Chapter 1: Hawk

At dawn, a sudden, piercing howl rang out.

Hawk woke abruptly from his sleep, quickly rolled out of bed, and pressed himself against the wall as he carefully moved toward the window. He peeked outside.

The dry, yellow grass was empty, and the distant lake was shrouded in fog.

The howl came again, unmistakably the call of a North American coyote.

This wasn’t the cell he had been imprisoned in! Hawk, confused, pulled his gaze back and quickly scanned the room.

A rough, shabby wooden cabin shielded him from the cold wind. The thick wooden beams holding up the ceiling were covered in spiderwebs.

It was a little chilly. Hawk picked up a thick coat nearby and noticed some English words printed on it: "Singing Detective Production Team."

He looked around some more and found a fresh newspaper and two documents on a wooden table by the fireplace.

Hawk first checked the newspaper, a January 5, 2002 issue of the Provo Herald, published in Provo, Utah.

A job ad was circled in pen.

"Ackman Films' 'Singing Detective' production team is recruiting temporary stuntmen. Requirements: Males under 30, around six feet tall, strong build, skilled in climbing and firearms, professional experience preferred..."

Hawk set down the newspaper and picked up one of the documents. It was a temporary actor contract from the "Singing Detective" production team, signed by someone named Downey Ward.

The other document was a comprehensive medical report and stuntman insurance contract, also signed by Downey Ward.

The insurance contract stated that the production team required a physical exam before insuring the stuntmen.

Hawk skimmed through the medical report, and all the indicators were within healthy ranges. But one detail caught his attention.

The person had a rare Hh blood type!

A doctor Hawk once knew in prison had talked to him about rare blood types. If Rh-negative blood was considered "panda blood," then Hh blood would be "dinosaur blood."

Hawk instinctively glanced at his hands, which were rough and calloused. He walked over to the wall, took down a mirror hanging there, and wiped away the thick layer of dust on the glass.

The reflection showed a man with a head of messy brown hair, like dried, withered grass. His slightly chubby face hadn’t seen a razor in who knows how long, and his slightly overweight body looked like a bear that had just woken from hibernation.

"Is this Downey Ward?" Hawk muttered, as bits of memory about his new identity began to surface.

The original owner of this body, Downey Ward, had grown up hunting illegally with his father near Utah Lake. Later, he got into extreme sports but never made a name for himself. After his father passed away, Downey returned to Provo, heartbroken from his first failed romance, and inherited the family house, living aimlessly to heal his emotional wounds.

In time, with cheap food fueling his weight gain and his wallet running dry, Downey saw the job ad in the paper, applied in Provo, and, thanks to his physical fitness, landed a temporary stuntman gig.

Downey Ward’s memories were few and vague, mostly just related to his background.

Traveling back to 2002 was something Hawk could handle.

After all, in the 2020s, where Hawk came from, time travel stories flooded the internet.

But more importantly, Hawk was free again.

In his previous life, Hawk had worked in online reputation management. After moving to North America, he spent years honing his skills in firearms and combat. He caused several disruptions across the U.S., which eventually earned him a 200-year sentence in a California prison.

His "home" back then had been San Jose Prison, where he was held in solitary confinement for 23 hours a day.

The days of slowly rotting away in a cell, stripped of freedom, had been unbearable.

His stomach growled. Hawk opened the peeling fridge and found a loaf of bread and half a jar of jam. Checking the expiration date, he grabbed a knife and spread some jam on a slice of bread. As he ate, he carefully inspected the cabin.

In the modern world, you can’t survive without money.

Hawk found a wallet with $17 in cash inside.

Thanks to his past skills, Hawk discovered a hidden compartment by the bedside. Using the knife, he pried open the wooden panel and pulled out a metal box. Inside was a plastic bag containing six driver's licenses—some male, some female, some young, some old, from all over the U.S.

Underneath the licenses was a small M60 revolver.

Hawk picked up the gun, expertly opened the cylinder, and found only four bullets left.

He examined the bullets and the revolver; both were in good condition. After reloading the gun, he slipped it into his coat pocket.

The cabin was in a rural area, right by the vast Utah Lake. Hawk couldn't shake the bad feeling that Downey’s father had likely been involved in some shady dealings.

Hawk sorted through the driver's licenses and paused when one caught his eye.

The license belonged to someone named Hawk Osmon, born in 1980, with short black hair and a face somewhat similar to his current one.

The other five licenses were either the wrong gender or too young or too old to be useful.

After thoroughly searching the cabin and finding nothing else, Hawk went to the fireplace and burned the five other licenses to ash.

He mixed the ashes with the fireplace soot, dumped them into a trash bin, and then walked across the dry grass to a hill overlooking Utah Lake, where he scattered the ashes into the water.

The weather was cold and overcast; it might snow soon.

Back in the cabin, Hawk sat at the wooden table, thinking about his next move.

His previous life had given him the drive to make something of himself, but he knew that one person’s influence was limited.

How could he gain real power?

The answer wasn’t hard to figure out: power and wealth.

In America, the two were interchangeable.

Hawk glanced at the rundown cabin and the $17 in his wallet, frowning.

To get anywhere, he needed to leave Provo.

Hawk thought about Los Angeles, where he had spent time in his past life, and then his eyes landed on the stuntman contract.

In America, social mobility was tough for the poor.

Hawk quickly became very practical. Power and wealth were distant goals, but right now, he needed to make some quick cash.

Enough to get him to L.A. without ending up homeless on the streets.

Hawk looked down at the jacket with "Singing Detective" printed on it. For now, he couldn’t afford to give up this stuntman job.

Just as he was thinking, the sound of a car engine came from outside. He pulled out the revolver and quickly moved to the window, peeking outside.

An old Dodge pickup truck pulled up and parked on the stone path leading to the cabin.

The driver’s door opened, and a blonde, fair-skinned man, around Hawk’s age, stepped out. He was also wearing a jacket with "Singing Detective" printed on it.

He walked up to the door and banged on it. "Hey, lazybones, get up! It’s the last day of shooting, don’t be late."

Hawk slipped the revolver back into his pocket, keeping it ready, and cautiously moved toward the door. "Who is it? Who’s knocking so early?" he asked in a muffled voice.

"It’s me, David! Still hungover? You don’t even recognize my voice?" David sounded impatient. "After today, we get paid for the whole week. Stop wasting time, hurry up!"