Actor in Hollywood

Ding.

The elevator reached the first floor from the underground parking lot, and as the doors slowly slid open, the interior of the Screen Actors Guild came into view. It was slightly different from what Anson had imagined. With beige and yellow hues dominating the décor, the atmosphere was soft and almost reminiscent of a library—definitely far from the flashy world of film.

At the front desk, a receptionist managed a pile of paperwork. Nearby, there was a waiting area where a few people sat, some appearing bored. Despite the lack of smartphones, they were still engrossed in their own little worlds, flipping through newspapers and magazines.

To the front-left, a notice board stood prominently. A Black woman in glasses and a cardigan was busy writing on it, meticulously adding to the clusters of job listings and audition notices.

Though it was already the 21st century and computers were becoming more ubiquitous, in the year 2000, the conveniences of the internet were still unfolding. Retro methods like these notice boards still thrived, and the guild's infrastructure hadn't fully caught up with the rapid pace of modernization.

Anson stood there, taking in the scene:

Red, yellow, green, and blue.

Different colored chalk marked various categories of projects: different types of productions, varying degrees of urgency, and differing levels of requirements. Each person could find an audition notice tailored to their needs.

Anson had once heard that Hollywood produced around 300 films a year. At first, that number didn't seem too extraordinary; in fact, it felt surprisingly low. But standing here now, seeing how the opportunities flooded the notice board like an unending tide, that "300" suddenly carried a whole new meaning.

"Excuse me…"

The receptionist noticed Anson standing still, observing everything with a look of curiosity, like Harry Potter entering Hogwarts for the first time. Her polite voice broke through his thoughts.

Catching his gaze, the receptionist smiled sweetly.

"Is there anything I can assist you with? I take it this is your first time at the guild? I'd be happy to give you a brief overview."

Kind and polite.

Anson chuckled softly, "I guess my face must scream 'newbie.'"

The receptionist's eyes lit up with amusement. "I'd prefer to call it 'fresh energy.'"

Fresh energy?

Anson pondered the phrase. It was not only appropriate but also deeply meaningful. He couldn't help but take another look at the receptionist—she wasn't just any front desk worker; clearly, she had seen her fair share of the industry's ups and downs.

Curious, Anson glanced back at the bulletin board. "So, when sifting through these opportunities like gold in a river, is there some secret to it?"

"Gold in a river?" the receptionist repeated with a playful smile, her eyes gleaming. "Perhaps luck is the only secret."

Anson smiled knowingly.

For others, that might be true; but for him, it wasn't. The memories from 2023 were like a treasure chest of endless knowledge.

His lips curled up slightly. "Maybe I should stop by a church and say a prayer. Know any nearby?"

The receptionist laughed, catching the playful tone in his voice.

Not one for lingering small talk, Anson then introduced himself. "Anson Wood. I have an appointment. As much as I'd enjoy extending this summit of ours, I wouldn't want to be late."

The receptionist grinned widely, pleased with the banter, and turned to the only computer on the floor. Tapping the keys cheerfully, she waited as the screen sluggishly loaded the information.

Sure enough, Darren had already made the appointment in advance.

"Ah, here it is—Anson Wood, fourth floor, Room 407, Andrew O'Connell. You can head straight up," the receptionist said, flashing a smile.

Anson smiled back, "Thank you."

As the receptionist looked up, catching Anson's smile, her own mood seemed to brighten even more. "Congratulations."

Anson paused, a bit confused.

The receptionist quickly clarified, "You're here to sign a contract, right? Congratulations on landing the role."

Anson finally understood, chuckling. "Let's hope this won't be the last."

His lighthearted quip earned another soft laugh, and under her gaze, Anson strode toward the elevator. The receptionist couldn't help but rise slightly from her seat, her eyes following his confident and graceful steps until the elevator doors finally closed.

...

**Knock knock!**

The sound of Anson's knuckles against the door broke the stillness of the hallway. Without any delay, a brisk voice from within called out, and Anson pushed the door open.

Papers. Papers. More papers.

The sight before him was like a mountain of documents, instantly transporting him back to high school. Back then, they would similarly pile books, test papers, and worksheets all around their desks, encircling themselves in a fortress of academia.

In one corner of the clutter, a pair of feet in white socks rested on the table, lazily crossed. The image was oddly striking—like something out of a Quentin Tarantino film.

Everyone in Hollywood knew Quentin had a thing for feet, one of his trademark quirks.

After a brief pause, the feet retracted, and a head topped with ginger-brown hair suddenly popped up. The face belonged to Andrew O'Connell, whose features seemed to each have their own personality, unruly yet somehow fitting together with a rugged charm. His rough-around-the-edges appearance exuded a certain charisma, making it easy to imagine him as a character in a gritty gangster movie.

Perhaps something from *Reservoir Dogs*? Or maybe Guy Ritchie's *Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels*?

"Anson?" Andrew O'Connell asked, a cigarette dangling from his lips, though it remained unlit. As his lips moved, the cigarette swayed slightly, and his brows furrowed in concentration.

Once Anson confirmed his identity, Andrew skipped any pleasantries.

"Terms. Project details. Clauses."

"I've gone over everything. There are no issues. All that's left is for you to confirm it."

"This one's the non-disclosure agreement."

"And this one's the performance contract."

The words came at Anson rapid-fire, the information overwhelming as it hit him like a tidal wave. Andrew was clearly a no-nonsense kind of person, moving with a brisk efficiency that was almost dizzying. Despite the cluttered desk overflowing with papers, Andrew worked with practiced precision, quickly pulling out the necessary documents and handing them to Anson.

But something caught Anson's attention. One word in Andrew's rapid monologue stuck out, prompting him to interrupt. "Non-disclosure agreement?"

Andrew, still clutching the unlit cigarette, raised his chin slightly and squinted at Anson.

"*Friends* is wrapping up this season, and people are dying to know how the story ends—especially how Chandler's proposal to Monica will play out. The producers need to keep the plot under wraps."

"They won't even send me the script yet. Once you sign this NDA, the script will be hand-delivered to you by the production team."

Andrew leaned in closer, as though they were about to make a shady deal in a noir film. Even though his cigarette remained unlit, it felt as though smoke were curling around his face. Lowering his voice conspiratorially, he added, "You know, some people are willing to pay $400,000 for a single episode's script."

Anson raised an eyebrow. So, even before the days of Marvel's tight-lipped secrecy, Hollywood had already honed the art of keeping secrets—a long-standing tradition.

Andrew mistook Anson's reaction, thinking he was surprised by the number. His serious expression relaxed into a teasing grin as he leaned back in his chair, putting some distance between them. With a casual shrug, he tossed in a joke, "Believe me, it's not worth it for a measly four hundred grand."

---

The book's author made a lighthearted request at the end for readers to continue supporting the new work, emphasizing the importance of reader engagement and asking for continued follow-through with the story.