distinct red colors, their cold eyes scanning the street corners.
They were local Bloods crew members looking for payback.
Carl Massimo stepped out onto the sidewalk, blocking the doorway with a smooth, professional smile.
“You’re late, fellas,” Carl said, leaning against the doorframe.
“The kid you’re looking for left an hour ago.”
A towering guy nearly six-foot-six stepped forward, crowding right into Carl’s space.
“You better know where he lives, old man.”
Carl’s smile didn’t fade, but his eyes turned hard.
He calmly reached out and patted the big man’s shoulder, shoving his hand back gently.
“Take it easy, big guy,” Carl said smoothly, his voice carrying the quiet authority of an Italian bar owner who had run West Hollywood dive spots for twenty years.
“I know his name is Alex Shawn, and that’s about it.
Hundreds of broke kids fly into L.A.
every week chasing dreams.
I don’t keep tabs on their apartments.”
Carl paused, letting his eyes wander toward the street before dropping a casual hint.
“I will tell you this—he left in a black convertible with Meg Ryan.
You find her, you might find your boy.”
The leader frowned, wiping a hand over his jaw.
“The movie star Meg Ryan?”
“The very same,” Carl said smoothly.
“You think anyone else carries enough pull to drag a guy out of my place without trouble?”
By 1991, Meg Ryan was a rising star.
While not yet command-level big like Julia Roberts after Pretty Woman, she was rapidly climbing toward the top tier of Hollywood lead actresses.
The era of 1940s mob dominance over studio headliners was long past.
Modern stars had powerful agencies, security teams, and high-priced attorneys behind them.
A local street crew running corner deals in West Hollywood wasn’t about to barge into a major celebrity’s house without bringing the LAPD down on their heads.
The gang leader stared at Carl for a few seconds, weighing the trouble against the payoff.
Finally, he spat on the curb.
“Tell that British bastard to watch his back.”
“I’ll pass along your greetings,” Carl said with a fake salute.
The moment the crew turned the corner and disappeared down the boulevard, Carl’s warm smile vanished.
He spat into the gutter.
“Useless punks,” Carl muttered under his breath, turning back inside.
“Let the cops deal with them.”
Meanwhile, inside the North Hollywood apartment, the atmosphere remained quiet.
Alex sat on the sofa, holding his water bottle while Meg finished her drink.
For the most part, Meg talked while Alex listened, offering quiet nods or short answers when prompted.
Meg finished her beer, setting the empty can down on the coffee table.
“I’m heading to sleep,” she said, leaning back against the couch frame for a moment.
“Thanks for…
well, for sitting here and listening to me vent.
There are fresh towels in the bathroom.
You can take the couch tonight.
It’s better than whatever dump you were sleeping in.”
Alex didn’t hesitate.
Returning to his cheap motel in the middle of the night—especially with angry gang members looking for him—was an unnecessary risk.
“I appreciate it, Mary.
Thanks.”
Later, after a hot shower, Alex lay on the couch wrapped in a clean blanket.
He looked up at the ceiling, watching the faint reflection of passing streetlights cut through the blinds.
Waking up in a new body, two sets of memories fusing into one, a brutal bar fight, and now crash-landing in a Hollywood actress’s apartment—it felt surreal.
Alex stretched out his arms, looking at his hands in the dark.
The original Alex Shawn had been lean, but after the two lifetimes merged, his physical frame felt solid and remarkably coordinated.
The stunt training Levi Vance had endured for twelve long years was wired directly into his nervous system.
His reflexes were sharp, and his memory was terrifyingly clear.
He closed his eyes and let sleep take over.
His dreams were a chaotic blur—flashes of stunt rigs snapping on movie sets, the cold sensation of falling, and the roar of dive-bar crowds in Manchester and Los Angeles.
When Alex opened his eyes the next morning, bright California sunlight was streaming through the living room curtains.
The quiet sound of sizzle came from the kitchen.
A moment later, Meg walked out carrying a tray.
She had changed into jeans and a simple sweater, looking calm and composed.
“Morning,” she said, setting the plate on the dining table.
“I whipped up some basic breakfast.
Hungry?”
“Yeah.
Thanks, Mary.”
They sat at the small table, eating in relative silence.
Meg took a sip of black coffee, clearly putting her thoughts together.
Finally, she set her mug down and looked across at him.
“Alex, you can stay here for a while.”
Alex paused, his fork halfway to his mouth.
“What?”
“I paid a full year’s lease on this place, and there are still seven or eight months left on it,” she explained smoothly.
“Nobody uses it.”
Alex looked at her, his blue eyes narrowing slightly.
“What’s the catch?”
Meg chuckled, a genuine, easy laugh.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, kid.
It’s not like that.”
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table.
“Last night at the bar, you helped me out of an awkward situation.
You didn’t ask questions, you didn’t call the tabloids, and you drove me across town without acting like a creep.
Consider this my way of saying thanks—or an investment.”
She took another sip of coffee.
“You’re obviously not going back to singing for beer money at The Poison Tongue.
Rather than sleeping on the streets or going back to a ratty motel, you should try making something of yourself out here.
Ever thought about acting?”
Alex stayed quiet, letting her finish.
“You have the look,” Meg continued, eyeing his sharp jawline and intense gaze.
“In this town, that’s eighty percent of the battle.
You just need a foot in the door.”
She reached into her purse, pulled out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills, and placed them on the table between them.
“Three thousand bucks,” she said simply.
“Take it.
Go buy yourself some decent clothes—get a tailored suit first.
In Hollywood, people judge you by how you walk into the room before you even open your mouth.”
She grabbed her handbag and keys, walking toward the front door.
“I’ll ask around my agency to see if there are any open casting calls coming up for newcomers.
Take care of the place.”
With a quick wave, she slipped out the door, leaving Alex alone in the sunny apartment.
Alex looked at the stack of cash sitting on the table.
Back in 2026, he had been an underpaid stunt double thrown aside after an accident.
Now, in 1991, he had a roof over his head, starting capital, and a clean slate in the heart of the entertainment industry.
Alex took a deep breath, picked up the cash, and slid it into his pocket.