Chapter 4

Sunlight pierced through the blinds, cutting fragmented patterns of light and shadow across the study carpet.

Brian leaned back in his chair, lazily raising his left wrist. The Cartier Ballon Bleu watch reflected a cold, expensive gleam in the sunlight, its hands just crossing the twelve o'clock position. He deliberately rotated his wrist, feeling the heavy metal texture, a satisfied smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

"Now that I'm rich, I can't let myself go hungry." He stood up, stretched, and strode toward the underground garage.

Flipping the garage light switch, "click"—cold white light instantly flooded down.

Brian's footsteps stopped dead, his heartbeat exploding like drums against his eardrums. Even though the memories were already in his head, when these two real steel beasts crouched before his eyes, his soul—shaped by thirty-plus years as a commoner—still took a nuclear-level hit.

His face flushed red, breathing uncontrollably quickening, his fingers reaching into the air even trembling slightly.

On the left sat a silver-gray Porsche Carrera GT. A terrifying 5.7-liter, 10-cylinder, 605-horsepower heart that could accelerate from zero to 200 kilometers in under 10 seconds, with a crazy top speed of 330 kilometers per hour.

On the right was a striking bright red Ferrari F430. A 4,308ml engine, 490 horsepower, 0 to 100 kilometers in just 4 seconds!

Patting his pockets, he finally grabbed the Ferrari keys. Men always have a natural preference for red and raw power.

Opening the door, he dropped into the highly supportive leather seat. The moment he turned the key—ROAR! The wild engine note exploded in the enclosed garage, making his scalp tingle.

The Ferrari shot out of the residential area like a caged beast breaking free. Once on the main road, Brian's right foot dropped hard.

The extreme force of acceleration hit instantly, pinning him firmly against the seat back. The scenery ahead began racing backward, adrenaline surging. Brian couldn't help slapping the steering wheel and shouting: "Yes!"

However, as LA traffic grew denser, he took a deep breath of veteran driver rationality and slowly eased off the gas. With supercars, before you know their temperament, staying alive comes first.

April in Los Angeles—perfect weather. The streets were lined with blooming jacarandas. When the breeze blew, purple petals drifted down like a blue-violet rain. Watching the various crowds rushing past his window, Brian leaned against it, clearly sensing the restless, uneasy quality in this city's bones.

Following the GPS, the Ferrari pulled up smoothly in front of the luxurious SLS Hotel.

A valet quickly jogged over and respectfully opened the door: "Good afternoon, sir."

Brian tossed the keys into his hands and walked into the lobby. He picked an especially quiet corner in the Tres afternoon tea area and sat down, glancing at the menu.

"Medium-rare wagyu, tomato caviar, beetroot macarons with goat cheese and avocado sauce, plus a lobster." Brian closed the menu and handed it directly to the waiter.

"What would you like to drink, sir?"

"Latte." Brian didn't even think. What fancy Blue Mountain coffee—his past life tech-geek stomach couldn't handle that. Why pretend to be something he wasn't? What suits you is what's best.

While waiting for his food, he pulled out his phone, first sending his parents a text to let them know he was okay, then dialed his private lawyer Nelson's number.

"Good afternoon, Brian." Nelson's steady, capable voice came through. Brian's mind automatically conjured the image of that forty-something man with eyes as sharp and clear as a hawk's.

"Nelson, I need money." Brian got straight to the point, no beating around the bush. "I want to use the house I'm living in now, plus the copyrights I hold, as collateral for a loan."

Nelson paused for only half a second before his professionalism kicked in: "Understood. How much do you need?"

"However much I can get, get it all."

"Alright, I'll contact your accountant Kohler this afternoon. We'll need to do an asset evaluation first, and I'll get back to you as soon as possible."

Hanging up, Brian looked at the luxury cars outside and snorted. When there's money to be made, you're the boss; when there's not, you're nothing.

The food arrived quickly.

Brian didn't care about upper-class etiquette—he grabbed his knife and fork and went at it. Like locusts descending, a whirlwind of eating. Wagyu, lobster, caviar—he devoured it all. A nearby waiter holding a tray stared wide-eyed, watching this Ferrari-driving guest eat like he'd just escaped a famine.

"Check, please." Brian grabbed a napkin and roughly wiped his mouth.

Looking at the bill, his eye twitched, and he muttered under his breath: "Damn, the tip really is twenty percent of the bill."

After paying, Brian walked out of the hotel. Taking the keys from the valet, he casually pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and stuffed it in the guy's hand, then roared off amid his profuse thanks.

Around three in the afternoon, the sun was warm.

Brian drove one-handed, stopping at a red light. He unconsciously glanced at the rearview mirror—the handsome, blonde, blue-eyed young man in it was both familiar and strange.

Suddenly, an indescribable pang gripped his heart.

His parents on the other side of the world in China—were they okay? Had they collapsed from his disappearance? His girlfriend, the one he'd been planning to marry—was she still waiting?

He could never go back.

His throat felt stuffed with cotton, breathing becoming incredibly difficult. His vision blurred, warm liquid uncontrollably spilling from his eyes, streaming down his cheeks. Memories from his past life sliced through his nerves like razor blades.

Just as he was drowning in suffocating despair—

"BEEP—! BEEP BEEP!"

The harsh car horn behind him exploded like thunder. Brian jolted awake to find the light had long turned green, the car behind impatiently honking.

He clenched his jaw hard, roughly wiped the tears from his face, and stomped the gas pedal. The bright red Ferrari's chassis roared as it shot forward like an angry arrow, tearing through LA's streets.

Back at the villa.

Opening the door, the cleaning company had left the living room spotless—the gleaming floor reflected the cold furniture, empty enough to make one panic.

Brian felt drained of all energy, listlessly walking to the large sofa and collapsing heavily onto it.

Face buried in the soft leather, scenes of his past life's loved ones played uncontrollably through his mind. His defenses completely crumbled, tears flooding out again. Suppressed sobs echoed through the empty villa.

He lay there, crying, until exhausted, falling into a deep sleep.

......

When he opened his eyes again, deep night filled the windows, the wall clock showing 7:30 PM.

Brian slowly pushed himself up from the sofa, his head feeling heavy as lead. He stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the faucet.

He scooped up the ice-cold tap water and violently splashed it on his face, handful after handful.

The cold, stinging sensation drilled through his pores into his brain, instantly clearing all the fog. Brian raised his head, letting water droplets run down his nose and chin.

He gripped the marble sink with both hands, staring hard at himself in the mirror.

Those eyes, which had been somewhat confused and vulnerable, were now becoming sharp and cold, bit by bit, like a starving lone wolf.

"Brian is dead," he looked at the mirror, word by word, grinding his teeth and growling, "and Brian is dead too!"

He suddenly straightened up, chest heaving violently.

"I'm living for two people now! Since fate gave me a second chance, I'm damn well going to live brilliantly!"

He clenched his right fist hard, knuckles turning white. In the mirror, the young man's eyes blazed with ambition.

"This life, I won't be a nobody, I won't live unhappily again!"