Vroom, vroom—
The roar of the engine reverberated through his eardrums as the car slowly passed under the arched entrance of Warner Bros. The view opened up at the crossroads ahead.
Blue skies, white clouds, lush greenery, and a glimpse of a blue lake hidden behind the trees, reflecting California's golden sunlight.
Stepping on the gas, he caught sight of the Disney Studios sign in his peripheral vision, but before he could take a closer look, the accelerating speed left it behind.
His scattered thoughts had just begun to gather when a turn revealed large amusement park rides floating above the treetops. Laughter and screams streaked across the sky before disappearing behind the trees, soon vanishing into the wind like fleeting light.
So...
That must have been Universal Studios, and the audition location was Burbank, the largest film production hub in Los Angeles?
Everything finally felt real.
The year 2000, Los Angeles, Hollywood.
Though smartphones hadn't appeared yet, though streaming was nowhere to be seen, though social media was still just an academic term in communication studies, though AI hadn't sparked a new wave of heated discussions.
But it also meant the film industry hadn't yet entered the superhero era. Classics in both commerce and art were still waiting to erupt.
This was the City of Angels.
Opportunities were everywhere.
Perhaps this time, he could seize them firmly and live life in his own colors.
He floored the accelerator, California's brilliance blurring past his eyes like a halo, until the bustling traffic blocked his path. Only then did Anson realize he'd entered downtown.
This was the intersection of North Highland Avenue and Hollywood Boulevard. A glance to the right revealed the familiar Chinese Theatre standing not far away. Strangely enough, what would later become the Kodak Theatre/Dolby Theatre was still a busy construction site.
"Hey, nice ride!"
Whistles, laughter, and shouts erupted at the red-light intersection.
Anson glanced at the in-car navigation system, which might as well have been hieroglyphics. Despite advancements by 2000, it was still far from perfect—the map resembled a geological survey diagram, a flat image littered with indecipherable symbols.
To him, the in-car navigation was no different from a paper map.
So, he rolled down the window and flashed a smile.
"Excuse me, how do I get to Melrose Avenue?"
Shh-shh-shh.
Eyes from all around gathered, some rising on tiptoes to peek—some at the car, others at the driver—their barely contained excitement bubbling over.
Anson leaned out slightly.
"Hey, I'm not Edward, and you're not Vivian."
A laughter rangs out. Clearly, Anson's quip referencing the classic Pretty Woman scene struck a chord.
Then, a street performer dressed as the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz—who'd been posing for photos with tourists on Hollywood Boulevard—stepped out from the crowd and pointed south along the north-south axis.
"Head straight down North Highland Avenue. About seven blocks later, you'll hit Melrose."
"Thanks. Have a great day."
The car sped off, leaving behind a cacophony of chatter and clamor that clashed with the engine's roar. Gazes lingered, unwilling to let go of the Aston Martin's silhouette.
Once in the city, speed became impossible. Even without worrying about red lights or speeding tickets, the relentless flow of traffic clipped the sports car's wings, forcing it to crawl like a parade float whether it wanted to or not.
Under countless curious stares, the destination finally came into view.
Melrose Avenue, which would later become the epicenter of Los Angeles' fashion scene, was still a bohemian enclave of individuality at this time, teeming with antique shops, vinyl stores, comic book shops, and private cinemas—undoubtedly a haven for artists.
Past Melrose, one more block brought him to his residence: a standalone villa at the intersection of North Highland Avenue and Oakwood Avenue.
This two-story, 20-unit villa boasted a front yard with pine trees and a fountain, along with a small garden overgrown with ivy. Peering over the cream-colored low wall, one could spot lounge chairs and a barbecue grill in the garden.
The decor was quintessentially Spanish—ornate blue and red tiles interweaving in understated opulence. The dark green windows were adorned with mosaic embellishments, while a brass angel statue sink and a vine-covered swing hid quietly amidst the greenery.
Spacious. Bright.
Understated. Luxurious.
Sadly, this wasn't Anson's property—he was just a tenant.
Though not in Beverly Hills or West Hollywood, its location in the heart of LA meant the $2,000 monthly rent was staggering for the year 2000. However, Anson wasn't living here alone.
The first floor had two bedrooms, along with a living room, kitchen, dining area, and storage.
The second floor had three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a recreation room.
Five residents lived here in total.
Among them, Anson had the second-floor master bedroom—the only one with a private bathroom.
A group of young people with different dreams and goals, living together with a fraternity-like vibe, carving out their own space amidst Hollywood's glitz while finding joy in their own way.
Pushing open the front door, the first thing he saw was a figure sprawled starfish-style on the floor, motionless—right hand on head, left leg bent, as if mimicking one of Madonna's iconic music video dance moves. Wide-eyed, the person looked like they'd died with grievances.
To an unsuspecting visitor, this might induce cold sweats—was this the wrong set?
The scene screamed medical emergency—or worse, a corpse—to the point where dialing 911 might feel impossible.
Anson... was no exception.
Gasp!
His heart skipped a beat. Instinctively, he took a step forward, scanning the scene. A beat later, his rational mind reasserted itself as the original owner's memories surfaced. A helpless smile tugged at his lips as he stepped over the "corpse."
"Chris, what happened? Bad audition?"
The corpse on the floor—Chris Evans—didn't move his head or body, maintaining his undead vampire pose. At least his vocal cords hadn't forgotten how to function. His drawn-out sigh brimmed with exaggerated despair.
"Ah... disaster. A total disaster..."
The future star of Captain America wasn't as buff yet, though traces of gym efforts were visible. His youthful face still carried baby fat, and his Star Trek T-shirt made him look like he'd just walked off the set of American Pie.
This was Roommate No. 1.