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Matthew ducked into a booth in the lounge and stared intently at Michael Sheen. It didn't take long to notice something had changed—no, not just changed. He looked like a totally different person, especially in how he carried himself and walked.
Earlier, when he headed upstairs, Michael Sheen had stood tall and walked with long, confident strides.
But now, as he came out of the elevator, he was hunched over slightly, butt sticking out, and his legs moved in this bizarre wide, outward angle.
Matthew had seen that kind of walk before—back when he worked construction overseas, a coworker once got jabbed in the butt with a rebar rod and walked just like that.
"Did he hurt his ass?" Matthew shivered, forcing himself to stop that line of thought. The mental image that flashed in his head was way too disturbing. He muttered, "The things people do for their art..."
"Sir, do you…"
A voice broke through. Matthew turned his head and saw a hotel staffer approaching Michael Sheen in the lobby, clearly concerned by his weird gait. "Do you need help, sir?"
"No! No!" Michael waved him off quickly, nervous. "I'm fine. Totally fine."
He slowly made his way to the revolving door and stepped out of the hotel.
Matthew switched booths just in case Michael saw him through the glass wall, but kept his eyes locked on the guy.
Across the street, Michael Sheen grabbed onto a lamppost and twisted around to try to check his backside, his face scrunched in this mix of pain and... was that excitement?
Matthew scratched his head. There was no doubt now—something definitely happened between Michael Sheen and Martin Jackson.
"The pain's probably physical," he muttered. "The excitement's... from getting the part."
He must've landed the lead role in Martin Jackson's music video.
"Is this what it takes to make it in Hollywood?"
Matthew sighed and looked away. For a moment, his mood dropped. If he spent a few more years grinding it out in L.A. with no breakthrough, would he eventually do something like that too…?
"No," he quickly shook his head. "Absolutely not."
He didn't think he was more noble than Michael Sheen. If anything, he might be even more scheming and shameless—but that was one line he'd never cross. Sure, he wanted fame and fortune. His standards were low, but not that low. If it ever came down to selling himself or staying broke, he'd rather stay broke.
As for high-minded morals—please. You start preaching those in showbiz and you're asking to stay a nobody forever.
"All the schemers are chasing fame... the moral ones die at the starting line," he muttered.
He looked back again. Michael Sheen was no longer in sight.
The streetlight cast a glow ahead as Michael slowly hobbled down the road, one hand on a shop window for balance, walking with that awkward, wide-legged waddle.
Every step was a struggle. Even just standing still hurt like hell. His backside throbbed with a searing pain so bad it made him want to see a proctologist.
But he couldn't. No way he was explaining this kind of injury to anyone.
Still, the pain didn't get him down. Even through the burning ache, Michael had a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.
Director Martin Jackson had promised him the male lead in Britney Spears' new music video.
That was all he wanted.
Michael leaned on another lamppost and looked up at the sky. In all that darkness, he felt like he could see a light.
He was in serious pain, but it was worth it. In fact, deep down, he was kind of thrilled.
Too bad he didn't recognize anyone around—no one to share the excitement with.
He'd waited so many years for this chance. Now that it had come, he wanted to shout it from the rooftops: He was going to star in a music video with Britney Spears! He was finally going to be famous!
Suddenly, a face popped into his mind—someone who had called himself a friend but refused to help.
Matthew Horner.
I'm getting the lead role, Matthew!
He thought back to how Matthew had shut him down on the Gladiator set, and a wave of satisfaction washed over him. Finally got one over on you.
Then his brows furrowed.
Wait... Matthew didn't know yet.
Just like that, the satisfaction vanished.
Michael thought for a moment, then pulled out his phone and dialed Matthew's number. It rang for a while before someone picked up.
"Hey, is that you, Matthew?" His voice was higher than usual, practically giddy. "What're you up to?"
"On my way home," Matthew replied. "Where are you, Mike?"
"Oh, just walking around," Michael said, already planning how to break the news face-to-face so he could see Matthew's reaction. "You free for lunch tomorrow? My treat."
"Tomorrow?" Matthew seemed to be thinking. After a pause, he said, "Sure, I don't have class. Where do you want to eat?"
Michael hadn't thought that far ahead. "I'll make a reservation and call you in the morning."
Honestly, what he needed most right now was to lie face-down on a cushion and recover. But the urge to show off to his competitor was just too strong.
He had to see Matthew's reaction. Had to let that frustration from the Gladiator set out somehow.
After hanging up, he pocketed his phone and limped forward, fighting through the sharp pain as he mentally rehearsed what to say—how to brag without making it obvious, and especially, how to make sure Matthew didn't guess anything about his injury.
Night had fallen over L.A., but the City of Angels was still lit up like day. A taxi pulled into Westwood and stopped at a bus stop. Matthew hopped out.
It was close to midnight, and instead of heading home right away, he decided to grab a late-night bite—his stomach had been growling the whole ride.
This wasn't a fancy commercial area, so most shops were closed. He walked a bit and spotted a restaurant sign still lit up. Besides English, the sign had bold Traditional Chinese characters.
"Never noticed there was a Chinese place here," he murmured. "Then again, I don't come around this area much."
"Welcome," a voice greeted.
Surprisingly, it came from a blonde, blue-eyed waitress with classic Western features. Matthew glanced at her, feeling slightly out of place.
He looked around. The place had the familiar look of a typical Chinese restaurant — simple decor, red paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling, and a few faded prints of landscapes and calligraphy on the walls. Nothing extravagant, but it did the job.
The tables were basic, with laminated tops and the usual condiments — soy sauce, chilli oil, vinegar — set out in plastic holders. A few other diners were still finishing their meals, chatting quietly in the background.
When the waitress brought over his food, Matthew nodded his thanks and stayed in his seat.
The Kung Pao Chicken and special fried rice were clearly made to suit local tastes — sweet, salty, and just spicy enough. Not exactly authentic, but it was warm, tasty, and satisfying after a long day.
"Thanks." He gave her a generous tip.
Eating here wasn't just about the food—it was the nostalgia.
The Kung Pao Chicken and fried rice had clearly been Westernized, probably to suit local tastes, but they still carried a familiar flavor that made him dig in with real appetite.
He was halfway through his meal when his butt started to feel sore. The chair was just too hard, and it had been years since he'd sat on anything like it. The wooden seat was starting to dig in.
He shook his head and picked up his spoon again, when Michael Sheen suddenly came to mind—the lunch invitation tomorrow.
Finishing the rest of his meal in a hurry, Matthew pulled out his phone and dialed Michael's number. He picked up quickly.
"What's up, Matthew?"
"Mike, about lunch tomorrow—since you invited me, I've been thinking. I found this awesome Chinese place. How about I treat you instead?"
There was a pause before Michael replied, "Sounds good. See you tomorrow at noon."
"Great. Come to Westwood," Matthew said, giving him the address. "Let's meet at the restaurant at 11:30."
Michael agreed right away. Matthew hung up, paid the bill, and went to the front desk to reserve the Eight Immortals table for tomorrow's lunch.
With that settled, he headed home. After a shower, he lay in bed but couldn't sleep—his mind kept turning over ways he might land the lead in that MV. It wasn't until nearly 3 a.m. that he drifted off with some half-formed ideas.
The next morning, he followed his usual routine—morning workout, reading the paper, then studying. He didn't waste a minute or slack off just because of the lunch meeting.
He knew he had started from the bottom, with less talent than others. If he wanted to make it, he had to work harder than everyone else.
At 11:00, he put down his book, changed into a sharp outfit, and headed to the restaurant. Unlike the night before, the place was packed—lunch rush was just beginning, and most seats were already taken.
"I made a reservation last night," Matthew told the waitress. She checked with the front, then led him to the Eight Immortals table.
"Ready to order?" she asked.
"I'm waiting for someone," Matthew said, nodding toward the door. "I'll call you when we're ready."
She walked off, and Matthew settled in, patiently waiting for Michael Sheen to arrive.