Henry Foster stared at him in silence. He was always like this—those eyes cold and direct, as if he was never afraid, nor did he care.

This reminded Logan Brooks of winter.

He liked the smell of winter: cold, mixed with the last faint freshness of withered grass and trees. Even though it hardly ever snowed in Atherton, where he lived, he still liked winter.

Logan Brooks had a strange habit since childhood.

In the winter garden, the plane trees would have their half-withered branches and leaves pruned by the gardener, losing the vitality of summer. This was his happiest time of the year. He would squat down and carefully pick out the straightest branches, then hold both ends and snap them in half one by one.

These leftover branches were beautifully straight, lacking flexibility, looking as if they would never yield. In the moment of breaking them, you could feel the stubborn resistance hidden beneath their hardness. But it was useless; in the end, they would still break, making a crisp, final sound. The broken ends revealed a last bit of fresh life, and the complex scent of plant freshness mixed with decaying twigs would spread out—very alluring.

The moment of breaking brought him immense psychological satisfaction.

Right now, that familiar sense of satisfaction was drawing near.

It was as if he had found another favorite withered branch.

“Don’t make things so hostile. I really don’t have that kind of interest in you. But since we’ve agreed to put on a show, we have to at least act the part. If you don’t know what to do…” Logan Brooks’s smile looked innocent.

He reached out and brushed aside the damp hair Henry Foster had pushed to his forehead, his voice low, “Just listen to me, okay, Gege Juexia.”

This was the first time Henry Foster had heard this guy, three years younger than him, actually call him “gege.”

In the past two years, their lives seemed to intersect, but in reality, they were two straight lines on different coordinates, never overlapping. Henry Foster’s emotions were always calm, as if no matter what kind of difficult person he encountered, he could handle it with composure. Because people always act according to basic rules—they are projections of natural laws.

But Logan Brooks was an exception.

He was a flammable, explosive, unpredictable factor.

Henry Foster maintained his habitual silence, his eyes still open and direct as he looked at Logan Brooks. After a few seconds, he reached out and straightened Logan Brooks’s accidentally flipped shirt collar, just like a responsible older brother. That beautiful mouth didn’t utter a single word in the end, just tugged at the corner of his lips, and left.

In the days that followed, they spent all their time in planning meetings and the practice room. The concept for the new album was still a bit vague even after all this time. Until Ethan Carter cracked a joke in the middle of a meeting.

“This is so much work. If it really doesn’t work out, let Samuel Reed play the guzheng, Brian DJ, then Yiyi can howl a bit, Juexia Owen Clark can dance, and little Brooks can do a rap. Done.”

It was just a joke, and everyone burst out laughing. Unexpectedly, the two people at the table actually took it seriously.

“Wait a second.” / “I have an idea.”

Henry Foster and Logan Brooks spoke in unison. The meeting room instantly fell silent, everyone shocked by this unprecedented sense of tacit understanding, and the atmosphere suddenly became awkward.

Just as everyone was waiting for them to continue, the two of them, as if competing, both fell silent.

Ethan Carter knocked on the table with his knuckles. “You two are hilarious. Alright, Fourth, you go first.”

“Why should I?”

Knowing Logan Brooks would definitely be dissatisfied, Ethan Carter went along, “Then you go first.”

“…Fine, I’ll say it.” Logan Brooks cleared his throat, spinning the pen in his hand several times. “Let’s participate in the production of the new album ourselves.”

Rather than a suggestion, his tone and manner of speaking sounded more like announcing a decision.

Ethan Carter rolled up his sleeves. “Hey, you brat…”

“I agree with him.”

Everyone turned their heads in unison, looking in surprise at Henry Foster on the other side.

Caleb Grant leaned back in his chair, whispering to Owen Clark, “Don’t you think this is weird…”

“I do.” Owen Clark nodded seriously, his gaze shifting back and forth between the two. “Why do I suddenly think they’re a good match? What’s wrong with me?”

Caleb Grant rolled his eyes. “You’ve been bewitched.”

Henry Foster didn’t hear his teammates’ discussion and spoke up, “Actually, we put a lot of thought into the concepts for the last two albums, but the results were just so-so. Of course, maybe it’s because we’re not good enough at digesting concepts. So I think,” he looked at the boss, his attitude sincere, “instead of coming up with a new concept for everyone to adapt to and digest, why don’t we…”

His math major’s habitual phrase popped up again, making his teammates laugh. Caleb Grant immediately picked up the thread, “Why don’t we set an X, obviously…”

Everyone laughed, and Logan Brooks glanced sideways at him, noticing his fair neck starting to turn red.

Henry Foster coughed, trying to pull the topic back. “What I mean is, let’s just completely abandon the old model and participate in the creation. Like Mr. Ethan said, everyone has their own strengths. Even though we can’t guarantee the result will be a simple sum, the process of blending will always spark something, right?”

He rarely spoke so much, so he seemed even more earnest.

David Brooks was a bit surprised, but still nodded. “Give us a more concrete idea.”