Actor in Hollywood

Anson had crossed over.

One moment, he was standing in for an actor on set during a lighting test, when he heard someone shout "Watch out!" The next thing he knew, everything went black, and a sharp pain surged through him.

The next moment, he found himself in a square, box-like bathroom, fainted beside a toilet.

It took Anson a full fifteen minutes, sitting on the toilet lid, to sort through the chaotic memories of the original owner of this body. He had traveled from 2023 Shanghai to the year 2000 in Los Angeles—

April 1st, but it wasn't an April Fool's joke.

Anson Wood, the original owner of this body, had been recommended by Darren Star to audition at a production company. But what project, what role, or what situation this was, his brain was a jumbled mess, offering no useful information.

He looked down at the "world's most lethal weapon" in his hand—a heavy Nokia bar phone, the weight in his palm feeling unusually real.

Creak.

The sound of a door opening echoed through the bathroom, and voices from outside entered the enclosed space.

"...Wasn't the Central Casting audition supposed to end a couple of days ago? I thought the shoot for the twenty-first episode was starting next Monday. I heard there was some argument on set yesterday about the tight schedule, and now the audition is dragging on. What's going on?"

"Haha, if you were an actor personally recommended by Jennifer Aniston, you could be two days late for an audition too."

"Oh, Jennifer, again! This isn't the first time. If the other actors find out, there'll be another round of arguments."

"Wait, wouldn't that be unlikely? Isn't she about to marry Brad? I thought she'd quit those habits by now. Could the rumors going around on set recently be about him?"

"You saw it yourself, he didn't go through Central Casting but was personally received by David. When a producer personally welcomes someone, the answer is obvious, isn't it? Honestly, I think today's audition is just a formality."

"Ah, no wonder!"

"What is it?"

"Haven't you heard? The writers' room had a blowout yesterday. Apparently, the head writer and David had a shouting match behind closed doors. The tension's been high recently, and they nearly came to blows yesterday. Turns out David was covering for Jennifer."

"No, no, that's not right. I heard he was recommended by Darren."

"Darren? Which Darren?"

"Darren Star?"

"Oh, that Darren."

"Haven't you heard the rumor?"

"What, that Darren's his sugar daddy?"

"No, he's Darren's godson."

"Oh, another Emma Roberts, huh? Jesus Christ, Hollywood's almost bursting at the seams with these pretty faces with straw-stuffed heads."

The thin bathroom door offered no soundproofing, or perhaps more accurately, the enclosed space of the bathroom acted like an amphitheater, the conversation outside slipping into his ears with perfect clarity.

The amount of information was overwhelming.

Darren Star—Anson had found the name familiar, and now he remembered.

As a producer, Darren Star had launched popular shows like *90210* and *Melrose Place* in the '90s, reaching the peak of his career with *Sex and the City* at the turn of the century.

To younger audiences, he might be best known for producing *Emily in Paris* in 2020.

So, the project with a producer named David and Jennifer Aniston as a cast member could only be—

*Friends*!

He had heard rumors before that the *Friends* cast wasn't as harmonious as they appeared. Jennifer Aniston, who rose to fame from the show, had a special status, even influencing the producer's decisions. Now, it seemed those rumors weren't baseless.

So, Darren Star had recommended the original owner to his friend David Crane—the producer of *Friends*—securing an audition for him. However, this audition had caused a stir within the cast, escalating tensions between the producer and the writing team, brewing a storm. Yet, David still insisted on the audition today.

Aha!

So, what should he do next?

Well, how do you get an elephant out of the refrigerator?

Here's what he was going to do—

Step one: Open the door.

Step two: Leave the bathroom.

Without further ado, Anson stood up from his pondering pose, straightened his clothes, swept the scattered white powder into the toilet, and flushed it away. The sound of the water cut off the conversation outside. Without hesitation, Anson pushed open the stall door.

The air became very quiet.

The three men standing by the urinals turned simultaneously toward the source of the noise, their jaws dropping, clearly not expecting this scene.

Frank Simons' mind stopped for a moment, instinctively wanting to reprimand and take control of the situation.

But when he saw the man in front of him, the words got stuck in his throat—

His deep, clear azure eyes were like the Aegean Sea on a sunny August afternoon—bright and shimmering with a lazy, refreshing gleam that made others unconsciously relax, easily capturing their attention.

Even though he was the one "eavesdropping" and was at a clear disadvantage, outnumbered three to one, this man exuded an air of calm and composure. There wasn't a hint of panic, and somehow, the pressure shifted entirely onto the other three, making them suddenly aware that the situation wasn't in their favor.

They'd been caught gossiping red-handed.

The words of reprimand stuck in their throats.

And then.

With long, elegant strides, the man approached the sink in just two or three steps. He was at least 6'2" (188 cm), and the oppressive presence he projected made the three men by the urinals instinctively take half a step back.

"Ah!"

Frank felt a sudden warmth in his calf as his pants were soaked.

He turned around.

"Ah! Ahhhh!"

He looked around.

A mess.

Frank glanced down at his wet pants, nearly losing his breath. When he turned back, all he saw was the tall, imposing figure of the man walking past him. Without realizing it, he stepped aside to make way.

By the time he processed what had happened, frustration boiled up within him, only to be met with a soft chuckle.

"Careful, it's slippery."

Frank: You!

His face turned red, his fists clenched, but before he could raise them, the man had already disappeared.

Outside the bathroom.

The sound of chaotic curses erupted behind him, and though Anson couldn't see what was happening, he could easily picture the scene inside. He let out a soft breath.

The "elephant" was out of the "refrigerator," so what was the next step?

Emma Roberts?

Her aunt was Hollywood superstar Julia Roberts, and thanks to her aunt, Emma had gotten acting opportunities at a young age and entered Hollywood early.

And Anson Wood was similar.

Darren Star wasn't Anson's godfather but a close friend of the Wood family, someone who had watched him grow up. Knowing Anson was interested in acting, Darren had taken it upon himself to secure audition opportunities for him—a mere phone call for Darren—which led to today.

In his previous life, Anson had been an ordinary crew member, standing behind the camera, watching actors bask in the spotlight, surrounded by cheers and applause. A day's work brought in more money than he could ever hope to earn in a lifetime, and he could only stand in the mud, gazing up at the stars.

But now, unexpectedly, he had the chance to step from behind the scenes into the limelight—not as a stand-in, but in his own right, standing in front of the camera? And at eighteen, with a bright new future laid out before him, everything was starting fresh.

His steps faltered slightly, then he adjusted his direction and confidently walked down the corridor.

It wasn't until now that Anson had the chance to take a good look around—

A narrow hallway, cluttered props, broken lighting, and staff rushing about. A film and television production company was no different from any other company, with nothing particularly special.

At the end of the corridor was an office with glass walls, its blinds fully drawn. Outside the door was a separate desk, piled with various documents and three landline phones.

Judging by experience, that should be the office of a senior executive, but the secretary's desk was currently unoccupied. The passing staff didn't seem to mind, simply leaving their documents on the desk before turning to leave. Amidst the chaos, there was a method to the madness.

Anson stepped forward and sat in the chair against the wall, opposite the secretary's desk, trying to gather his thoughts and recall more information about the audition—

Since it was an audition, what was the project, what was the role? Was the audition script provided in advance, or did he need to prepare his own?

But before he could dive deeper, the office door opened, and Anson instinctively looked over. No one walked out; instead, someone inside, holding the door handle, was facing inward, cursing in frustration.

"…What the hell are you talking about?"

"Yes, I know, but…"

"I clearly told them a minor role would be enough, and now they're changing the entire outline for one character. This is a disaster waiting to happen. If next Monday's shoot gets delayed, I'll make sure they're all out on the streets."

"But are you sure it's not a problem? This is Darren Star, after all—a minor role…"

"I don't care if it's Darren Star; this is my show, got it? NBC isn't HBO. We're watching the ratings every week. If you bring in some nobody as a guest star and the ratings tank, who's going to clean up the mess? You, or Darren Star?"

"David, so what now…"

"Tell them to finish the script. Now get out! Get out, now!"

The man quickly left the office, closing the door behind him, and then there was a muffled thud as something hit the wall inside, causing the glass to shudder.

The man turned around and saw Anson, just as he was about to speak, but was interrupted when the door opened again. A long face, tanned bronze from sunbathing and speckled with freckles, peered out, brows furrowed in anger that hadn't yet dissipated.

"Frank? Frank!"

"Where's Anson? What time was his appointment? If he's not here yet, push it back half an hour. I need to make a few calls."

In the midst of his fury, a figure slowly stood up, tall and poised, with a faint smile at the corner of his mouth.

"Good morning, Mr. Crane."