551-555

### Chapter 551: Brainstorming

Anson was seriously considering whether he should go out for a bagel and a cup of coffee before clocking in for work. Surely it wouldn’t matter… right?

At that moment, Anson noticed a pair of eyes on him and instinctively turned to look.

The chubby, round-faced guy had a nervous, panicked, and scared look in his eyes, as if he were a seven-year-old child witnessing his parents fighting.

Anson was taken aback. "They're not fighting."

The chubby guy's face was full of confusion: What nonsense are you talking about?

Even though the chubby guy didn’t say a word, his expression couldn’t have been clearer.

The scene in front of him increasingly resembled a moment from "Scenes from a Marriage"—not the recent TV series, but the original six-hour version by Ingmar Bergman from 1973.

Anson cleared his throat. "This is called a professional discussion. Even though they seem like they want to strangle each other right now, trust me, it’s all for the sake of professionalism."

Off to the side—

"I question your taste!"

"Calling The Beatles a classic? I question your professionalism!"

"What’s with classical music acting so superior?"

"I haven’t even called pop music shallow, so why are you feeling so insecure?"

In just a few exchanges, it had devolved into personal attacks.

The smile on Anson’s face slowly froze and was almost impossible to maintain.

Moreover, Anson noticed the chubby guy’s twitching mouth—it looked like he was struggling hard to hold back laughter, and the scene was on the verge of collapsing.

So—

Anson extended his hand, offering the coffee he was holding. "Coffee?"

Gulp.

The chubby guy glanced at the coffee and instinctively swallowed. It was clear that he sneaked a peek at the commotion nearby with the corner of his eye.

That look clearly indicated that he was counting heads to see if taking a coffee for himself would leave anyone in the studio without one.

Anson observed the scene but didn’t say anything—

This chubby guy wasn’t actually that young. He wasn’t a baby-faced kid with arms like lotus roots and a smile like a fresco. He was a young man in his early twenties, with a faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, probably even older than Anson.

If there had been any doubt before, that little action made it clear. He had clearly experienced life in the real world for quite some time and knew the survival rules of the office.

—Six cups.

Anson had bought six cups of coffee, having bought an extra one on a whim. Even if the chubby guy took one, no one else would be affected.

After scanning the room, the chubby guy finally realized that there was indeed an extra cup of coffee.

A smile crept up on his face, and he looked up. "Is there a latte?" he asked, licking his lips as if he was already tempted.

However, before Anson could respond, they were rudely interrupted.

"Anson!"

Dustin had noticed Anson’s voice and shouted out like a thunderclap.

"You wrote the song. How do you think the arrangement should go?"

Swish, swish, swish.

All eyes turned to Anson, who lifted his coffee in a small gesture of acknowledgment.

Dustin rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Is coffee really important right now?"

Anson remained unhurried. "Of course, it’s important. I see that you’re all running on low energy, and now you’re arguing without coherence. Your thoughts aren’t clear. You need to replenish your sugar levels."

Dustin: ...

Miles: ...

Just a moment ago, the atmosphere was tense and full of conflict. Now, the tension dissolved into thin air.

Anson looked regretfully at the coffee in his hand and then handed it to the chubby guy. "There’s a latte in there somewhere, but I can’t remember which one."

Chubby guy: ??? Hey, hey, wait a minute, what do you mean by that?

Lily, who had been trying to find an opportunity to chime in but couldn’t, finally bowed her head and giggled. Connor, on the other hand, let out a long breath, warmly welcoming Anson’s arrival.

But Anson didn’t respond to the chubby guy. Instead, he straightened up, facing Dustin and Miles, and got straight to the point.

"In terms of arrangement, I also want to keep the song light."

"‘Wake Me Up When September Ends’ was composed with various emotions mixed in, trying to blend them into the simplest, most unadorned words."

"Of course, we could produce the song in a grand, magnificent, and elegant way. But that would drown the song’s rich and delicate emotions in the instruments."

"Miles, the reason our performances can move people is the emotional connection, not the complexity of the arrangement."

"The arrangement is not the goal; it’s a bridge, a bridge to reach the final goal. ‘Viva la Vida’ should be grand, but ‘Wake Me Up When September Ends’ should be simple."

Miles appeared thoughtful.

Dustin raised his chin, revealing a smile. He knew he hadn’t misjudged Anson.

However, Anson wasn’t finished.

"But from the perspective of the entire album, different instruments create different atmospheres. Not just the cello, but a series of classical instruments appearing at different points change the character of the songs. This is also the color of our album."

"If we keep the arrangement simple, ‘Wake Me Up When September Ends’ becomes just another ordinary punk song. I’m not saying punk is bad; I’m just asking if there’s still a need for this song to be on the album. Maybe next time?"

"If we just complete the arrangement with guitar, drums, and keyboard, this song won’t fit with the tone of the entire album. Forcibly including it would make it stand out, even undermining the album’s cohesiveness."

"This brings us to a question: What kind of band are we, and what style of album are we making? That’s the big picture."

Now it was Dustin’s turn to be deep in thought.

Miles shook his head. "No, the lyrics of this song fit the album perfectly. We should keep it."

Anson snapped his fingers. "I agree."

Dustin looked at Anson, and so did Miles. Anson had gone full circle only to end up right back where they started. So, what’s the solution?

Dustin, ever true to his character, didn’t hide his irritation and rolled his eyes openly. "You’ve hogged all the attention, playing both good cop and bad cop, and you still haven’t provided any answers. So, what do we do?"

Anson, however, played coy and turned to look at the chubby guy, who was staring at the coffee cup with a conflicted and sorrowful expression, as if trying to sniff out the latte’s true identity.

"By the way, why is he here?"

Dustin only now realized there was an unrelated outsider in the room. "Ryan, I thought you’d already left."

The chubby guy immediately turned around, straightening up and trying his best to appear calm and collected. "Oh, you said you’d give me the master tape, but you didn’t, so..."

Dustin smacked his forehead. "Damn, my awful memory. He’s Timbaland’s assistant, here to pick up a master tape."

As he spoke, Dustin turned and began searching for it.

"Sorry, I thought I’d already given it to you. Oh, God, what am I doing?"

But he didn’t expect Anson to turn to the chubby guy. "What do you think?"

The chubby guy blinked. "Me?"

Anson nodded. "We’re brainstorming, and different ideas colliding can only be a good thing."

Not only was the chubby guy surprised, but Miles and the others also focused their attention on him.

The chubby guy, who had been trying to identify the latte, suddenly became the center of attention. Even Dustin, caught off guard, stopped what he was doing and looked back and forth between Anson and the chubby guy, unsure of how to respond.

Chubby guy: Uh, can he just grab the coffee and run away?

### Chapter 552: The Nameless Chubby Kid

Lily was puzzled and called out, “Anson...”

The reason their music was struggling was because they were always trying to explore new things. They had never caught the attention of a record company before, mainly because they hadn’t found the right balance themselves. This showed just how difficult the production process was. Even now, as they entered the album production stage, they were still feeling their way through the dark.

Perhaps the only person they could rely on was Anson. After all, everything stemmed from him— the band, the album— all became a reality because of him.

Naturally, Anson was the soul of the band, and only he could settle the disputes between Miles and Dustin.

But now Anson was handing over such discussions to a random stranger?

It wasn’t that they were worried about secrets being leaked; they just didn’t think a chubby kid could offer any valuable insights.

Could this really be the right thing to do?

The chubby kid hesitated for a moment—

Should he speak up?

Or should he politely claim he knew nothing and quietly fade into the background?

In that moment of hesitation, the chubby kid saw the encouragement and expectation in Anson’s eyes. He was a bit surprised, but before he could process it, a surge of impulse had already broken free.

Like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon.

“Why not try using the cello as the lead instrument?”

Instinctively, Miles looked at Anson. Clearly, the chubby kid's idea was exactly what Anson had in mind. However, Miles still turned to the kid and continued the conversation.

“But that would completely change the song’s style. It wouldn’t be rock or pop anymore, and honestly, I have no idea what it would become.”

The chubby kid scratched his head, and the courage he had just mustered began to deflate—

In Timbaland’s production studio, he wasn’t just an assistant; he was also learning about arranging, songwriting, and production.

But the point was, nearly two years had passed, and he was still just a lowly assistant. During the process of assisting Timbaland, his opinions didn’t always carry weight, causing him to doubt himself.

Maybe he wasn’t as talented as he thought.

The same thing was happening here.

He was an outsider, a stranger. Offering advice in this situation was already presumptuous, and facing a bit of skepticism only made him more uncertain.

So, should he continue?

Instinctively, he responded.

“I... I don’t know.”

“I was just thinking that by using strings as the main melody, we could enhance the rhythm’s quality. We might even use piano notes as a metronome to guide the drums, keeping the arrangement simple while using the instruments’ characteristics to create resonance. This could ultimately produce a more dramatic auditory effect.”

“Of course, we’d keep the chords simple to avoid disrupting the song’s emotional expression.”

This was indeed a new idea—

But as the chubby kid spoke, he grew more and more uncertain, increasingly lacking confidence. He kept glancing around at the expressions of those in the recording studio, terrified that he might say the wrong thing and get kicked out.

What would happen to his latte then?

Miles and Dustin exchanged a glance. Their minds were racing with countless thoughts, and for a moment, they didn’t know how to respond.

Finally, Miles looked back at Anson.

Anson shrugged lightly. “That’s what I was thinking. Why shackle ourselves? Rock? Pop? Folk? Or something else?”

“From the beginning, our band’s style has been about breaking the mold. But in the end, it’s us who’ve put the shackles on ourselves. Why do that?”

“What I mean is, people are always trying to define us, to label us. When we break the mold, we become a band that ‘dares to break the mold,’ so much so that we’re expected to break the mold every time. But why?”

“Our music is its own genre. Whether we follow the rules or break them, we should stick to our own ideas and creativity. Let’s not let any shackles stifle our inspiration.”

“We have some ideas, some creativity, so let’s boldly give them a try. That’s why we’re here, after all.”

“What do you all think?”

The recording studio was quiet, with everyone looking at each other.

Dustin murmured to himself, “Don’t get trapped in the routine of breaking routines.”

His thoughts were swirling.

When he looked at Anson again, he gained a deeper understanding of this young man. A long-lost excitement and joy began to burn in his chest.

“Then let’s give it a shot,” Dustin said.

Anson agreed.

Then Anson looked at the chubby kid. “Are you in a hurry?”

The chubby kid was a bit bewildered, unable to keep up with the pace, and shook his head in confusion.

Anson smiled. “If you don’t mind, we could try it together. Have you ever produced an album?”

The chubby kid nodded repeatedly, then quickly shook his head. “I’ve been involved in some, but only as an assistant—Jennifer Lopez, Beyoncé, and so on. I know how things work in the studio.”

Nervously, he spilled all the details like beans from a bamboo tube—

But Miles and the others were surprised because the names he casually mentioned weren’t nobodies.

Sure enough, Sound City was full of hidden talents.

“Wood. Anson Wood.”

The chubby kid stared at Anson’s outstretched right hand, blinked, and was stunned for a whole second before reacting. He quickly stood up—

Just as he was about to shake hands, he pulled back his hand and wiped the sweat off on his pants before finally shaking Anson’s hand with both of his. He greeted him solemnly.

“Ryan Tedder.”

In 2000, Ryan Tedder won the national TV competition for songwriting, solidifying his belief in pursuing a music career. At twenty-one, he dropped out of college, joined a record company, and began preparing an album.

While recording the album, he apprenticed under Timbaland to learn how to become a producer.

The future seemed bright.

Until the day he hit a wall.

The record company declared bankruptcy.

That’s the entertainment industry—companies are founded every day, but even more shut down daily, burying countless dreams and lives in the dark ruins.

Ryan had spent two and a half years producing and completing the album, but it never saw the light of day.

For those two and a half years, with no additional income, Ryan barely made ends meet by writing songs for others and assisting Timbaland as a producer. He stumbled along, just managing to keep going.

He couldn’t see tomorrow, nor the future, but he kept going.

“Two and a half years”—it sounds simple when said aloud, but only those who have lived through every single day and night can truly understand the pain. And in the blink of an eye, two and a half years of hard work vanished into thin air.

Overnight, he hit rock bottom.

Everyone says Hollywood is full of opportunities. It all comes down to whether you can seize them.

It wasn’t until today that Ryan believed it:

Looking at the smiling Anson in front of him, Ryan still couldn’t grasp the reality of the situation. His steps were uncertain, as if he were walking on clouds, unable to tell if this was a dream or reality. But there was no time to sort out his thoughts. He blindly followed Anson’s lead, stepping through a door into an entirely new world.

*Chapter 553: Perseverance Is Not Easy*

Anson knew his own limits—

He wasn’t professionally trained and hadn’t studied music formally; everything he knew was based on personal interest and his advantage of foresight.

So while he could talk about theory, practical application was a different matter. When it came to acting, he relied on his own exploration, but music production required the expertise of Miles and Dustin.

He didn't see himself as all-knowing or believe that he could control everything.

When Miles and Dustin had disagreements, Anson had some ideas, concepts, and inspirations, but putting them into practice required trial and error, adjustment, and exploration.

Of course, this was part of the fun.

However, after meeting Ryan Tedder, Anson began to have some ideas.

Ryan Tedder, the producer and lead singer of OneRepublic.

OneRepublic was among the first bands to incorporate classical instruments like the cello into the pop/rock genre, not only taking bold risks but also bringing a fresh perspective to pop music, opening up a new world.

At the same time, outside of the band, Ryan remained active as a producer, crafting hit singles for numerous top artists. Interestingly, while the works Ryan produced as a producer topped the Billboard charts multiple times, OneRepublic itself never reached the top, often stuck at number two, which became a humorous topic among fans.

At twenty-three years old, Ryan was likely still in a period of obscurity. His music didn't fit the current mainstream market, much like Miles and the others before, and very few record companies were willing to take the risk, so he was still lying low, waiting for an opportunity.

Despite this, Ryan had already demonstrated his talent in production.

As Ryan had just mentioned, he had been involved in producing albums for artists like Jennifer Lopez and Beyoncé.

More importantly, Ryan had been exploring the fusion and collision of classical instruments and pop music, making him more than familiar with the style of “August 31st.” Anson was eager to hear his professional opinion.

And sure enough, he did not disappoint.

Not only was he knowledgeable in theory, but his talent also shone through during practical application. The collision of different thoughts and inspirations made the music discussion all the more enjoyable.

It was a different kind of excitement from filming movies but just as thrilling.

"...I think we've done it."

All eyes fell on Anson, and when he smiled and gave his approval—

Oh yeah!

One by one, they stood up, high-fiving each other to celebrate the breakthrough in their work.

Even Dustin.

The previous disputes, collisions, anxieties, confusions, and frustrations no longer mattered. The satisfaction and joy of sprinting toward the same goal and crossing the finish line together were the only things that held value at that moment.

Perhaps, Ryan was the only exception?

After a brief moment of joy, Ryan felt a bit awkward. After all, he was surrounded by strangers and didn’t feel like he belonged in this celebration. Then, a wave of melancholy washed over him as he thought about the bleak situation ahead, with his dreams slowly sliding into an endless abyss, a bitterness forming on his tongue.

"Ryan?"

A call brought Ryan’s head up. He quickly forced a smile to hide his true emotions, trying hard to look cheerful.

Then Ryan saw Anson's eyes.

"Great work."

Anson said, raising his coffee cup in a toast-like gesture towards Ryan.

"I guess the coffee might be cold by now; I'm not sure if it still tastes good, but… do you want to try it?"

Ryan noticed Anson's implied gesture and followed his gaze towards the coffee. Without hesitation, he grabbed a cup from the corner.

Aha, this must be the latte!

Ryan, delighted, raised the coffee cup to salute Anson, as if toasting, and instinctively took a sip.

Pffft.

Ryan almost spat out the coffee, but he managed to hold it in at the last second, letting it sit in his mouth while looking at Anson in shock.

Anson looked innocent, "What’s wrong? Is the coffee cold?"

Ryan: ...

Reluctantly, Ryan hesitated but finally swallowed it down. He stared at Anson, stunned, "This is an Americano."

Anson nodded, "Yeah."

Ryan: ...

Staring at the utterly matter-of-fact Anson, Ryan was momentarily at a loss for how to respond. He thought Anson’s look was a hint, but it turned out—

With the bitterness spreading in his mouth, Ryan’s facial features began to scrunch together.

Anson seemed to suddenly realize, "Oh, I didn’t know which cup was the latte."

Ryan felt like crying but had no tears.

Connor, who had been silently watching the scene, finally couldn’t hold back and burst into laughter, nudging Ryan’s shoulder, "Don’t be fooled by Anson’s innocent face. He loves playing pranks in private."

Ryan looked at the coffee in his hand, then at Anson, who had his hands spread wide, looking totally unapologetic, and without thinking, he tilted his head back and gulped down the coffee as if toasting—

Bold move.

But ideals are often idealistic, and reality is usually more harsh.

Halfway through, he choked, and the coffee, like poison, spilled from the corners of his mouth. His grimacing expression contorted his facial features even more, and he couldn’t help but start hopping, using his entire body to express his bitterness.

"Haha, hahahaha!"

Everyone burst into laughter.

Finally, Ryan managed to regain control, watching as Anson approached, holding a box of tissues and a pack of wet wipes for Ryan to clean up. Then Anson handed him another cup of coffee, smiling brightly as he gestured.

"Rinse your mouth."

Ryan, without suspicion, took the coffee, only to find—

Again.

Tears welled up in Ryan’s eyes; it was another Americano.

Hahaha!

The room erupted in laughter.

Anson, wiping away tears of laughter, looked at the tearful Ryan, "Sorry, I thought you wouldn't fall for it a second time."

Lily was nearly doubled over with laughter, "Never take anything from Anson’s hands."

Ryan looked at his hands—one holding wet wipes, the other an Americano—feeling a chill as he cautiously eyed Anson, "There’s nothing wrong with the wet wipes, right?"

Anson sighed regretfully, "I didn’t have time to mess with them, but that’s a good idea. I might try it next time."

Ryan shuddered, wondering who the next unlucky victim might be.

Finally, Anson put down the coffee, "Sorry, I noticed you were still a bit tense, so I played a little joke."

"Honestly, Ryan, I think you’re very talented. You should form your own band."

Ryan wiped his mouth and hands with a tissue, "I am trying, but it’s not easy."

According to history, OneRepublic's big break wouldn't come until 2007. Like Linkin Park, OneRepublic went through a long period of obscurity, struggling and wandering, repeatedly on the verge of disbanding.

In the past, it was hard to imagine how they managed to persevere just by reading about it; now, Anson could see the waiting, struggling, hesitation, and indecision in people like Miles.

"Chasing your dreams," is a phrase that rolls off the tongue easily, but living through it reveals the true difficulty and torment of walking that lonely road.

So, Anson thought, "Maybe you could try Warner Records."

*Chapter 554: Dizzy*

As an outsider, Anson knew that history had already veered off track, entering a completely different parallel timeline. Events had drastically changed because of the flapping wings of this little butterfly—him.

The future was entirely unknown.

Given that, why not open your arms and embrace a brand-new world?

So.

Anson had an idea, "Maybe you could give Warner Records a try."

Ryan was stunned, so much so that he forgot the bitterness on the tip of his tongue. "You... you're sure?"

Anson nodded. "Why not?"

"It doesn’t cost me anything, because I'm not even sure if Warner Records will care about my opinion. I'm worried it might even have the opposite effect, considering that the name Anson Wood probably represents rebellion and individuality to them now."

Dustin added, "And unpredictability."

Anson pointed at Dustin, "And unpredictability. You heard him. My recommendation might not necessarily be a good thing—it could even affect their first impression."

"But no matter what, if you need a chance, Dustin can help you get one."

It all comes down to the right connections.

Even though Los Angeles is full of opportunities, without the right connections, you still can't knock on the right doors.

For Ryan, this was enough.

Absolutely!

He said.

But it took him a beat to realize that he hadn't actually spoken out loud, fearing that if he hesitated even a moment longer, he might miss the opportunity in front of him. So he nodded vigorously, almost as if his neck might break—

He needed this chance.

Ryan always thought that being Timberland's assistant and part of the production team for major artists would mean the music industry would recognize his talent. He believed he had already opened that door, and opportunities should be plentiful.

But now, it turns out that’s not the case.

Transitioning from a producer to a singer, stepping from behind the scenes to the front—it seemed like a simple step but was more like crossing a chasm.

Record companies don't care about a small-time songwriter; they care about products—how to package a new product with precision. Talent, skill, and ability are all secondary—

After all, true genius that can amaze the world only comes along once every decade.

Talent. Skill.

They're there, and they’re important. But in the showbiz world, where are all the artists? They're all just products on display.

Clearly, Ryan lacked the qualities that could impress a record company.

For the longest time, Ryan could see opportunities and seize some of them, but he had never been able to truly turn those opportunities into reality.

He was always standing at the door of the spotlighted world, circling around and around.

Yet, he didn’t know what he was lacking, nor how to break through that invisible barrier—

An opportunity?

Any opportunity would do. He just wanted to seize it.

Especially one from Anson?

Wait, how did all of this happen?

Standing outside Sound City, bathed in the golden California sunlight, Ryan still didn’t feel like it was real, as if it were all a dream.

So, what just happened?

How did he meet Anson? How did he get involved in the band’s recording session? He was just supposed to be running an errand; how did it turn into this?

Did he really just produce a song with Anson? Did Anson just introduce him to Warner Records? Did he finally see hope again?

Anson? That Anson from "Spider-Man"?

Dizzy and confused, Ryan still couldn’t feel the reality of it all.

Joy, happiness, excitement, and passion—all these emotions welled up in his chest, eager to explode and be released. He wanted to shout out loud.

But.

Click! Click-click-click-click!

Without warning, a burst of shutter clicks rained down on him, the blinding silver flashes breaking Ryan’s train of thought, pulling him back to reality like gravity, interrupting the cheer about to burst from his throat.

Paparazzi.

Now, even the paparazzi are jumpy, springing into action at the slightest hint of movement, snapping photos first and figuring out what's going on later—

Afraid that in the blink of an eye, an exclusive might slip away.

A beat later, they finally realized that the person bathed in the flashlights wasn’t Anson, wasn’t even a band member, just a regular passerby. The shutters all stopped instantly, and the world returned to peace in a second.

Then, they scattered like birds and beasts.

Ryan hadn’t even had time to figure out what was going on before he was left standing alone, dazed and almost unsteady on his feet.

What... what just happened?

Ryan looked at the empty space in front of him, completely lost.

On one side, Ryan got a taste of the fleeting and hollow nature of fame.

On the other side, Anson and the band's recording session got back on track.

There were clashes and arguments, happiness and joy. The recording process turned out to be more fun than expected, and though there were some bumps along the way, they ultimately finished the work smoothly.

Finally, before summer ended, all of Anson's work temporarily came to a close.

Without a doubt, it had been a busy and fulfilling summer:

A movie release, an album recording, and a movie shoot.

Busy and rushed, with no time to slow down and savor it all, time had already flown by, dragging summer to its end.

Knock, knock knock.

At the door, there was a knock.

Not waiting for Anson to respond, the next second, a confident baritone voice could be heard.

"Anson? Anson Wood?"

"Hello, you have a golden ticket from Wonka's Chocolate Factory."

Barefoot, Anson walked across the lobby, opened the front door, and saw that familiar yet unfamiliar figure.

He thought he’d feel estranged, but in fact, one glance and a sense of familiarity flooded his mind—

Standing there was a middle-aged man, about forty years old, slender and refined, with graying temples that didn’t make him look old at all. Instead, they gave him a sense of elegance and poise, a quiet confidence that only time could carve out. His simple, casual attire exuded an understated grace.

Even the square black-framed glasses couldn’t hide his bright eyes, each wrinkle telling a story of time and experience.

Some people look better the younger they are, with the glow of youth making it hard to look away; others, like fine wine, become more charming with maturity, their aura becoming more intoxicating with age.

Charles Wood, Anson’s father, belonged to the latter category.

"Wonka? Are you serious?" Anson was a bit exasperated.

The reference came from the book Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, where the chocolate factory belongs to Wonka.

In the story, Wonka invites five children into his chocolate factory, ultimately choosing one to be his heir; the invitation comes in the form of a golden ticket.

Charles spread his arms without responding and went straight in for a hug.

Anson: ???

Charles seemed to sense Anson’s confusion and cut him off before he could voice it. He released the hug first, pulled out a card the size of a greeting card from his inside pocket, and handed it to Anson. “Of course, I’m serious.”

Anson, full of questions, accepted the card, while Charles walked past him and directly into the house—

After the recording, Anson had moved back to his original villa from Sound City.

"Ah, son, this decor—it's not great. You can tell you guys don’t have much of an eye for design."

*Chapter 555: Family Reunion*

“This vase, hmm…”

“This painting is nice, but it doesn’t match the style of the living room…”

“Have you considered redoing the walls?”

As soon as he entered, Charles Wood, with his hands behind his back, began inspecting the place.

His voice was deep and elegant, rich like a vinyl record. Even though he was rambling on, his slow, deliberate speech and sincere tone lacked any sense of aggression. His words flowed easily into the ears, effortlessly capturing attention, complemented by his appearance and attire, exuding a natural authority.

This, too, is a form of charm.

A word popped into Anson’s mind:

*Charlatan.*

Okay, maybe it's not quite appropriate to use that word to describe his father. But that’s the first word that came to mind.

Anson didn’t pay much attention to Charles's ramblings and instead looked down at the card in his hand. Opening it, he found—

*A bar of dark chocolate.*

Anson felt exasperated and immediately began eating it:

*Smooth. Rich. The slight bitterness blended perfectly with the full-bodied sweetness. It spread lightly and delicately across his tongue.*

Charles noticed the faint smile creeping up on Anson's face and smiled, “I knew you’d like it.”

Leaning against the wall of the living room entrance, Anson asked, “Why are you suddenly here? It can't just be to help me redecorate my apartment, can it?”

Charles remained composed, “Oh, I got a new job here in Los Angeles. Your mother said I should drop by and visit you.”

“Oh, my God, how long has it been since we last saw each other?”

Anson took another bite of the chocolate, “Not so long that you wouldn’t recognize me.” Seeing Anson's head of blonde hair, Charles wasn’t surprised and didn’t ask any questions. “So, what’s the deal with this job in Los Angeles?”

“Yes, Johnny Depp, do you know him? He bought a mansion in Beverly Hills and doesn’t like the decor. He wants to redo everything. Darren recommended me, so I need to meet with him first.”

Anson didn’t respond—

His instincts told him something was off, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Based on his memories, Charles wasn’t the type to show up unexpectedly. Having spent years in high society, he knew well that no one appreciated such surprises.

Because surprises often meant intrusion, breaking the daily routine in a forceful way, sometimes even uncovering secrets, something the upper class particularly disliked.

But here Charles was, showing up without any prior notice.

Something was strange.

Anson chewed on the chocolate, quietly observing Charles.

Bathed in Anson’s gaze, Charles remained calm, a slight smile curling his lips. “Wait, did I choose the wrong time? Is there a special guest upstairs?”

Anson raised an eyebrow slightly, “You can go upstairs and check for yourself.”

Still not sensing anything amiss, Anson thought maybe it was just because he had just finished recording the album and his body clock, still out of sync, was making him paranoid.

“How long are you staying in Los Angeles, and where are you staying?”

Anson temporarily set aside his doubts and assumed the role of host.

“Tea? Coffee? Or… something stronger?”

Charles smiled, “Are you sure? Can you even manage that? Back at home, everything was handed to you. Now you have to do it all yourself.”

Anson shrugged slightly, “No choice. That’s the life of a struggling actor in Hollywood. In fact, I’ve become quite handy. Luca would be impressed.”

Charles watched as Anson walked into the kitchen, “Coffee will be fine. So, I’m about to taste a cup of handmade coffee by you?”

“Hand-ground coffee. Although it was all ground by Chris, it’s still handmade. Oh, Chris is my roommate. He went to the gym early this morning.”

As he spoke, he busied himself with the preparations.

Just as he placed the kettle on the stove, there was another knock at the door.

Charles, sitting in the living room, looked over, “Need me to get the door?”

Anson waved him off and walked towards the door, muttering to himself.

“What’s going on this morning? Could it be Edgar? He didn’t mention coming over.”

Creak.

“Surprise!”

Opening the door, he found an elegant woman standing there with a smile, a suitcase at her feet, holding a bouquet of golden tulips. The golden sunlight flowed along her hair, outlining the contours of her face, her movements full of crisp and refreshing energy.

“Mom?”

Standing before him was none other than Nora Wood.

*The second unexpected guest.*

Anson blinked, “Dad just arrived. Why didn’t you two come together?”

“Your father?” Nora was surprised. “Isn’t your father in Seattle?”

From the living room came a voice, “Nora?”

Nora looked inside, “Charles?”

The scene was a bit chaotic.

Anson grabbed Nora’s suitcase and stepped aside, “Mom, come in first, and we can talk.”

Looking outside, Anson searched for any sign of paparazzi.

Anson knew that if the media wanted to, they could easily dig up information on the Wood family. The Wood family was also mentally prepared for this, able to calmly and confidently handle any potential exposure.

But honestly, Anson didn’t want their lives to be disturbed by paparazzi.

Work and life are, after all, two different things.

Nora, full of surprise, looked at Charles, “What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t coming to Los Angeles until next week.”

Charles replied, “I haven’t decided whether to take this job yet. If it officially starts, it’ll be next week. But I wanted to meet with the client first to decide. It turned out Johnny Depp said he’s only available these two days. Next week, he’s heading to the Caribbean for vacation, so I came early.”

“And you, did you just get off the plane?”

Nora nodded, “Yes, the Getty has a project they want to discuss with me. I thought I’d stop by and see Anson. I came straight here from the airport.”

As they exchanged words, the fragmented truth began to emerge.

Anson carried the suitcase inside, “Though the place doesn’t look big, believe me, it’s spacious inside. You can pick any corner to continue your conversation instead of standing in the doorway.”

With a little joke, he drew Charles and Nora’s attention, and they walked towards the living room, smiles naturally appearing on their faces.

Turning around, Anson noticed them exchanging glances, both surprised to run into each other there.

It seems this was just a coincidence…?

Anson joked, “If Luca shows up at the door now, things will get interesting.”

Like magic—

Knock, knock.

Just as Anson finished speaking, someone actually knocked on the door.

The air froze for a moment.

Anson looked at Charles and Nora, and they, equally stunned, looked back at him.

Anson asked, “Are you sure it’s not Luca outside?”

Nora quickly shook her head, “How would we know who’s outside?”

Anson’s eyes narrowed slightly; something didn’t feel right.

Though it was just a hunch, every cell in Anson’s body sensed that something was off.

This time, without saying much, Anson carefully observed Charles and Nora’s expressions before returning to the door and opening it.

“Hey, Anson!”

That smiling face—who else could it be but Lucas Wood!