Ethan Sullivan enjoyed the process of flying. In broad daylight, he could justifiably turn off his phone, without worrying about suddenly receiving messages or calls. The moment the screen went dark brought him peace and relaxation.

The plane taxied and took off.

The city shrank into the shape of an integrated circuit, then was buried beneath swirling clouds.

In the quiet first-class cabin, some people read, some listened to music. Ethan Sullivan was focused on reviewing a manuscript, a pen held between his fingers, occasionally making notes and edits.

Everyone was minding their own business; no one noticed that, at this very moment, in this enclosed cabin—there was a celebrity sitting among them.

Even the flight attendants walking back and forth didn’t notice a damn thing.

By the window, John Brooks was dozing with his head tilted back. The script covering his face gradually slid off his right cheek onto his shoulder with the jostling of the plane.

John Brooks’s agent sat next to him—buzz cut, black-rimmed glasses, decked out in Nike from head to toe at great expense. He reached over the partition, picked up the script, rolled it into a tube, and tapped John Brooks on the shoulder.

John Brooks jerked awake, lifting his head.

He wasn’t wearing sunglasses or a mask, nor any makeup. His face was clean and bare—tan skin, prominent brow bones, a high, straight nose, and sharp, well-defined features, exuding a strong masculine vibe. But his eyes disrupted the effect: the outer corners were soft rather than sharp, and the under-eye area was full, adding a touch of innocent boyishness to his otherwise masculine face.

Not long ago, he’d wrapped up filming a historical drama. The wig had irritated his temples, leaving them red and raw, like a small wound—someone who didn’t know better might think he’d gotten into a fight.

Jason Wright said, “We’re joining the crew this afternoon, and you can still sleep?”

John Brooks rubbed his eyes. “I’m joining the crew, not going to jail. Why wouldn’t I be able to sleep?”

Jason Wright leaned over the partition and whispered, “Is this the same as before? This time you’re the male lead. If you were going to jail, it’d be for a major crime.”

John Brooks turned to face him, gripping the partition, a look of joy between his brows. “That’s why I’m tired. I was so excited last night I barely slept.”

Just then, a flight attendant passed by and gently reminded, “Sir, please sit properly.”

In the entertainment industry, A-list means superstar, B-list is still glamorous; C-list actors are less valuable but still have some name recognition; D-list call their lack of fame “low-key,” and even those on the E, F, and G-lists can scrape together a few fans; H-list actors are best off buying their own fans to keep up appearances.

Those so obscure that even a chance encounter wouldn’t spark recognition are all lumped together as Z-list.

As a Z-list actor, John Brooks had appeared in four or five TV dramas, always as a minor supporting character—never making it to a familiar face before his scenes ended.

A year and a half into the business, he had no fans trailing after him, no team handling everything, just Jason Wright, a workplace rookie with zero experience and zero connections, acting as both his agent and assistant.

But Jason Wright was diligent and attentive, like a parent accompanying a student through their senior year. Most importantly, he was full of hope for John Brooks, firmly believing that one day John Brooks would become a dazzling star in the entertainment world.

The plane’s wings brushed through wispy clouds. After three hours of flight, this yet-to-be-shining star circled over the southwest and slowly landed in the mountain city of Chongqing.

Passengers disembarked one after another. John Brooks stood up, his 1.88-meter height making him stand out in the crowd.

He unfolded a long trench coat and put it on—only he could pull it off; if Jason Wright wore it, it would probably drag on the ground. Underneath, he wore a simple T-shirt, paired with chinos and canvas shoes.

After getting off the plane, John Brooks strode ahead on his long legs, leaving Jason Wright far behind. He walked straight to the terminal and stopped, standing amidst the bustling crowd.

Jason Wright caught up and said, “I just contacted the production assistant. He said a car is coming to pick us up and will send me the license plate number soon.”

This was the norm for Z-list actors. At the nationally renowned Jiangbei Airport, there were no fans chasing, no passersby asking for photos, no airport fashion shots, not even a production team waiting in advance—they had to wait a while.

John Brooks couldn’t sit still. “Let’s wait outside. The crew’s car should have a sign, easy to spot.”

There were plenty of cars parked outside. The two of them strolled along the white line, one after the other. Based on past experience, it was probably a minivan; with especially poor crews, they’d even ridden in beat-up vans.

John Brooks scanned the row of cars and stopped abruptly when he saw one up ahead.

Jason Wright poked his head out from behind, following John Brooks’s gaze. When he saw it clearly, he pushed up his glasses in disbelief. “…Holy crap.”

A nearly new Porsche Cayenne, freshly washed and detailed, its body gleaming, the windows reflecting like mirrors. In the driver’s seat, the driver wore a shirt and tie, looking proper and professional.

John Brooks had been to many crews, but this was the first time he’d ever received such treatment. He hesitated, “There must be some mistake?”

Jason Wright nodded toward the windshield. In the lower left corner was a sign that read: “The First Night” Crew, A1.

For convenience, every crew car had a number; A1 was the highest class. With black and white print, there shouldn’t be any mistake. John Brooks gained a bit of confidence and said with a secret grin, “Did I get famous during those three hours on the plane?”