"I can't accept this price! Five cents per word is too low—this is the rate from forty years ago!"
In a nondescript Manhattan café, Leo expressed his dissatisfaction to James, the editor-in-chief of the New York Herald Tribune.
"That was the rate for famous writers back then. Now, you're just a rookie—you should be grateful."
"A rookie? You climbed your way up from a war correspondent to the editor-in-chief thanks to my articles, and now you're calling me a rookie?" Leo sneered.
"If you were still that young Italian officer favored by Admiral Chester, or if you were stationed in Japan right now, I could offer you fifty cents per word. Even if you were still in the Navy, I could give you thirty cents. And if you had retired honorably, out of our long-standing friendship, I might even offer you twenty-five."
James sighed, shaking his head with a disappointed look.
"Major Leo, this is New York. Everyone has a price, and right now, yours is five cents."
James' words made Leo slump back in his chair.
"We've known each other for years, James."
"Yes, which is why I still can't figure out what gave you the courage to punch General MacArthur in the face."
"Because he's an asshole! Because of his damn intelligence, I lost fifteen brothers in Okinawa!" Leo's eyes turned bloodshot, his face filled with rage.
"Looks like you've killed a lot of people," James remarked, unfazed. "But that doesn't matter to an old WWI veteran like me. I agree, MacArthur is a bastard—but that doesn't mean a major should punch a general."
James shook his head, pulled out a stack of manuscripts from his bag, and slid them across the table to Leo, his tone laced with regret.
"Five cents per word. That's the price for your Hacksaw Ridge manuscript. I have other matters to attend to, and the coffee you bought tastes terrible. So, make your decision."
Leo stared at the cover of the manuscript, the words Hacksaw Ridge glaring back at him. The echoes of war, the memories of his fallen comrades, and the battlefield's relentless gunfire filled his mind. The sadness overwhelmed his anger.
He looked up, his voice tinged with pleading. "James, I'm not doing this for money. The families of my fallen brothers need this."
"A saint? Jesus reincarnated? Then why didn't you think of them before you threw that punch?" James mocked.
Leo buried his face in his hands, struggling to utter a few words.
"James, sometimes... I can't control my emotions."
James' face darkened. He quickly stood up, pulled Leo's hands away from his face, and scrutinized him.
Those once-striking eyes, which had charmed countless battlefield nurses back in Midway, were now lifeless—perhaps even a little unhinged.
"War neurosis. That's what psychologists call it. We veterans prefer the term 'shell shock.' Looks like you really have killed a lot of people. Back in the spring of '43, you should've listened to me and joined Naval Intelligence."
James' expression grew complicated. The young man he had once admired was now ruined.
Taking a sip of coffee, James exhaled deeply and said, "Leo, now I understand why you threw that punch. But it was MacArthur. Your manuscript was already in my trash can. If it weren't for Father Mendes recognizing its religious value, it wouldn't even be worth five cents."
"Can MacArthur really silence me just like that?" Leo asked bitterly.
"He can't. But they can." James pointed out the café window at the towering skyscrapers of Wall Street.
"The war is over. No one can stop the jackals from feasting—not you, not me, not even the President in the White House."
Leo's gaze grew complicated as he muttered, "I should have seen this coming."
With a heavy heart, he signed his name:
Leo Valentino.
James swiftly gathered his things, patted Leo on the shoulder, and said, "The entire East Coast publishing industry has heard the rumors. No one will publish your work. Your career as a writer is over."
As the café's door swung shut, the chime of the bell echoed. Leo glanced at his reflection in the window. With a faint, bitter chuckle, he whispered to himself:
"Three years, and I still haven't gotten used to it."
Yes, Leo was a transmigrator. After yet another exhausting 7+7 work shift, instead of going to sleep, he had chosen to relax with a movie at home. That was the last thing he remembered before everything faded to black.
When he opened his eyes again, he was no longer in his world. He had found himself on Midway Island during World War II—wounded, bleeding out, and being dragged across the battlefield by a peculiar medic who didn't carry a gun.
Leo's injuries were severe. By the time he was transported to a field hospital, his intestines were spilling out, his back was riddled with wounds, one arm was numb, and his foot was twisted in an unnatural direction.
Everyone thought he was done for. Even Leo himself had resigned to the idea that this was his time to die.
Then, the impossible happened.
He realized his body was healing at an unnatural speed, leaving no lasting injuries. His memory became razor-sharp—so sharp that he memorized the entire field hospital manual in just thirty minutes. By the time he was discharged two weeks later, he had somehow grown four centimeters taller.
"Leo?"
A familiar voice snapped him out of his thoughts. He looked up—it was Desmond, his wartime comrade, the man who had saved him on the battlefield.
Desmond bore an uncanny resemblance to a certain Hollywood actor from his past life. Coupled with their location, Leo was beginning to suspect that this world contained characters from his previous reality's movies.
Desmond carried a stack of documents in his arms.
"Got these from a city clerk, just like you asked."
Setting the papers down, he picked up the envelope in front of Leo, counted the money inside, and sighed.
"Looks like the worst-case scenario."
Leo nodded. "Yeah. That punch didn't just get me kicked out of the military—it ended my writing career too."
As the two men stepped out of the café, Leo's gaze immediately landed on the group of young men across the street, clad in black fabric newsboy caps.
They were gangsters—ones who had been shadowing him for a while now.
Sweat glistened on their brows, and their heavy breathing suggested they had rushed to catch up.
"Sorry, man. They must be after me," Desmond said apologetically. "I tried to shake them off, but they still found us."
"It's not your fault. They have eyes everywhere in New York. Even without you, they'd have tracked me down sooner or later."
Leo turned to Desmond and asked, "Do you know the fastest way to make trouble disappear?"
Desmond hesitated, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
Leo's lips curled into a cold smile. "The fastest way... is to make the trouble itself disappear."