Link slumped over his desk, his eyelids feeling like they were made of lead. A sharp pain shot through his chest, like someone was twisting his insides with a pair of pliers. He instinctively reached for his phone but only found an empty pill bottle.
"Huh?"
"What is..."
...
Link's eyes snapped open.
The ceiling was a roadmap of mold, and the air smelled like a sour mix of trash that hadn't been taken out in a week. This definitely wasn't his apartment.
"What's going on?"
As the words left his mouth, a flood of memories hit him like a freight train.
The year was 1990. He was Link, a international student and graduate of the UCLA School of Theater, Film and Television. His scripts had been rejected by thirteen different production companies, leaving him no choice but to ghostwrite for a greasy middle-aged hack named Bob.
For three years, he'd lived on a thousand dollars a month while his scripts went out under someone else's name. Last October, he spent two months grinding out a script called Midnight Stranger. Bob took it with a smile and flipped it to MGM for two hundred grand.
Link got two thousand.
When he tried to stand up for himself, Bob just patted him on the shoulder and laughed. "Link, your name isn't worth a dime in Hollywood. Without me, you couldn't even get past the front gate."
That night, Link wrote one last line in his diary: If I could do it all over again, I'd make sure Hollywood remembers my name.
Then came the whiskey, the sleeping pills, and the darkness.
...
Link leaned against the headboard and let out a long, slow breath. Looking down at his unfamiliar hands, he whispered, "I guess... I actually crossed over."
From a washed-up web novelist in 2025 to a failed screenwriter in 1990 Los Angeles who had just survived a suicide attempt. Talk about a rough start.
Outside, a car horn honked and a nearby radio blared jazz. The noise, the chaos, and that gritty, bottom-rung energy made it clear: this wasn't a dream.
He walked to the window. Across the street at a car wash, a shirtless Mexican kid was spraying down a car, shouting "F-bomb" this and "F-bomb" that as he scrubbed. The sunlight was blinding, yet it couldn't seem to brighten this dingy apartment.
The place was barely 200 square feet: a bed, a desk, and a chair. A faded poster of The Godfather was tacked crookedly to the wall, with Marlon Brando staring back at him in silence.
The fridge hummed loudly, its door slightly ajar. He opened it to find half a carton of near-expired milk and a stick of butter hard enough to crack a tooth.
There was a letter on the desk, weighted down by a coffee mug.
> "You are three months behind on rent, totaling $450. Pay in full within 36 hours or face eviction. — Landlord Smith."
Link set the paper down.
Thirty-six hours. Four hundred and fifty bucks. And a body that had just crawled back from the brink of death.
"This really is hard mode," he muttered.
He tossed the room—no cash, no savings, half a pack of cigarettes, and even the whiskey he'd used to wash down the pills was gone. His typewriter was missing a few keys, and the ribbon was as dry as old leather.
The only thing he really owned was a few boxes of old manuscripts. He pulled one out at random.
Title: Bloody Weekend.
He flipped through a few pages. It was all college girls, masked slashers, gore, and a bunch of random nudity. It was the same kind of trash Bob always made him write.
Link tossed it back and leaned against the desk. His mind filled with memories of the original Link—the rejected interviews, the cold smiles, and that one phrase: "Sorry, your script just isn't a fit for us."
He looked back at the eviction notice.
Thirty-six hours. Work a job? Bus tables? At a minimum wage of $4.25 an hour, he wouldn't make it even if he didn't eat or sleep. Ask Bob for money? That sleazebag still owed him five hundred from last month.
The only real play was writing.
But a nameless guy trying to sell a script in 1990 Hollywood? That was a pipe dream.
He stared out at the sun and a thought struck him.
It was 1990. Titanic didn't exist yet. Neither did The Matrix or The Shawshank Redemption. All those masterpieces were still locked away in the future—and in the back of his mind.
"But what good are memories if I can't remember the details?" Link laughed bitterly.
Just as he was about to light a cigarette, a sharp hum vibrated through the air. A flash of blue light erupted from his fingertips.
Link froze.
A translucent screen unfurled in front of him like something out of a sci-fi flick. The cool glow reflected off his face.
[King of Entertainment System: Bound]
User: Link
Influence Index: 1
Available Opportunities: 1
[Shop] | [Opportunities]
Influence Index points can be exchanged for Shop features.
New User Bonus: One free Opportunity Insight.
The "System"—the ultimate transmigration trope—had finally arrived. Link held his breath, his palms sweating.
Show me the opportunity, he thought.
The blue light flickered.
[Opportunity Locked]
Script Concept: Pulp Fiction
Potential Rating: S+ (Industry Disruptor)
Current Creator: Quentin Tarantino (5% Complete)
Memory Inspiration: Extractable
"Pulp Fiction? Quentin's breakout hit?"
Link's pupils dilated. He hit [Extract].
Instantly, a flood of information slammed into his brain. Two hitmen arguing about burgers; a glowing gold briefcase; a gold watch hidden in a very uncomfortable place; Uma Thurman dancing. The timeline fractured and reassembled itself like a wild, non-linear poem.
As the mental storm faded, Link slumped against the desk, chest heaving. He had the key scenes and the iconic dialogue, but it wasn't a perfect copy. He had the skeleton, but he'd have to provide the meat—and the soul—himself.
Then, a new warning popped up:
[Warning] If the script is not completed within 24 hours, the Memory Inspiration will be purged.
[Countdown: 23:59:59]
Link looked at the timer and smirked.
"Damn, this is more urgent than the rent. Soul or no soul, let's get this down."
He swept the Bloody Weekend pages off the desk, laid down fresh paper, and grabbed a pen. His fingers trembled—partly from the nerves of a gambler, partly from the thrill of a real creator.
He wrote two words at the top of the page: PULP FICTION.
The ink bled into the paper like an era waking up. He took a deep breath, his rhythm stabilized, and the ideas began to flow. He was in the zone.
Outside, a car horn blared and the sun finally hit the room, illuminating the old Godfather poster.
Just then—BAM! BAM! BAM!
Someone was pounding on the door like they wanted to break it down.
"Link! I know you're in there! If I don't get my money today, your crap is hitting the curb!"
It was Smith, the landlord, and he sounded pissed.
Link stopped writing and looked at the system panel.
"Twenty-three hours left..." he whispered, his eyes turning cold. "That's plenty of time."
He put the pen back to the paper.
The story was just beginning.