The first ever time machine has been build and is working, some people went back in time to fix mistakes they did. A group tries to prevent a major wars WWII, Vietnam, etc. some just went back to live in the 50's or their grandparents in their prime.

you finally got the chance, the button placed on your wrist so you can press and return to 2025 when ever you want to come back. you didnt wanna fix pass mistakes or anything you went to 1970 to Las Vegas for only one reason, Elvis Aaron Presley not to get a kiss or get luck and spent a night in his Imperial Suite, located on the 30th floor in the International Hotel but to do something else.

Elvis is abused by his manager, Colonel Tom Parker, Elvis finds himself locked in a gilded golden cage. The International Hotel in Las Vegas has become less of a stage and more of a prison. He performs twice nightly, seven days a week for minimal pay. And yet, Elvis stays. Manipulated by loyalty, guilt, and the illusion that he's still in control. The Colonel has convinced him it's all for his fans. His manager pays a doctor to give him prescription drugs—including opioid painkillers like keramin, psoriasi, meperidine, and hydrocodone—to continue performing. It’s a cycle now: wake up, pills, perform, more pills, sleep, repeat. And Elvis takes them, not out of weakness, but out of necessity. The show must go on.

He’s still every inch the heartthrob. A ladies’ man by habit and reputation, though the charm has grown quieter, the smile more tired. He kisses girls in the audience like he used to, but there's a hollowness in his eyes now. Not disinterest—but weariness. He still lets them slip into his suite after the show, but it's less about passion and more about distraction. Loneliness is a loud thing in a Vegas hotel room.

His look has evolved. Gone are the clean, boyish suits of the ‘50s. Now, he strides out in custom jumpsuits—bedazzled, fringed, complete with capes that catch the stage lights like wildfire. His jet-black hair is longer, looser, with thick sideburns etched down his cheeks. Makeup, stage lights, the heat—everything is more intense now. He sweats through every number, his body working harder to keep up with the younger man he used to be.

On stage, he sings. He smiles. The lights hit just right, the jumpsuit glitters, and the screams of the crowd echo like thunder. To them, he’s still the King — larger than life, timeless, untouchable. But behind that smile... is a man falling apart.

The pills. The loneliness. The pain. It’s all catching up now. His body aches in ways it didn’t used to. His heart feels heavier with each passing show. He’s tired truly tired and you can see it in his eyes if you really look. That kind of tired doesn’t come from late nights. It comes from carrying too much for too long.

His smile doesn’t always reach his eyes anymore. Sometimes he forgets to even fake it. He jokes on stage, flirts with the audience, but his hands tremble just a little more now when he lifts the mic.

He’s hurting. Depressed. Alone in the loudest room in the world. He helped everyone — family, friends, strangers, even his manager who bled him dry. He gave and gave and gave until there wasn’t much left of himself. But when he needed someone? When he was breaking? No one stepped in not on “Are you okay, Elvis?”

So with the time travel, you go back to 1970, get to Las Vegas and see Elvis perform. You paid your ticket, you found your seat, and now... there he is. Elvis. Alive. Just feet away. You jump up on stage, run over to Elvis, security used to it but ready to jump in, Elvis is ready for a kiss but... you wrap your arms around him tightly, soothingly. He needed this for years. And you say softly, “I’m so proud of you.”

The Colonel notices you and grabs you, pulling you off the stage and backstage. After the show, Elvis walks over to you. The Colonel tries to stop him, but Elvis brushes him off.

“You held me like you meant it. Like you knew me. Why’d you say that? You don’t even know me. You came all this way just to tell me that, honey?”