Los Angeles, 1989
A soft coastal breeze whispered through the open French windows of the Spanish-style villa nestled in the Hollywood Hills. The morning sun slanted through the white drapes, casting golden rays on the polished hardwood floors. Dust motes danced like fireflies in the light.
Amid a maze of half-unpacked boxes and scattered luggage, a young man stood still, holding a thick, parchment-colored scroll in his hands. A soft smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
It was his graduation certificate from UCLA—Bachelor's in Production and Management. Neatly framed in gold foil, his name shimmered across the page- Andrew Williams.
He exhaled, slowly, almost like he was afraid the stillness would shatter if he breathed too hard.
Three years. It had been three years since the night he'd opened his eyes in this body—this world. Since he had first found himself alone in this sprawling house, wearing someone else's skin, with memories that didn't belong to him.
Memories? No. That was too generous.
He didn't remember his name—his real name. Or where he had come from. Or who had loved him. But inside his mind, locked behind an invisible vault door, was knowledge. Precise, organized, unnervingly complete knowledge.
Of stories.
Of scripts and dialogue, of novels never written, movies never made, studios never founded. Entire timelines of companies, stock markets, tech booms, award-winning films, cultural shifts. Every twist and turn that would define the next fifty years of human imagination—he knew them all. Could see them, feel them. As if they were memories from a life he hadn't lived, but somehow remembered.
That was all he had. But it was enough.
He placed the certificate on the marble mantle above the fireplace, next to a hand-painted mug from a UCLA animation workshop, a dog-eared copy of The Fountainhead, and a tiny, silver-framed photo.
His parents. Smiling in front of the Eiffel Tower. His mother's auburn curls flaring in the wind, her green shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. His father, tall and British, in a camel trench coat, laughing like the world was still kind.
Gone. Both of them. One week before his transmigration, the car crash had taken them. No warning. No goodbyes. Just screeching tires on Mulholland Drive and a cold, final silence.
The legal mess afterward had left him with only two things: this house… and a trust fund with ten million dollars. Everything else—his father's international assets, his mother's artwork, the real investments—locked up in legal trust until he turned twenty-five. Seven years.
But Andrew hadn't panicked. Not even for a second. Because while the world saw an orphaned twenty-year-old with a modest inheritance, he saw a kingdom buried in time.
And the vault was his crown.
During his three years at UCLA, he'd stayed quiet. Not out of fear, but purpose. While others scrambled through internships and parties, Andrew worked. He wrote short films, directed animated projects on shoestring budgets, spent nights in the animation labs layering storyboards over classical music.
In his sophomore year, he did something else.
He gathered stories. From the vault. Not just any stories—myths and legends, fairytales rewritten with fresh flavor, epic fantasies that had once brought audiences to their feet in another world. He penned them in ink, illustrated them by hand, curated them with obsession. Beauty and the Beast. Aladdin. Sinbad. The Lion King. Shrek. Ice Age. Kung Fu Panda. How to Train Your Dragon. Madagascar. He even adapted the roots of Power Rangers and Pokémon into comic-style sketches.
He called the anthology Tales of Time and Flame.
A small children's publisher, Golden Star Publishing, picked it up. At first, they didn't know what they had. But a sharp editor took a chance, gave it a glossy cover, and threw it into the summer market.
It exploded.
It became a hit with children, a cult favorite among teenagers, and a topic of fascination for adults. Bookstores couldn't keep it in stock. Translations were ordered. Fan art surfaced on college bulletin boards. Within six months, Andrew had earned fifteen million dollars in royalties—and counting. He refused to license adaptation rights, toy lines, or studio options. Not yet.
Not until he was the one making the movies.
He stepped barefoot across the cool tile floor, heading into the study. The house was quiet, its walls lined with old furniture his parents had collected. Persian rugs, brass lamps, velvet curtains. The scent of dust and lavender lingered.
He opened the study door.
It was his favorite room. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A fireplace filled with unburnt logs. A wide oak desk that once belonged to his father. Sitting on it now was his old Macintosh computer, whirring faintly.
He walked over, sat down, and brought up a file. The Lost Prince.
A story. A reimagined Aladdin set in a post-apocalyptic desert world with flying cities and laser carpets. He had storyboarded the first ten minutes during finals week. His classmates had laughed. One of them, a boy from New York, had asked if it was a Star Wars knockoff.
That boy worked at a VHS rental store now. Andrew had checked last week.
He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. His joints popped, the ache of too many sleepless nights in his muscles. He hadn't eaten properly in days—granola bars, maybe a soup here and there. His stomach rumbled, loud and insistent.
"Lunch," he murmured.
He stood, walked over to the side table, and picked up his wallet. A thick, old leather fold, soft from use. Inside was a faded photo of his mother—painting in the backyard of their old villa in Cannes. Her face smeared with oil paint, laughing, barefoot in the grass.
He placed the wallet in his back pocket and reached for his car keys.
Before stepping out, he paused at the hallway mirror. The reflection gave him pause.
He still wasn't used to the face. Raven-black curls, icy blue eyes—eyes that looked too knowing, too old for a twenty-year-old. A strong jawline, narrow cheeks. Lean, but tall. He looked like a man shaped from contradictions—British aristocracy clashing with bohemian warmth. A face born for magazine covers or scandalous roles in independent cinema.
He ran his fingers through his hair and frowned. He still didn't know if he liked this face.
Did it matter?
This face was going to change the world.
He opened the front door. The midday light was bright, almost blinding. Los Angeles was alive—neon signs humming, the hills echoing with dreams, streets pulsing with traffic, laughter, tension, ambition.
He climbed into his vintage Mustang—a forest green beauty his father had rebuilt from scrap over three years. He still remembered the grease stains on the garage floor and the old radio his dad insisted on keeping in it.
The engine turned over with a throaty purr.
Jazz trickled out of the speakers—Coltrane. Smooth, effortless.
He rolled down the windows and let the wind run through his curls as he guided the car down the winding drive, merging onto Sunset Boulevard. His fingers tapped the steering wheel to the beat.
He passed strip malls, studio gates, dancers in pink leotards smoking outside rehearsal halls, a street magician swallowing fire. The city moved like it was late for its own premiere.
But Andrew didn't rush.
In his mind, the vault turned. Quietly. Clicking into place, one piece at a time.
Should I call that lawyer today?
Buy that fairytale collection before Disney renews it?
Start the overseas company now or wait until Japan's 90s boom?
Should I approach that animator from CalArts this week? The one who'll create that strange lamp animation?
He was thinking ten years ahead. Maybe twenty.
But his stomach reminded him of now.
He turned onto a quieter road and pulled up in front of **Jeff's**—a hole-in-the-wall diner tucked between a tailor's and an old record store. He'd discovered it by accident during his second year at UCLA. Jeff, the owner, was a retired stuntman from the golden era of Hollywood who cooked the meanest grilled cheese in town and told better stories than most screenwriters.
The Mustang rumbled as he parked. Andrew turned off the ignition and sat for a moment, the silence in the car thick with possibilities.
He didn't know where he came from.
But he knew exactly where he was going.
He stepped out of the car, the breeze tousling his hair, and walked into the diner.
Lunch could wait five more minutes.
Because history was already unfolding inside his mind.
And he—Andrew Williams—was ready to write it.
Not just as a producer Or a writer.
But as something else entirely.
A king.