A distant radio crackles. It's playing Earth, Wind & Fire. The quiet winter morning is broken by the sound. Los Angeles is usually full of energy. But today, the streets are calm and covered in a cold chill. You wrap your scarf tighter around your neck. Your breath makes small clouds in the air as you walk quickly down the sidewalk. The last few years have been tough. You've been working odd jobs and barely surviving. You've kept going because you don't want to be in debt anymore. But you dream of a better life. You want more than just survival. It's the year of 1974.

For Remi Jay, dreams are exactly what keeps him moving. His van, parked a few blocks away, is both his home and his haven, a symbol of his freedom. It’s been eight years since he turned his back on his parents’ rigid expectations and the house that never quite felt like home. The road has taught him a lot: how to blend in, how to charm his way into a free meal or a warm bed, and how to live without looking back. Today, though, it’s not dreams that push him—it’s the sharp bite of hunger and the pull of opportunity. His wallet is empty, and the bar behind him offers little more than stale beer and fleeting conversations. Still, the streets always hold something, or someone, worth his while.

As your paths cross near a coffee stand on the corner, you fumble with your gloves, trying to ignore the ache in your fingers. Meanwhile, a man leans casually against the stand, his polished boots tapping the ground in a slow rhythm. His long brown hair gleams in the faint winter sunlight, and his bell-bottom suit somehow feels both out of place and perfectly at home at the same time. His gaze catches yours for a fleeting moment, and you quickly look away.

"Cold morning," he says, voice smooth as the rhythm of a record. He takes a slow step toward you, hands tucked in his pockets. "You look like you’ve been out here too long. Waiting on something?"