“It’s alright, the banquet has just started,” Director Thompson said. “The performers are in the banquet hall, we’ll be in a private room.”

Ethan Sullivan asked, “Who’s here?”

Director Thompson replied, “Both the director’s team and the production team are here. There are five people from the joint producers, including Mr. Zhou, the head of Haoyang Culture. He heard you’d be attending and flew in especially.”

Ethan Sullivan nodded. As the elevator doors opened, he followed Director Thompson toward the private room.

The corridor was nearly empty, and the private room’s door was tightly closed, with two waiters standing outside. Director Thompson stepped aside and said, “Editor Sullivan, we’ve arrived.”

Ethan Sullivan stopped, his hands hanging calmly at his sides, his thumbnail pressing into the pad of his index finger. The moment the waiter pushed open the door, he swallowed.

“Excuse me, I’d like to use the restroom.”

Ethan Sullivan still looked composed, still walked with brisk steps, but he knew he was fleeing at the last minute. He loathed socializing; all social occasions made him uncomfortable, even anxious and nervous.

The restroom was at the end of the corridor, like a hidden refuge.

Ethan Sullivan pushed the door open and went in. The outer dressing area was empty. A ring of wall lamps was embedded in the dark marble walls, their cold light bright as daylight. Geometrically cut mirrors hung above the vanity.

He walked to the sink, bent slightly, and let the water wash the sweat from his palms.

Not long after, footsteps sounded from the inner room.

Ethan Sullivan suddenly looked up, gazing into the mirror, and his eyes stopped.

John Brooks came out from inside, pausing beside a vase.

Unlike yesterday’s casual clothes, he wore a walnut-colored shirt that made his skin look fair. The collar was undone by two buttons, revealing just enough of the triangle between his neck and chest. On his wrist was a walnut wood bracelet from the Voyager series. Over it all was a hunting-style jacket with totem embroidery along the edges, just covering his waist and making his legs look even longer. On his feet were derby shoes matching his trousers.

Ethan Sullivan rarely paid attention to others’ outfits, but now he couldn’t help sizing up John Brooks. If he was dressed for a funeral, John Brooks was probably attending a wedding—and outshining the groom.

John Brooks scraped his shoe sole on the floor, then walked over to stand beside Ethan Sullivan.

Last night, he’d tried to greet this aloof guy and got snubbed, so he hadn’t planned to bother with him. But Ethan Sullivan was staring at him so directly.

John Brooks met his gaze in the mirror, saying lazily, “Why do I keep running into you?”

Author’s note: Ethan Sullivan: Here we go again.

Chapter 6

Ethan Sullivan looked away, focusing on the stream of white water running over the back of his hand, and replied, “It is quite the coincidence.”

John Brooks bent over to wash his hands, saying nothing more. Only the sound of two streams of water intertwined.

He lathered, rinsed, repeated twice, then dried his hands. He picked a hand cream from the silver tray, applied it, adjusted his cuffs and collar, and pressed his styled hair in the mirror.

After all that, John Brooks noticed the water beside him was still running. He glanced over and saw Ethan Sullivan’s hands turning red from washing. He asked, “Are you a germaphobe?”

Ethan Sullivan wasn’t, and didn’t respond.

John Brooks thought, If he keeps washing, he’ll lose a layer of skin. He checked his watch and said, “The banquet’s already started. If you keep washing, it’ll be over by the time you’re done.”

Ethan Sullivan said impatiently, “Since it’s started, why aren’t you hurrying back?”

John Brooks leaned back against the counter. Before coming out, he’d been playing cards in the stall, and all this fussing was just to kill time. “No rush, I just came out to relax a bit.”

The word “relax” hit home for Ethan Sullivan—wasn’t that why he was here too?

“Are you nervous?”

“A little. Mostly just annoyed.”

John Brooks crossed his arms over his chest. “In a bit, we’ll have to greet all the actors. My face will ache from smiling. This teacher, that teacher—more teachers than I called in four years of college.”

Ethan Sullivan didn’t reply, but silently agreed.

John Brooks said, “That’s not all. The worst part comes after. All those directors and chiefs—they’re basically the bosses of the crew. Greeting them means acting like a total suck-up.”

Ethan Sullivan thought, That’s true.

John Brooks added, “And there’s a big shot here tonight. We have to be extra careful.”

Ethan Sullivan asked, “A big shot?”

“You didn’t know?” John Brooks enunciated, “The screenwriter of this show, Ethan Sullivan, is here with the crew. He’s attending the kickoff banquet tonight. He’s probably in the private room drinking right now.”

Ethan Sullivan replied calmly, “Oh.”

John Brooks went on, “Oh, come on. I heard Teacher Sullivan rarely joins the crew. Maybe because he invested, he came to take a look. As for who he’ll be looking at, do I need to spell it out?”

Ethan Sullivan said, “You’d better spell it out.”

John Brooks said, “The rest doesn’t matter, but you can’t do without the soul of the whole show.”

Ethan Sullivan was genuinely puzzled. “And what’s the soul?”

John Brooks answered, “The male lead, of course.”

Ethan Sullivan finally withdrew his hands. Water dripped from his skin, soaking a patch of his shirt cuff. He ignored it and turned his head to look at John Brooks’s profile. “So you mean, Ethan Sullivan came to the crew to see you?”

John Brooks said, “What’s with your comprehension? Did you even pass Chinese? He can look at whoever he wants, but since he’s here, he’s got to check me out, right?”