Chapter 2

"Bang—!"

Brian swore that if God gave him another chance, he would never answer a phone call while his Samsung was charging.

Thirty-three years old, never had a girlfriend, a miserable mobile game engineer. Apart from reading web novels, watching anime, and hiding under his blanket at night to enjoy the hundreds of gigabytes of Victoria's Secret Angels and adult films on his hard drive, he was harmless. But just because he answered a phone call, he and his phone were blown to bits.

Now, he was gripping the marble sink in the bathroom with both hands, staring hard at the face in the mirror.

"Drip."

A drop of bright red blood fell from his nose into the white basin.

"Damn... can you bleed to death from a nosebleed?" Brian quickly grabbed a tissue and stuffed it up his nose.

The sharp pain just now nearly killed him on the spot. Countless memory fragments were like dozens of runaway bullet trains, racing through his brain, colliding, and reorganizing!

He had transmigrated.

Now, he was Brian Green. A loser rich kid writer in Hollywood.

Along with the memories came a huge surprise—the contents of that exploded Samsung phone from his previous life had actually followed his soul over!

Movies, music, TV shows, and over a dozen web novels he'd saved to kill time!

"I'm rich..." Brian swallowed, but soon frowned again. The mobile game data from his phone hadn't come over, and quite a few of the movies had already been made in this timeline. After filtering through everything, only two or three novels could be immediately monetized.

"It's enough. First copy the books, then find a future blockbuster to adapt into a novel and make a name for myself!"

Steadying himself, Brian looked at the mirror again.

The blond young man in the mirror had a pair of deep, captivating lake-blue eyes, with features that looked exactly like a young Keanu Reeves! Drop-dead gorgeous.

The only problem was... he was too thin.

At an impressive height of 188 centimeters, he weighed only 110 pounds! His ribs were clearly visible, his entire body on the verge of collapse.

"What kind of hell did he put himself through to end up like this?" Brian sighed. "Starting today, I need to live differently."

He quickly formulated what seemed like a perfect escape route in his mind: first use this loser writer's identity to write out the novels in his head—make money—build connections—develop hit smartphone games—start a company and go public—become an IT tycoon!

Perfect!

Pulling the tissue out of his nostril, Brian turned and walked into the connected walk-in closet.

The moment he opened the door, even with two lifetimes of experience, he couldn't help but gasp.

An entire wall of custom-tailored suits, dozens of pairs of brand-new limited edition leather shoes, drawers neatly filled with ties and cufflinks.

"The world of the rich is so damn wonderful." Brian muttered.

He randomly picked out a soft white shirt and put it on, then rummaged through the accessories drawer. Soon, he placed a pair of light brown-framed glasses on his nose, hiding the sharpness in his eyes that didn't belong to this age; he fastened a Cartier watch on his left wrist and tucked a Montblanc pen into his chest pocket.

Fully equipped, his cultured aura was instantly maxed out.

Brian walked out of the bedroom and began touring his domain.

Two floors, four bedrooms, five bathrooms, roughly estimated at over 700 square meters. A fireplace, a solid wood study, a luxury gym, an entertainment room filled with game consoles, a professional movie screening room, and through the floor-to-ceiling windows, he could see the huge geometric outdoor pool in the backyard.

"Gurgle—"

His stomach let out a pitiful protest.

Brian rubbed his empty stomach and walked into the kitchen, yanking open the double-door refrigerator.

Empty. Except for a few bottles of premium mineral water and half a dozen bottles of skim milk, there wasn't even a slice of bread.

"Rich kid's status, beggar's life."

Brian walked to the spacious living room and dug out a phone from between the sofa cushions.

Slider, dual hinge—Nokia N93.

Seeing this legendary phone, Brian's lips curled into a cold smile. 2006! Next year that bitten apple would launch the revolutionary first-generation iPhone. He didn't have much time left to make money.

He skillfully found the takeout number and dialed.

"Two medium-rare veal steaks, one large seafood pizza, and a vegetable salad. Yes, deliver to Beverly Hills."

After hanging up, he casually turned on the TV.

The news channel was reporting: "Famous actor Neil Patrick Harris officially came out today..." followed by a corruption scandal involving a Republican congressman.

The timeline was mostly consistent. Brian was completely relieved.

"Ring ring ring—"

The Nokia in his hand suddenly erupted with a piercing ringtone.

The screen flashed with the name "Charles."

Brian frowned slightly and pressed the answer button.

Before he could speak, an angry roar came from the other end: "Brian! You damn bastard, where the hell have you been?! Do you know the publisher has issued an ultimatum..."

"I'm home."

Brian coldly spat out three words and directly pressed the hang-up button, tossing the phone to the other end of the sofa.

An image of a middle-aged bald fat man floated into his mind—his current agent, Charles. A greedy and extremely opportunistic bloodsucker. The previous Brian had suffered plenty at this fat man's hands.

Half an hour later, the delivery arrived.

Brian sat cross-legged on the carpet, using both hands. He eagerly stuffed a piece of veal steak with blood streaks into his mouth, barely chewing before swallowing.

"So good..."

After eating two steaks and finishing half the pizza, Brian finally let out a satisfied burp and flopped back onto the sofa, contentedly rubbing his bulging stomach.

"Ding dong—ding dong—ding dong!"

The urgent doorbell rang like a death knell.

Brian leisurely got up from the sofa, walked to the entrance, and peered through the peephole.

Outside the door, a sleazy fat face covered in greasy sweat was pressed against the doorframe, looking around impatiently.

It was Charles.

An extremely strong feeling of disgust and irritation instantly surged up from the bottom of his heart. Brian froze for a moment, then understood—the original owner of this body had such deep negative feelings toward Charles that it was affecting him now.

"Heh, since I've taken over this body, old scores need to be settled differently."

Brian took a deep breath, and all expression vanished from his face instantly. He deliberately put on a stern face, his eyes becoming cold and full of impatience.

"Click."

The door lock opened.

"Thank God! You finally opened the door! Do you know how long I've been baking out there? Listen, if you don't hand over the manuscript for your new book, we're both going to go bankrupt and sleep on the streets!" Charles squeezed through the door without courtesy while wiping the sweat from his bald head with a handkerchief, complaining with spittle flying from his mouth.

Brian stood with his hands in his pockets, expressionlessly watching this clown.

He said nothing, turned around and walked back to the living room, flopping into the luxury leather sofa like nothing had happened, and picked up the remote.

"Click."

The TV switched to the sports channel.

"Brian! Are you even listening to me?!" Charles's eyes widened. This weird cold attitude spooked him a bit, but his anger still overcame his reason. He rushed to the sofa, put his hands on his hips, and shouted down at Brian, "Hand over your manuscript right now! This is your last chance!"

Brian leaned against the sofa back, didn't even lift an eyelid, just pressed the remote with a lifeless expression.

"Are you done?" Brian finally stopped pressing the remote, turned his head, and through the light brown lenses, fixed Charles with an icy gaze like he was looking at a dead man.

"If you're done, while my mood isn't too terrible yet, get the hell out of my house immediately."