David stepped aside from the doorway. "So, you're Anson, right?"
"Anson Wood. It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Crane."
His voice was deep and magnetic, like blue velvet. David turned toward the sound, his gaze lifting slightly higher than expected.
Tall and well-proportioned, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist—perfect for carrying clothes. Surprisingly, he hadn't gone for the cliché shirt-and-suit combo.
A white T-shirt paired with stone-gray cargo pants, layered with a simple peacock-blue knit cardigan. His handsome, chiseled features carried a clean, sunny charm, the contrasting textures blending seamlessly. Every movement carried a distinctly French allure.
Understated, yet effortlessly standing out from the cookie-cutter crowd.
At first glance, impressive. Upon closer inspection, even more so.
David's smile widened. "Mr. Crane? Hah, Darren must've made me sound terrifying."
"Uncle Darren called it professionalism. After all, you're not here to make friends." Anson skipped the usual small talk.
David paused, studying the young man again. Some bluntness rubbed people the wrong way; other times, it was refreshing. Delivery, tone, and expression were an art.
Clearly, Anson belonged to the latter category.
David tilted his chin slightly. "And what about you?"
They moved to the desk but remained standing, facing each other across it. Anson met David's gaze without hesitation. "I'm here to make friends. I'm not nearly professional enough yet."
Was that… a double entendre?
"Hah!" David laughed, his mood lifting as he took in Anson's clear eyes. Finally, he sat, gesturing for Anson to do the same.
"So," David said, "what did Darren tell you?"
Anson had to search his memories—everything had happened so fast today, and his mind was still blank. "He said to remind you that I really, really love Friends."
That direct?
David was amused again.
But Anson wasn't finished. "Though I imagine you've heard that a million times. It's not like I'm the only one—otherwise, the show wouldn't be America's number one."
David interlaced his fingers over his stomach, leaning back in his chair with a hint of pride.
"Personally, I found Dream On fascinating, and Veronica's Closet probably gave Uncle Darren some inspiration." Anson wrapped it up.
Both shows were David's productions.
Veronica's Closet, in particular—a series about a lingerie company boss and her employees—predated Sex and the City. But in terms of success and acclaim, Sex and the City had far surpassed it.
A deep, hearty laugh escaped David. "Darren wouldn't like your take."
Anson disagreed. "Inspiration is everywhere. But turning it into something great? That's a rare talent."
David's eyebrow arched. Without warning, his expression turned icy. "Are you mocking me for not making something like Sex and the City?"
Was this a test?
Anson didn't flinch or evade, meeting David's gaze head-on. "I'm saying you both found your strengths and created something people love."
Silence.
David didn't respond immediately, just studied Anson.
There was something pure and effortless about him—the way he held eye contact, sincere and straightforward. The tension dissolved subtly, disarming even a seasoned player like David. No trace of an eighteen-year-old's awkwardness.
For some reason, David was reminded of Alain Delon.
His lips curved. The hostility vanished as abruptly as it had appeared. "So," he shifted gears, "what's your audition piece?"
Originally, this was just a formality. Then, just a chat. But now? David was curious—
How would this kid perform?
Not that he expected brilliance. Even a trainwreck would be fine—Brad Pitt had needed plenty of polishing too. He just wondered what scene Anson would choose and how he'd handle it.
Anson feigned nerves. "Oh, right now?"
Finally, a glimpse of age-appropriate hesitation. David's eyes gleamed. "What, should we schedule another time?"
Anson quipped, "No, I was just thinking—I've got a full show at a small theater in a few days. You could catch that instead. But I guess you're not interested."
"Hah." David chuckled. "Your guess is correct."
A little humor to steady himself—
Honestly, everything had happened too fast. Only five minutes since the transmigration. He'd thought this audition was just a courtesy, but now David was steering it toward the real deal. A million thoughts collided, and for a second, panic crept in.
But only for a second.
In his past life, he'd done all sorts of jobs to make ends meet. He'd faced bigger stages than this. And he wasn't actually a green eighteen-year-old.
Besides, he'd just time-traveled like the damn Flash. This audition was nothing to lose his cool over.
If anything, this was his spotlight moment. He should be excited.
So—what to perform?
Most new actors default to classic scenes.
Like De Niro's "You talkin' to me?" from Taxi Driver, or Hamlet's "To be or not to be" soliloquy. Or Casablanca's "Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine."
Simple reason: classics resonate. They're familiar.
Performing an obscure role in an audition risks losing your audience. A wasted opportunity.
But the problem? Classics come with baggage. Every performance gets compared to the original. Match it too closely, and you're unoriginal. Deviate, and you're a hack. Either way, it's hard to escape the shadow.
So—what's the move?
An idea struck.
Maybe, in a limited audition, the goal isn't to showcase line delivery, mimicry, or technical skill.
Maybe it's about presence. Commanding attention.
Anson wasn't sure if this was the right call. But you never know until you try, right?
And if it fails?
Well, Uncle Darren can always make another call. If looks can open doors, why stress over skill? If shortcuts exist, why take the long road?
With that thought, Anson looked up at David—no trace of nerves left.