The Wolf of Los Angeles

Chapter 1: Dinosaur Blood

Dawn broke with a piercing howl.

Hawk woke abruptly from his sleep, instinctively rolling out of bed and pressing himself against the wall. He edged cautiously toward the window and peered outside.

The dry, yellowed grass was empty, and mist shrouded the distant lake.

The howl came again—a distinct cry of a North American coyote.

This isn’t the prison where they held me! Hawk thought, withdrawing his gaze with suspicion. He quickly surveyed his surroundings.

A rough and dilapidated wooden cabin shielded him from the cold wind. Thick cobwebs blanketed the raw timber beams holding up the roof.

The air was chilly. Hawk grabbed a thick coat nearby, noticing the words "Exclusive to the ‘Singing Detective’ Production Crew" printed on it.

Looking around, he spotted a pristine newspaper and two documents on the wooden table in front of the fireplace.

Hawk picked up the newspaper first. It was the January 5, 2002 edition of the Provo Herald, published in Provo, Utah.

A job listing had been circled in pen:

“Ackman Pictures's ‘Singing Detective’ production crew is hiring temporary stunt actors. Requirements: male under 30, approximately six feet tall, physically fit, skilled in climbing and firearms. Professional experience preferred…”

Setting the paper down, Hawk grabbed one of the documents. It was a temporary actor contract for the ‘Singing Detective’ crew, signed by Downing Ward.

The other document was a comprehensive medical report and stunt actor insurance policy issued by the same production crew, also signed by Downing Ward.

One clause in the insurance policy required all actors to undergo medical examinations before coverage.

Flipping through the report, Hawk noted that all health indicators were normal. However, one detail caught his eye:

The subject belongs to the Hh blood group system!

A doctor he knew from his time in prison had once mentioned rare blood types. If Rh-negative was "panda blood," Hh blood was "dinosaur blood."

Hawk instinctively glanced at his hands. His long fingers were calloused and weathered. He stepped to the wall, took down a dusty mirror, and wiped it clean.

The reflection showed a head of messy brown hair like dried weeds. The slightly bloated face, unkempt beard, and somewhat pudgy body resembled a haggard, underfed brown bear emerging from hibernation.

“So, this is Downing Ward?” Hawk muttered, a flood of fragmented memories filling his mind.

This body’s original owner, Downing Ward, had grown up near Utah Lake, poaching wildlife with his father. Later, he dabbled in extreme sports but never made a name for himself. After his father’s death, he returned to Provo, nursing heartbreak from a failed first love.

Living off cheap food, Downing gradually grew out of shape. With his wallet nearly empty, he stumbled upon the job ad in the paper. His decent physical condition earned him a temporary stunt actor role.

The memories Ward left behind were sparse and vague, centering mainly on his background.

Traveling back to 2002 was something Hawk could still process. After all, by the 2020s, stories of time travel had flooded the internet.

But more importantly, Hawk was free.

In his previous life, Hawk had worked in online reputation management before moving to North America, where he honed firearm and combat skills. He caused chaos across the United States, eventually earning a 200-year prison sentence in California.

His home was a solitary cell in San Jose Prison, where he spent 23 hours a day confined.

Life without freedom, waiting to die, was unbearable.

His stomach growled. Hawk opened the peeling fridge, finding a pack of bread and half a jar of jam. He checked the expiration date, grabbed a knife, and spread jam over the bread.

As he ate, he thoroughly inspected the cabin.

In the modern world, survival requires money.

Hawk found a wallet containing $17 in cash. Using skills from his previous life, he discovered a hidden compartment near the bed. Using the knife, he pried open the wooden panel and pulled out a metal box.

Inside, wrapped in plastic, were six driver’s licenses—male and female, young and old, from all over the United States. Beneath the licenses lay a small M60 snub-nose revolver.

Hawk picked up the revolver, expertly opening the cylinder to find only four bullets remaining. He carefully inspected the ammunition and the firearm—both were in good condition. Satisfied, he reloaded the revolver and tucked it into his coat pocket.

This remote wilderness, with the sprawling Utah Lake right in front of the cabin, sparked a grim suspicion in Hawk’s mind.

Old Ward must have dabbled in shady dealings.

Flipping through the driver’s licenses, Hawk’s gaze froze on one. He plucked it from the stack and tucked it away.

The license belonged to someone named Hawk Osman, born in 1980. With short black hair and a face somewhat resembling his current appearance, it seemed usable.

The remaining five licenses were either of different genders, too old, or too young to be of use.

Hawk thoroughly searched the cabin again but found nothing new. Heading to the fireplace, he lit a fire and burned the other five licenses into ashes. He mixed the remnants with the wood ash, placed them in a trash bin, and carried them out.

Crossing the dry grassland, Hawk climbed to a high point by the shore of Utah Lake, scattering the ashes into the water below.

The weather was cold and overcast, hinting at impending snowfall.

Hawk returned to the cabin and sat by the wooden table, pondering his next move.

His past experiences urged him to stir up something significant, but he knew the influence of a single person was inherently limited.

How can one gain massive influence?

The answer was obvious: power and wealth.

In America, the two were often interchangeable.

Hawk glanced at the shabby cabin and his wallet containing only $17. His brow furrowed deeply.

To make progress, he needed to leave Provo.

He thought of Los Angeles, where he had spent time in his past life. His eyes drifted to the stunt actor contract on the table.

In America’s rigid social hierarchy, it was extremely difficult for the poor to climb the ranks.

Hawk became strikingly pragmatic. Power and wealth were distant goals; his immediate priority was earning enough money to reach Los Angeles and avoid homelessness.

He looked down at the jacket bearing the "Singing Detective" logo. The stunt actor gig was something he couldn’t afford to give up—at least for now.

As he mulled over his options, the sound of a car engine reached his ears.

Hawk quickly pulled the revolver from his pocket and moved to the window, peering outside cautiously.

An old two-seater Dodge pickup truck approached from the highway, stopping at the stone path leading to the cabin.

The driver’s door opened, and a blond, fair-skinned man about Hawk’s age stepped out, wearing a thick jacket also emblazoned with "Singing Detective."

He marched to the door, pounding on it loudly and shouting, “Hey, lazybones! Get up! It’s the last day of filming—don’t be late!”

Hawk tucked the revolver back into his pocket, keeping the barrel pointed forward, and crept toward the door, staying close to the wall.

In a deliberately groggy voice, he called out, “Who is it? Who’s banging on my door so early?”

The man outside responded, “It’s me, David! Still hungover? Don’t even recognize my voice?” He sounded impatient. “Today’s the last day of filming, and we’re getting a week’s pay after this. Stop dawdling—hurry up!”

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