Emily Thompson looked at him skeptically. Seeing his calm expression, she felt even more uneasy. “Don’t be too laid-back about this.”

Brian Foster nodded. “Got it.”

Not long after, the person auditioning before him came out. Brian Foster took a deep breath—he’d just eaten too much candy, and his gums felt a bit soft.

Once inside, he realized there were only two people seated: a man around forty, and a woman in her thirties wearing glasses. They should be Alan Brooks and Mark King. The third chair was empty, and for some reason, Brian Foster felt a sense of relief. He gave a slight bow, walked to the spot in front of the camera, and gave a simple, unnecessary self-introduction.

From the moment he entered, Director Brooks and Editor King had been sizing him up, their gazes not exactly friendly. Brian Foster could tell—after all, Ethan Carter was notorious for being just a pretty face with no real talent, so their reaction was understandable.

Director Brooks kept a cold face and said nothing, making the atmosphere a bit tense.

Brian Foster wasn’t a competitive person, so he rarely felt the tension that comes with rivalry. Alan Brooks stared at him, and he simply stared back, unmoving.

Mark King was the first to speak, her tone neutral: “Have you read the script?”

“Yeah.”

“Try reading Yuning’s monologue on page three. There’s a script over there—you can read from it.”

Brian Foster responded with a hum, thinking they were probably worried he’d do poorly and didn’t want to make things too hard for him. But he didn’t pick up the script. Instead, he lowered his head to clear his throat, looked at the camera, and started directly.

“June. The sweltering air on the asphalt road makes everything in sight shimmer and twist, swaying in my eyes like seaweed. The sound of bicycle wheels spins madly in my ears. Sweat, warm wind, blue sky—they’re like oil paints on a plate, roughly mixed together.”

“Will he be at that café again today? Maybe. Yesterday, he was wearing an old black uniform, but it suited him. Why didn’t I look at his name tag then? If I had, I’d know his name now.”

Brian Foster spoke slowly, his voice quite distinctive—a bit cool, yet soft, the voice of a young man.

“What if he’s not there? What if he’s off today? It’s so hot. The sun is burning my spine, it hurts a little. The road looks like it’s about to melt, all hot and sticky, just like the clothes clinging to my body. Amid the mixed air, there’s a faint scent of coffee—my nose is really sharp.”

“Should I go in and buy a cup of coffee? Maybe just take a look first. Yeah, look through the window to see if he’s there. If he’s not, I’ll just go in for the air conditioning. But if he is?”

“Sweat beads up in my palms for no reason. I hate summer. Summer makes me feel so awkward. The window is so clear, I can see the shape of his smiling lips as he takes someone’s order. He’s there. I should just leave, but as I try to pedal away, my feet won’t cooperate.”

Brian Foster looked at the camera, his expression starting to grow uneasy.

“Hi, one… iced mocha.”

“So I went in after all. It’s all because of summer—the heat and stuffiness hijacked my body and forced me to speak.”

“Now, I kind of hate him too, just like I hate summer.”

“Intense, reckless, pressing down on my heart.”

After finishing the last line, Brian Foster was still caught up in the emotion, a bit dazed, when he suddenly heard a few claps. He turned his head in confusion and saw Adam Bennett leaning against the doorframe.

The other person smiled, walked into the room, and sat down next to Director Brooks. Director Brooks looked at the extremely handsome boy in front of him, his gaze still cold, but not as dismissive as before. After a while, he finally spoke. “When did you memorize the lines?”

“While I was waiting outside,” Brian Foster answered honestly.

Suddenly, a familiar voice popped up in his mind: “Mr. Foster, your memory is really impressive.”

This was the first time 0901 had initiated a conversation. Brian Foster replied, “I was a liberal arts student in high school—memorizing stuff was routine. Besides, I wrote this monologue myself, so I remember it pretty well.”

Editor King was nothing like Alan Brooks. She couldn’t hide the delight on her face—she almost wanted to jump up and hug the clean-faced boy in front of her and shout, “You’re the one!” But as the screenwriter, no matter how perfect he was for the role, it was still up to the director.

“Your voice and appearance both really fit the character of Yuning,” Mark King said, pushing up her glasses. “All the other actors who auditioned for this monologue were missing something, but your performance gave me a vivid image.”

To be honest, right now, Ethan Carter in jeans and a plain white T-shirt, bare-faced, already looked like Yuning stepped out of the script. But acting was still a big issue—this was a movie, not a magazine shoot.

Brian Foster wasn’t good at accepting compliments, so he just tucked his chin slightly. “Thank you. But when it comes to acting, I’m still not as good as the others.”