The production team held an open casting call for the male lead, looking for fresh faces. Countless newcomers and lesser-known actors flocked to the audition; at the time, everyone joked it felt like taking an art school entrance exam.

Jason Wright had few connections and limited resources, but was decisive and bold, running around to help John Brooks apply for the audition. Whether the application was successful was the first round of selection, based on appearance. John Brooks passed smoothly.

The audition was like a job interview. That day, there were more than a dozen people in the same group, each preparing two scenes to perform. John Brooks didn’t have high hopes, so he just memorized his lines as if on a day trip, then pulled out his comic book to read.

A man passed by and asked why he wasn’t preparing. He looked up and replied, completely nonchalant, “I’m a laid-back person, so I’ll just go with the flow.”

The man asked again, “You’ve at least memorized your lines, right?”

“I have,” John Brooks said proudly. “I memorize lines super fast—just need to read them a few times.”

The man said, “That means you’re talented.”

John Brooks replied, “I never memorized texts in school. When the teacher checked the next day, I’d cram at the last minute. Not really talent, just a special skill.”

He showed off for a while, and when he finally met the director team for the official audition, he realized that the man was actually the chief director, William Carter.

William Carter smiled and reminded him, “Don’t be nervous, we’ve already met.”

John Brooks wasn’t nervous at all. He was sure he wouldn’t get the part, so what was there to be nervous about? After the audition, feeling a bit guilty about Jason Wright’s efforts, he even cut carbs for a week as self-punishment.

He never expected to be chosen.

Even now, looking back, John Brooks still feels a bit puzzled.

Jason Wright was beaming with joy, saying, “Although... but...”

John Brooks understood what was left unsaid—although “The First Night” was a web drama, not as prestigious as a satellite TV series, and certainly not a big movie; the subject matter wasn’t family-friendly, and the lovers didn’t end up together; director William Carter specialized in urban dramas and had never tried other styles.

But as he sighed, the competition was fierce—so many actors fought tooth and nail for the role.

And the reason was probably—the screenwriter was Ethan Sullivan.

Meanwhile, on the street next to the restaurant, a hot pot place that had been open for over ten years was packed. In a private room, Ethan Sullivan sat on a long bench, fishing a slice of beef out of the bubbling red broth.

He dipped it in a bowl of sesame oil, then tasted it. His light-colored shirt and unhurried movements gave him an air of nonchalance amid the fiery atmosphere.

William Carter sat across from him, having taken off his jacket and wearing only a short-sleeved shirt. He was solidly built and sweating as he drank iced tea. “I can’t, it’s too spicy!”

Ethan Sullivan glanced up, his phoenix eyes with slightly upturned corners, lashes lowered, exuding a natural sense of distance. But his nose was narrow, a bit delicate for a man, and the lines of his lips and jaw were gentle, which softened the intensity of his eyes.

He added a big spoonful of dried chili to his bowl, wrapped a piece of beef tripe until it was red, then put it in his mouth, satisfied. “This is exactly how I like it.”

“All yours, all yours,” William Carter said, passing the cooked meat from the pot to Ethan Sullivan. “Back when we were classmates and roommates, I’d take you home for dinner on weekends, and you’d eat half a bottle of chili sauce in one sitting.”

That chili sauce was William Carter’s mother’s secret recipe. Ethan Sullivan would eat half and take the rest back to school. Even after graduation, when they were in touch less often, every Dragon Boat Festival, Mid-Autumn Festival, and New Year’s Eve, he would always send gifts to William Carter’s mother without fail.

Ethan Sullivan said, “Then this meal’s on me.”

“Are you trying to embarrass me?” William Carter said. “With our friendship, if you’re going to treat, make it a big one.”

Ethan Sullivan joked, “Buy you an apartment in Chongqing?”

“No wonder you’re the great screenwriter Sullivan, you go straight for an apartment,” William Carter joked back. “How about you cover the cost of tomorrow night’s kick-off banquet?”

Ethan Sullivan paused with his chopsticks in midair, not dipping them into the pot, and gently set them on the chopstick rest. He wiped his mouth, a hint of complaint in his tone: “What a coincidence.”

William Carter didn’t notice and said, “If you came two days later, you’d have missed it. Tomorrow, not just the actors, but the co-producers will be there too. You’re the main investor and the screenwriter—you have to be present.”

William Carter sounded a bit dissatisfied. “Since graduation, you’ve shown up less and less, always staying in your own circle. But how many times have we actually sat down for a meal together?”

Ethan Sullivan said, “You’re doing well, and I’m doing fine—that’s enough. This industry is full of ups and downs. If you get too close, it turns into cliques; if you keep some distance, it’s better for everyone.”

William Carter laughed, “What’s that supposed to mean? You don’t want to form a clique with me?”

A gentleman doesn’t form factions—Ethan Sullivan preferred to keep to himself. He said, “But if you ever need help, I’ll never turn you down.”

William Carter believed him. In this industry, there are plenty of people who pretend to be close and call each other brothers, but their enthusiasm isn’t always genuine. Truly loyal friends are rare. After graduation, he’d had a smooth ride, filming several urban dramas, earning a good reputation, awards, and money, but also hitting a bottleneck he couldn’t break through.

When he was feeling lost, Ethan Sullivan approached him to collaborate on this project. From negotiations to preparation, he’d never had the chance to ask, but now, curiosity got the better of him: “You’re doing so well in the film industry—why make a web drama?”