The Wolf of Los Angeles

[Chapter 1: Dinosaur Blood]

At dawn, a chilling howl suddenly pierced the air.

Hawke jolted awake, instantly flipping out of bed. He pressed himself against the wall and gently inched towards the window to steal a glance outside.

The parched grassland lay empty, with a hint of mist hovering above the distant large lake.

The howl rang out again, unmistakably the distinctive call of a North American coyote.

This wasn't a prison cell! Confused, Hawke pulled his gaze back and took a swift look around.

A rough, dilapidated log cabin shielded him from the cold wind, with the wooden beams overhead draped in cobwebs.

Feeling a bit cold, Hawke picked up a thick coat lying nearby, realizing it bore an inscription: "For the Cast of The Singing Detective."

He searched the room and spotted a brand-new newspaper and two documents on the wooden table near the fireplace.

Hawke first turned to the newspaper, dated January 5, 2002, from the Provo Herald, published in Provo, Utah.

Someone had circled a job advertisement with a pen.

"Ackerman Films is looking for temporary stunt performers for The Singing Detective; must be male, under 30, approximately six feet tall, physically fit, skilled in climbing and firearm use, with professional experience preferred..."

Hawke set down the newspaper and picked up one of the documents. It was a temporary stunt performer contract for The Singing Detective, signed by Downing Ward.

The other document was a complete medical report and a stunt performer insurance contract provided by The Singing Detective, also signed by Downing Ward.

The stunt performer insurance contract stipulated that a medical exam needed to be conducted before the production insured the relevant performers.

Hawke quickly flipped through the medical report; all indicators were within a healthy range, but one item caught his attention.

The subject belonged to the Hh or Bombay blood group!

A doctor inmate had once mentioned to Hawke rare blood types; if Rh negative blood was considered rare, then Hh blood could be referred to as extremely rare.

Instinctively, Hawke glanced at his hand, calloused palms telling stories of his past. He took a few steps to the wall, removed a mirror hanging there, and wiped off the thick layer of dust from the surface.

The reflection showed a man with messy brown hair, reminiscent of withered weeds, a slightly overweight face that hadn't seen a razor in ages, and an overall appearance like a brown bear having just awakened from hibernation.

"Is this Downing Ward?" Hawke murmured, as snippets of memories regarding his new identity started to surface.

The original owner of this body had been named Downing Ward. He had previously followed his father around hunting near Lake Utah and dabbled in extreme sports, but never made a name for himself. After his father passed away, he returned to Provo, carrying the wounds of a first love, inheriting the house, and doing nothing but moping around.

Under pressure from cheap food, Downing Ward's physique had gradually deteriorated, and with his wallet now almost empty, he spotted the job ad in the newspaper and went to interview in downtown Provo. Thanks to a decent background, he managed to snag the temporary stunt performer job.

The memories left behind by Downing Ward were few and blurry, mainly related to family history.

The experience of returning to 2002 was still within Hawke's realm of acceptance.

Having lived through the 2020s, where cross-dimensional travels plagued the internet, it made sense to him.

What mattered more was that Hawke had regained his freedom.

In his past life, Hawke had engaged in internet public opinion control and spent years practicing firearms and fighting skills across North America, causing chaos a few times, until he ended up on a 200-year room and board plan in California.

At that time, his residence was San Jose Prison, kept in solitary confinement for 23 hours a day.

The days of losing freedom and slowly waiting to die hadn't been easy.

His stomach rumbled loudly, prompting Hawke to open the chipped refrigerator, discovering a loaf of bread and half a jar of jam. After checking the production date, he grabbed a knife, spread jam on the bread, and began to eat while carefully inspecting the log cabin.

In modern society, survival hinged on money.

Hawke located a wallet stuffed with $17 in cash.

Thanks to skills learned in his past life, as he finished his bread, Hawke found a hidden compartment by the bedside wall, pried open a piece of wood with the knife, and pulled out a small metal box. Inside were six driver's licenses wrapped in plastic -- both male and female, young and old -- hailing from various parts of the country.

Beneath the licenses lay a compact M60 snub-nosed revolver.

Hawke picked up the gun, deftly opened the cylinder, revealing only four bullets left inside.

He carefully examined the bullets and the revolver; everything seemed in good condition, so he reloaded it and tucked the gun away.

Situated in the rural mountains, the cabin overlooked the vast Utah Lake, leading Hawke to some unflattering thoughts.

It seems the previous Ward had probably engaged in some under-the-table deals.

As he browsed through the driver's licenses, his gaze suddenly fixed on one, which he pulled out and stowed away.

This driver's license was under the name Hawke Osment, born in 1980, featuring short black hair, originating from the sparsely populated state of Wyoming, and bearing a resemblance to his current body.

The other five licenses varied in gender or were far too old or young to matter.

Hawke meticulously searched the cabin but found nothing new. He then approached the fireplace, started a fire, and saw the five licenses turn to ash.

He mixed the ashes into the wood's debris, tossed the remnants into the trash can, and stepped outside. He crossed the withered grass to the higher ground by Utah Lake, releasing the ashes into the water.

The weather felt cold, and the dark clouds hinted at possible snow.

Returning to the cabin, Hawke sat at the wooden table, contemplating what to do next.

Experiences from his past life made him itch to stir up some trouble, but years of wisdom taught him that a single person's influence was limited.

How could he gain tremendous influence?

It didn't take long to realize that power and wealth were the answers.

In America, those two could exchange hands.

He gazed at the old log cabin, and with only $17 in his wallet, his brow furrowed deeply.

If he wanted to develop further, he needed to leave Provo.

The first place that came to mind was Los Angeles, where he had spent time in his previous life, and his gaze fell on the stunt performer contract again.

Suddenly feeling incredibly realistic, he realized that the distance to power and wealth seemed too far. What urgently mattered now was to earn some money.

Money that would take him to Los Angeles, even if it meant avoiding a life on the streets.

Looking down, he saw the title "The Singing Detective" inscribed on the coat, reaffirming that he couldn't give up this stunt performer job just yet.

Lost in thought, a sound of a car engine came from outside. Quickly, he pulled out the revolver from his pocket, moved to the window, and cautiously peered out.

A weathered old two-seater Dodge pickup rolled in from the road, parking in front of the stone path leading to the log cabin.

The driver's side door swung open, revealing a blond-haired, fair-skinned man around Hawke's age, clad in a thick jacket marked "The Singing Detective."

He approached the door, banging on it and shouted, "Lazy bones, wake up! It's the last day of shooting for the crew; don't be late."

Hawke tucked the revolver back into his pocket, keeping the barrel pointing forward, and stealthily moved towards the door, mumbling, "Who's there? Coming early to knock?"

The man replied, "It's me, David! Are you still hungover?" His voice carried a hint of impatience. "If we finish today, we get paid -- a week's salary! No more chitchat, hurry up!"

*****

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