Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

May 14, 1926

The little bungalow on North Gower Street smelled of steamed rice, mothballs, and the faint orange-blossom soap Ma used on the laundry.

Outside, the warm Los Angeles night carried the distant honk of horns and the bright, restless pulse of a city that believed it was the center of the world. Inside, the radiator clanked and hissed like an old vaudeville comedian who refused to leave the stage.

Lu Guang sat hunched on the threadbare davenport, sketchbook balanced on one knee, charcoal flying across the page as he captured the sharp cheekbones and wicked smile of the latest Paramount ingénue.

His grey eyes were narrowed in concentration, a stray pimple lurking near his jaw that no studio lighting would ever forgive. His pale hair—unfashionably light for a Chinese son—was slicked back with pomade, though a few rebellious strands had already escaped.

“Lu Guang!”

SHIT!

He startled so hard the charcoal snapped in his fingers.

“Lu Guang!”

Ma’s voice again, sharp enough to slice through rice paper. He jammed his sketchbook under a cushion just as she swept into the parlor, wicker laundry basket on her hip. She wore her usual housedress, sleeves rolled high, hair pinned back in a severe bun that had not softened one day since they left Guangdong.

Her eyes raked over Lu Guang—white shirtsleeves rolled up, striped vest unbuttoned, pale hair slightly messy, charcoal smudge on his cheek, and the faint pimple near his jaw.

A dangerous beat of silence.

“Why you not ready?” she demanded.

“Ready for what, Ma?”

“This!” She thrust a gnarled finger toward the window, as if the entire glittering city of Hollywood lay just beyond their faded curtains. “Big premiere tonight! Grauman’s Theatre. All the big shots, all the stars. You suppose go!”

Lu Guang groaned and flung himself back against the couch, one arm dramatically thrown over his eyes. “Ma, we’ve been over this eight times. I’m not going.”

“You not go? Why not?” She set the basket down with a thump and began yanking out dried shirts, snapping them briskly as though punishing them for her son’s stubbornness.

“Because I’m not a celebrity photographer!” he exclaimed, switching into rapid Cantonese—the only language in which his mother truly sparred. “I’m a nobody with a second-hand camera and too many dreams. They won’t even let me past the rope. The place will be crawling with real pressmen from the Los Angeles Times, Photoplay, and every studio flack in town.”

His mother answered in the same tongue, quick and merciless.

“You think our ancestors sent us across the ocean so you could sit in this tiny house drawing pictures like a schoolboy? Foolish boy! Put on good suit—the one with the wide lapels. Comb that pale hair of yours. Take the camera. Snap pretty pictures of the stars. Bring home money!”

Lu Guang sat up, grey eyes pleading.

“Ma, even if I wanted to go, I don’t even have a press pass. I’m just a random kid with a camera from Gower Street. They’ll look at me like I wandered off the set of one of those ‘exotic’ pictures they love so much.”

His mother planted her hands on her hips, the very picture of unmovable maternal will. “Then you make them see you. Smile. Bow a little. Tell them your mother will put a curse on their cameras if they don’t let you through. Something!”

Despite himself, a reluctant laugh escaped him.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “You’ve been listening to too many of those Fu Manchu pictures, Ma.”

His mother opened her mouth to say more but Lu Guang cut in before she could. “Besides, we can read all about it in the papers tomorrow. The boulevard will be a madhouse. It’s stupid to even try.” 

She snapped a shirt straight with a loud crack. “Well, you have camera. You have stupid hobby. Turn into stupid job.”

“That’s... not the same thing,” he muttered, looking away.

“Hobby into job is stupid,” she shot back in English. “Medicine. Law. Anything better. But no, you pick camera. Even sweep floor pay better money than camera job.”

Lu Guang stayed silent. This was not the first, second, or tenth time she had sharpened her tongue on his choices. He had scraped into night classes at USC on the strength of one entrance examination—highest score in his group—yet every professor still looked surprised when a Chinese boy opened his mouth in perfect English.

Graduation loomed in two years, and he already knew connections would matter far more than talent.

Ma twisted her lips the way she did when she was loading her next shot. “Beside, you can see the man you've been watching on television for long now.”

Lu Guang reached for the glass of water by the couch, stalling. “What man?”

“That one! The tall Chinese fellow. Our kind. Star of The Crimson Promise. The one all the magazines rave about—”

“Ma—”

“Three big awards last season. They say he will take the Academy prize in another year or two. Handsome. Successful.” She jabbed a finger toward the window, then back at him. “And you sit here drawing pictures like a coward.”

“Okay, Ma, I get it,” Lu Guang said gritting his teeth, cheeks burning.

He slumped deeper into the davenport, grey eyes fixed on a crack in the plaster ceiling. The thought of shoving his way through that glittering crowd made his stomach twist.

Flashbulbs popping in his face. Studio men in crisp suits looking him over like he’d wandered off a Chinatown set. Security ropes. Laughter. Rejection.

“They say he got charm like Valentino, magnetism that make ladies faint in the aisles.” Ma continued shamelessly, “Handsome face, smooth voice. Stepping stone for all Asian in this town—they write that. ‘New hope for Oriental actors,’ the papers say. Glitter and gold, that one.”

Lu Guang’s stomach tightened.

He used to devour every frame of Cheng Xiaoshi on the silver screen.

Used to linger outside theaters just to catch the glow of his latest picture, heart lifting at the sight of someone who looked like him commanding the spotlight under those massive klieg lights.

The Crimson Promise had been magic—Cheng and his radiant co-star Xu Shanshan lighting up the screen like twin flames.

Until the fan magazines turned sour.

One glossy article in Photoplay had painted him as the latest Hollywood wolf: serial dater, philanderer, caught flirting shamelessly with a chorus girl right in the middle of an interview.

Recent columns whispered he was now tangled up with Xu Shanshan off-camera, stolen kisses between takes and late-night drives up Mulholland in his sleek Packard.

Lu Guang had thought Cheng was different. A man who might open doors, speak up for the rest of them scraping by on the edges of this glittering machine.

But no. He was just another pretty face chasing spotlights and starlets, same as every other leading man in this town. He never used his fame to lift up the newcomers, the extras, the kids like Lu Guang with second-hand cameras and big dreams.

Lu Guang shook his head, pale strands of hair falling across his grey eyes.

“Mr. Cheng’s going to be there, so what? It’s not like we haven’t seen his pictures before. He’s a little overrated if you ask me.”

“Well, I no ask you!” His mother snapped in English, snatching up a folded towel and swatting him across the shoulder with it. “I seen your pictures! You draw him all the time! You no like Mr. Cheng? He rich! He famous! Charm like devil, say the papers. Stepping stone for all our people. And you? You go night school, chase stupid camera dream. Picture-taking! Useless!”

“Ow—Ma! Ma!” Lu Guang yelped, raising his arms as a shield while he scrambled off the davenport. The towel whistled past his ear again. “Alright, alright! I’ll go! Just stop hitting me!”

“Yes, you go!” she declared triumphantly, landing one last light smack on his arm for good measure. “And wear red tie! Make you look extra handsome and rich!”

Lu Guang dodged the final jab and retreated into his tiny bedroom, muttering under his breath. “Overrated peacock… thinks he’s Rudolph Valentino reincarnated…”

The door clicked shut behind him. He leaned against it for a moment, exhaling.

The little room smelled of ink, old film stock, and the faint sandalwood incense Ma still burned for luck. His good suit—the dark navy one with wide 1920s lapels—hung pressed on the wardrobe door.

He ran a hand through his pale hair, staring at his reflection in the small mirror.

Grey eyes. White dishevelled hair.

A Chinese face that studios would probably label “exotic” and then forgotten by morning.

“Stepping stone,” he muttered bitterly. “More like stepping on everyone else to stay on top.”

Still, the night outside pulsed with life. Even through the closed window he could hear the distant roar of engines and the bright, restless energy of Hollywood Boulevard calling.

Searchlights would already be slicing the dark sky above Grauman’s Theatre.

Actresses in shimmering drop-waist gowns and fox stoles would be stepping out of long black Packards and Pierce-Arrows, pearls gleaming under the flashing bulbs.

And somewhere in that sea of silk and spotlights, Cheng Xiaoshi would be smiling that perfect, magazine-cover smile.

Lu Guang sighed, reached for the red tie, and began to dress.

He stood before the small mirror in his room, knotting the red tie with reluctant fingers. The navy suit fit decently enough, though the shoulders were a touch too broad — handed down from a cousin who had gone back to Guangdong two years ago. He ran a comb through his pale hair, slicking it back with a dab of pomade, then turned to the real star of the evening.

His camera.

The second-hand 4x5 Speed Graphic rested on the wooden dresser like a patient beast. It was heavy, battered, and beautiful. 

He had saved for months, bargaining with a broke pressman outside the Los Angeles Examiner building. No fancy Leica for him — those new miniature German cameras were still rare and far too expensive. This was a working press camera, the kind real newsmen carried.

He lifted it with practiced ease, checking the leather bellows for light leaks, then slid in a fresh film holder. Two more holders went into the deep pockets of his suit jacket. 

Anticipation, he reminded himself. That was the secret. Not just clicking the shutter, but seeing the moment before it happened.

His technique was simple but sharp. He preferred available light when he could get it — the dramatic sweep of searchlights, the blaze of marquee bulbs, the soft spill from theater doors. Flash powder was messy and dangerous (one spark near a lady’s chiffon dress and the whole night could end in flames and screaming), so he only used it as a last resort.

Instead, he relied on fast lenses and steady hands. He would brace the camera against his body, elbows tucked, breath held, waiting for the exact fraction of a second when emotion cracked through the glamour.

He loved catching the unguarded moments: a starlet’s tired laugh after smiling for the hundredth time, the jealous glance between rivals, the way silk fringe moved when a woman turned too quickly.

Tiny truths inside the big lie of Hollywood.

And Mr. Cheng Xiaoshi? Lu Guang had studied his face across dozens of frames in his mind. The man’s strong jaw and expressive eyes photographed like a dream under harsh lights.

But he wanted something more — a crack in the perfect image. A flicker of arrogance. A tired smile. Proof that the “stepping stone for Asian actors” was just flesh and ego like everyone else.

He slipped two extra lenses into his other pocket — a wide-angle for crowd shots and a longer one for portraits if security let him get close. A small notebook and pencil for noting exposure times and subjects. Finally, he slung the camera by its worn leather strap over his shoulder.

“Lu Guang!” his mother called from the parlor. “You go now or I come in there!”

“I’m coming, Ma!” he shouted, louder than necessary.

“You shout at your mother?! Where my shoe?”

Lu Guang grumbled under his breath and stepped out. She looked him over once, her anger dissipating. Her sharp eyes missed nothing, then she gave a satisfied nod.

“You look almost rich,” she said. “Now go make money.”

Lu Guang exhaled, stepped into the warm night.

The distant glow of searchlights already painted the sky in moving silver. Jazz music and car horns floated on the breeze. His heart beat faster despite himself.

He was still reluctant. Still bitter.

But the photographer in him — the one who saw light and shadow and fleeting human truth — was already hungry.

“Shit,” Lu Guang swore under his breath.

He popped a stick of Wrigley’s gum into his mouth, chewing hard to settle the nerves twisting in his stomach.

He had been parked in his battered old Ford Model T for the past twenty minutes, half a block from the madness, engine off, windows cracked. The car smelled of oil, old leather, and the faint mothballs from his good suit.

Outside, Hollywood Boulevard had transformed into a glittering fever dream.

Searchlights swept across the night sky in sweeping arcs, slicing through the warm California darkness like silver swords. Grauman’s Theatre rose like an exotic palace, its ornate pagoda-style roof glowing under hundreds of electric bulbs.

A long crimson carpet—deep red as fresh blood—stretched from the curb all the way to the grand entrance, cordoned off by velvet ropes and gold stanchions. Palm trees lining the boulevard swayed gently, their fronds painted gold and silver by the bouncing light.

Limousines and sleek Packards purred forward one by one, disgorging the night’s royalty.

Actresses in shimmering drop-waist gowns stepped out laughing, their sequined chiffon catching every flash of light like living diamonds. Fringe and beads swayed hypnotically with every movement. Feathered headbands and cloche hats sat low over bobbed hair. Long strands of pearls swung against bare backs.

The men looked sharp in tuxedos with gleaming satin lapels, patent leather shoes, and white silk scarves tossed carelessly over shoulders.

Lu Guang’s grey eyes widened as he spotted them.

There was Clara Beaumont, darling of Paramount, wrapped in silver lamé that hugged her figure before exploding into layers of delicate chiffon. She waved at the crowd with a gloved hand, diamonds flashing at her throat.

Beside her, the dashing Reginald Voss—matinee idol with the perfect profile—offered his arm, flashing that million-dollar smile the fan magazines worshipped.

And further down the carpet… was that Jasmine Low?

The young American actress glowed under the lights in a striking crimson gown, sequins sparkling like fire across the drop waist. A black feather stole draped over her shoulders. Cameras exploded around her in a storm of white flashes. She looked ethereal, untouchable, every inch the rising “Southern Belle sensation” the studios were pushing this season.

The air itself tasted of glamour: expensive French perfume, motor exhaust, popcorn from nearby vendors, and the sweet haze of cigarette smoke.

Jazz music spilled from inside the theatre, hot and lively. Reporters shouted names. Fans screamed. The whole boulevard pulsed like one giant, breathing creature made of light and ambition.

Lu Guang blew out a long breath, fogging the windshield for a second.

What the hell am I doing here?

He didn’t belong in this world. Not with his second-hand Speed Graphic, his handed-down suit, and his pale hair that never quite behaved.

He was just a night-school kid from North Gower Street with charcoal on his fingers and a mother who dreamed bigger than he did. These people were gods under glass. He was… nobody.

He’d be kicked out, dragged across that crimson carpet like a stray dog, while Cheng Xiaoshi and all those sequin-clad goddesses watched with champagne glasses in hand, laughing behind their gloved fingers. The thought made his stomach twist.

“Damn it, Ma,” he muttered, chewing the gum faster. “This is your fault.”

He fiddled with his camera to keep his hands from shaking, twisting the lens cap on and off, checking the bellows one more time. What a waste of time.

He flipped open his notebook for something to do, hoping to calm his nerves, but the first page stared back at him: a detailed charcoal sketch of Cheng Xiaoshi’s sharp, magnetic profile. He slammed the book shut instantly.

“This isn’t helping,” he groaned.

He leaned his head against the armrest of the old Model T, already crafting excuses he could tell his mother later. The crowd was too thick. My camera jammed. A big studio man told me to scram—

A sharp rap on the window nearly made him jump out of his skin.

Heart hammering, Lu Guang sat up straight and grabbed the window crank. He twisted frantically, but the stubborn thing refused to budge. “Shit—”

Another rap, louder this time.

“Hey, you alright in there?” a man’s voice called.

“Yeah! Just uh—” Lu Guang grunted, putting his shoulder into it. With a metallic squeak, the window finally rolled down halfway. His face burned with embarrassment. “Hello,” he said, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. “How can I, uh… help you?”

The man leaned one arm on the roof of the Model T, squinting through the glare of the searchlights. Up close, Lu Guang could see the press badge pinned to his lapel and the faint smell of cigarette smoke already clinging to his cheap suit.

“You lost, kid? Or you one of the drivers waiting on the big shots?”

Lu Guang bristled, sitting up straighter. “I’m not a driver,” he said, a little sharper than he intended. “I’m a photographer.”

The man stared at him for a long beat. Lu Guang tensed, waiting for the usual comment — the pale hair, the Chinese face, the “you don’t look like a pressman” line. Instead, the man barked a short laugh.

“You look barely old enough to shave, let alone work a press pass. You really a photographer?”

Lu Guang shrugged, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “I’ve got a camera. So you tell me.”

The man huffed, amused. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a fat cigar, and clipped the end with a small silver cutter. The flare of his match lit up a weathered face lined with years of chasing deadlines and dodging studio flacks.

Behind the man, another limousine purred past, releasing a burst of laughter and the scent of expensive perfume into the warm night air. Palm fronds rustled overhead as another searchlight swept across the boulevard, bathing the Model T in sudden, blinding silver.

He took a deep pull, then exhaled a cloud of rich smoke into the night air.

“Want one?” he offered, holding out the cigar case.

Lu Guang shook his head quickly. “No, thank you.”

“You don't smoke?”

“No, sure, I do. Just...not right now.”

The man chuckled, low and raspy. “Alright, Sure. Not now. But you’ll need one later, kid. Nights like this’ll chew you up if you don’t have something stronger than gum.”

Lu Guang frowned, fingers tightening around the body of his Speed Graphic. He wasn’t sure if the man was mocking him or giving him some grizzled veteran’s wisdom. Probably both.

Behind the pressman, another wave of glamour rolled down the red carpet — more sequined chiffon, more pearls, more laughter that sparkled brighter than the flashbulbs.

The older photographer tilted his head toward Grauman’s glowing entrance. “Name’s Harlan. Examiner stringer. Came out here for a smoke and five minutes away from that circus. You got a name, kid?”

Lu Guang opened his mouth, then hesitated. He wasn’t supposed to be here. If anything went wrong — if security dragged him out or some studio goon got angry — he didn’t want his real name floating around tomorrow’s gossip columns.

“Mark,” he replied smoothly.

Harlan lifted one thick eyebrow, the searchlights catching the skepticism on his face. “Mark? With a face like that, your name’s Mark?”

“My father was American,” Lu Guang lied without missing a beat. Thank God his English was flawless and any trace of accent had long since been sanded away by night classes and stubborn pride.

“Oh, okay,” Harlan said with a short laugh, clearly not believing a word but deciding not to push. He took another pull on his cigar. “So, Mark… you gonna sit in that old Tin Lizzie all night, or you scared of the stars?”

Lu Guang opened his mouth to argue, but realized every excuse in his head sounded pathetic. He gave a weak laugh instead and pushed the creaky door open. “Right, uh… sorry. It’s my first time. I’m a little nervous.”

“Nothing wrong with nerves for breakfast, kid,” Harlan said, exhaling a fragrant cloud into the warm air. “No need to apologize to me.” He glanced sideways at Lu Guang. “Not one for big nights, huh?”

“Uh… I mostly stay home and draw. Does that count?”

Harlan chuckled, a low, gravelly sound. “Can’t say it does. I photograph stars for a living, and I gotta tell you, Mark — you might be the best-looking person I’ve seen all night.”

Lu Guang nearly choked on his gum. He covered it with an awkward laugh, cheeks burning under the barrage of flashing bulbs and sweeping spotlights.

Around them, the crimson carpet blazed like a river of fire. Actresses in shimmering sequined chiffon and feather-trimmed stoles glided past, their laughter bright as champagne. Further down the line, he caught another glimpse of Jasmine Low, radiant in her crimson gown, smiling for a cluster of shouting photographers.

Lu Guang adjusted the strap of his Speed Graphic as they walked slowly along the edge of the chaos, the roar of the crowd and popping flashbulbs filling the night. “So why are you out here instead of shooting the stars?” he asked.

Harlan shrugged, cigar glowing between his fingers. “Needed a break from ‘em. The screaming, the pushing, the egos bigger than the Theatre itself.” He took another slow drag, then added after a pause, “Had a rough run-in with one of the big names earlier. Came out here to cool my head before I said something that’d get me blacklisted.”

Lu Guang nodded, eyes flicking toward the glittering carpet.

“It’s scary, honestly. How they can get away with awful behavior just because they’re famous. One smile for the camera and suddenly everyone forgets.”

Harlan let out a low laugh. “You don’t seem all that fond of them either, Mark.”

Lu Guang snorted, pale hair catching the light as he shook his head. “I’m not. I’m only here because my mother forced me. Between the two of us, I think she’s half in love with the lead star of The Crimson Promise.”

Harlan threw his head back and laughed loudly, the sound cutting through the distant jazz and crowd noise. A few heads turned their way before the glittering tide of celebrities pulled their attention back.

“Easy to be fooled by a face like that,” Harlan said, still chuckling. “Mr. Cheng's got nearly every female lead in Hollywood lining up for a chance to kiss him on camera — and off it. Charm like black magic, that one. The way he looks at you… makes you feel like you’re the only person in the room.” His voice dropped a notch. “But beauty like that usually hides a more dangerous man underneath. Trust me, kid. I’ve seen the other side of that smile.”

Lu Guang felt a chill despite the warm night air. Around them, another wave of glamour rolled forward — a statuesque actress in emerald-green sequins and white fox fur stepped out of a gleaming Rolls-Royce, waving to the screaming fans while palm trees swayed overhead like golden sentinels.

Lu Guang frowned, grey eyes narrowing. “What do you mean by that? ‘Dangerous’?”

Harlan shrugged, tapping ash from his cigar onto the pavement.

The searchlights swept over them again, turning the smoke into drifting silver ghosts.

“Just that Mr. Cheng isn’t all he’s cracked up to be. Cocky as hell. Arrogant. Can be real rude when the cameras stop rolling. And that temper of his?” Harlan whistled low. “Seen it flare up more than once. Not pretty.”

Lu Guang shook his head, unwilling to let go of the image he’d built from a hundred magazine spreads and flickering theater screens. “That can’t be right. The papers and fan magazines all praise him. They say he’s charming. Relatable. A real gentleman on set.”

Harlan snorted, a harsh sound that cut through the bright laughter floating from the red carpet. “Relatable? There ain’t nothing relatable about a twenty-two-year-old star, kid. Those magazines? The studios and the celebrities buy ‘em by the truckload and tell the writers exactly what words to paint. Charm. Magnetism. ‘Stepping stone for the Orientals.’ All part of the act. Cheng Xiaoshi’s no different. He plays the game better than most, I’ll give him that.”

Lu Guang’s grip tightened on his camera. The words landed heavier than he expected. Part of him wanted to argue — to defend the version of Cheng he’d sketched so many times in his notebook. The other part, the reluctant one who never wanted to come tonight, felt a grim satisfaction at hearing the cracks in the golden image.

“So why does everyone fall for it?” Lu Guang muttered.

“Because it feels good to believe in the dream,” Harlan said, exhaling another cloud of smoke. “Hollywood sells illusions, Mark. Some of us just get paid to take pictures of ‘em.”

Lu Guang glanced sideways at Harlan as another limousine glided past, its chrome gleaming like liquid silver under the searchlights. “I take it you’ve photographed him a lot, then? Mr. Cheng?”

Harlan exhaled a long plume of cigar smoke that mingled with the night’s perfume and exhaust. “More than most. It's what I'm paid to do. Opinions be damned.”

There was a brief silence and Harlan broke it. He clapped a heavy hand on Lu Guang’s shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get you closer before the main event arrives. You might as well get your shots — even if it’s just to prove to your ma that you tried.”

Lu Guang swallowed, reluctance and curiosity now warring harder inside his chest as the distant roar of the crowd swelled again.

He lifted his Speed Graphic and went to work. He braced the heavy camera against his body, elbows tucked, breath held. The searchlights swept across the carpet as another group of stars posed.

He clicked the shutter — once, twice, three times — catching the dramatic flare of a silver sequined gown under the lights, the elegant tilt of a feathered head, and the exact moment Jasmine Low turned with a dazzling smile that lit up half the boulevard.

He advanced the film holder quickly and took a few more. Then he turned the camera toward Harlan.

“Here,” Lu Guang said, a little shy as he showed the older man the small ground-glass viewer. “Just a couple test shots.”

Harlan leaned in, cigar dangling from his lips. His eyebrows shot up.

“Well I’ll be damned…” He let out a low whistle. “These are sharp as a tack, kid. Composition, timing, the way you caught the light on that fringe — you got the eye of a real artist. How long you been doing this?”

Lu Guang rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish under the praise. “It’s… more of a hobby, really. Turned it into a career a while back. My mother still hasn’t forgiven me for it. She thinks I should’ve become a doctor or a lawyer.”

Harlan shook his head, genuinely impressed. “Nah, kid. This right here is talent. Real talent. Nobody should tell you otherwise.”

Lu Guang gave a small, bitter smile. “Talent’s swell and all, but it still doesn’t pay the rent. Who gives a damn about talent when the damn thing doesn’t put food on the table?”

Harlan looked at him for a long moment, then turned his gaze back toward the growing, restless crowd. He yawned theatrically and stretched his shoulders.

“Tell you what, Mark. I’m feeling a little tired all of a sudden. Mind holding the fort for me while I step away for a short break?”

Lu Guang blinked. “Sure, I guess—”

Before he could finish, Harlan grinned and pressed his own press pass into Lu Guang’s hand. The brass badge felt warm and dangerously official.

The crowd suddenly surged forward with a roar, flashbulbs popping like fireworks. The energy on the boulevard spiked.

“It’s starting,” Harlan said, eyes gleaming.

Lu Guang’s stomach dropped. “What’s starting?”

Harlan gave him a firm push forward, straight toward the prime spot along the velvet rope. “The main event, kid.”

Lu Guang stumbled a step, suddenly much closer to the crimson carpet than he had any right to be. Realization hit him like a slap.

“You son of a—”

Harlan winked, already backing away into the crowd. “You deserve a little shot in the spotlight, Mark. Take some good pictures! Knock ‘em dead!”

And just like that, the older photographer melted into the sea of bodies, leaving Lu Guang standing there — press pass in one hand, heavy camera in the other — right in the heart of the frenzy.

“Shit,” Lu Guang whispered, heart hammering against his ribs as the roar of the crowd swelled around him and another long black limousine rolled slowly toward the entrance.

Cheng Xiaoshi sprawled across the plush leather seat of the Rolls-Royce like he owned the damn thing — which, tonight, he practically did. One polished patent leather shoe rested insolently on the opposite seat, inches from Xu Shanshan’s elegant gown. She sat pressed against the far door, hands folded tightly in her lap, but he didn’t spare her a glance.

Slow, smoky jazz drifted from the car’s speaker, a clarinet curling through the air like a lazy snake. It did nothing to cool the irritation boiling in his veins.

The boulevard outside was a circus. Grauman’s Theatre blazed like some garish Oriental fantasy built just for him — and yet every second-rate starlet and has-been was out there preening on his red carpet.

Tonight was supposed to be his night, he thought, not a free-for-all.

Xu Shanshan was still. Smart girl.

This was the premiere of Whispers of the Echo, their romantic tragedy that had the whole town buzzing. The fan magazines were losing their minds. Photoplay had called it “the most devastating romantic tragedy to grace the silver screen in a decade — a masterpiece of light and shadow that will linger in your heart like perfume on silk.” Motion Picture Magazine went even further, listing it among the finest pictures of the year and boldly predicting that Cheng Xiaoshi might very well receive an Academy Award for his searing performance.

Him. An Oriental leading man. 

Even Charlie Bolton — that silver-haired king of Hollywood who had dominated the screen for fifteen years — had given a glowing quote to the papers: “Young Cheng possesses a rare fire. He doesn’t just act. He bleeds on the screen. The Academy would be wise to take notice.”

Cheng’s lips curled. Of course they would praise him. He was the best thing to happen to this town since they invented the close-up. Everyone else was just lucky to stand in his light.

He finally deigned to look at Xu Shanshan. “Try not to smile too much out there. Or else, the reporters become more rabid. Be moderate.”

She gave a small, tight nod.

The limousine rolled forward another few feet and stopped again. Outside, the crowd roared like hungry beasts. Cheng ran a hand through his perfectly pomaded hair, checked the mirror one last time, and adjusted the white silk scarf at his neck. The dark tuxedo fit him like sin itself — wide satin lapels, crisp white shirt, every inch the modern matinee idol.

He was twenty-two years old and already knew he was better than every bitty clapping out there.

He sipped his champagne with deliberate slowness, a smug, self-satisfied smile playing on his lips as the limousine inched closer to the blazing entrance of Grauman’s Theatre.

“Well, today’s your night, Mr. Cheng,” his publicist, May Armstrong, said with a practiced bright smile. “On a scale of one to ten, how excited are you?”

Cheng snorted, eyes half-lidded with boredom. “If you can get these wannabes off my carpet, maybe a five.”

May kept smiling, though it had tightened at the edges. “Are you planning on staying more than ten minutes on the carpet tonight? Last premiere you set a new personal record at seven.”

“Five pictures,” he said flatly. “And that’s it.”

“What about the journalists hoping to speak with you? The press? They’re all dying for a few words.”

Cheng Xiaoshi scoffed, swirling the champagne in his glass. “They can wait. I can give them an interview from my house if I feel like it. There’s no need for me to cozy up to them.”

“I hear Photoplay and Motion Picture Magazine are out there,” May tried again, voice sweet as honeyed poison. “They’ve been especially eager. Sent a special note this afternoon.”

“May.” His tone was ice.

“Yes, Mr. Cheng?”

He turned his head slowly, dark eyes cold. “Watch yourself. You work for me so you do as I say. Don’t ever forget that.”

The publicist’s smile never faltered, but her knuckles whitened in her lap. “Of course, Mr. Cheng.”

May sighed softly and turned toward the other occupant of the limousine, her professional smile softening just a fraction.

“And how are you feeling tonight, Ms. Xu?”

Xu Shanshan looked radiant in a flowing champagne-gold gown that caught the interior lights like liquid starlight. The drop-waist silhouette shimmered with delicate beading, while layers of sheer chiffon floated around her legs.

Her dark hair was styled in an elegant updo — soft finger waves pinned back with sparkling jeweled combs — and her makeup was perfection: kohl-lined dusky brown eyes that appeared even larger and more luminous under the warm glow, paired with a soft rosebud mouth.

“Quite alright, May,” Xu Shanshan replied. Her smile was lovely, but tight at the corners. “Does my makeup still look alright?”

“Flawless, darling. You look like a dream.” May replied. “What about your husband?” she continued gently.

“Oh… he’s not coming.” Xu Shanshan’s voice grew quiet. “He couldn’t make it tonight.”

Cheng Xiaoshi snorted from his sprawled position, not even bothering to hide his contempt.

“This is exactly why married women shouldn’t do romantic pictures,” he drawled. “How can you kiss another man on screen when you have a husband waiting at home? If it were my wife acting like that, I’d probably react exactly like Dong Yi.”

Xu Shanshan’s expression hardened. “Do not speak about my marriage or my family, Mr. Cheng.” Her tone was firm, ice beneath the silk. She turned back to May with forced brightness. “It doesn’t matter. I’m the one making millions for the studio, not him. I’m here to enjoy tonight. I can deal with Dong Yi and his strict traditional ideas later.”

Cheng Xiaoshi cut her off with a lazy wave of his hand.

“Whatever. May,” His voice was cold and commanding. “when this circus is over, I expect four beautiful girls waiting for me at the hotel. Young, eager, and discreet. I don't need this leaking off to the press. Understand?”

May blinked once, her composure cracking for the briefest second. “Four… Yes, Mr. Cheng.”

Satisfied, Cheng Xiaoshi adjusted the white silk scarf at his throat and leaned toward the door as the limousine finally rolled to a stop. Outside, the wall of sound hit them — screaming fans, shouting photographers, the relentless storm of flashbulbs exploding like fireworks.

A smug, entitled smile curved his lips.

“Time to give them what they came for.”

The door opened.

Cheng Xiaoshi stepped out into the storm of light and sound like a king descending upon his subjects. The crimson carpet lay before him, glittering under thousands of electric bulbs. Palm trees swayed. Actresses in shimmering sequins and chiffon turned to look. The entire boulevard seemed to hold its breath.

“Mr. Cheng! Mr. Cheng! Over here!”

“Mr. Cheng, give us a smile!”

“I love you, Cheng Xiaoshi!”

The screams from the fans hit him like a wave. He lifted one hand in that signature lazy wave, flashing the slow, devastating smile that had launched a thousand magazine covers. The crowd lost its mind.

He looked every inch the superstar in his perfectly tailored black tuxedo, white silk scarf draped just so, dark hair pomaded back with one rebellious strand artfully falling over his forehead. Arrogance rolled off him in waves, but it was wrapped in such effortless, magnetic charm that it was hard to resent him for it.

Xu Shanshan stepped out beside him, radiant in her champagne-gold gown. Cheng slid his right arm around her slim waist, pulling her close with casual possessiveness. His left hand stayed in his pocket, the picture of relaxed dominance. Cameras flashed wildly. They posed together — the perfect on-screen couple the tabloids couldn’t stop writing about.

He knew the rumors. He encouraged them. Let them believe he and Xu Shanshan were tangled in some passionate off-screen romance. The truth (that she was quietly married) was far less interesting.

Cheng Xiaoshi moved down the crimson carpet with the lazy confidence of a man who owned every inch of it. He ruffled his hair with one hand, and the resulting explosion of screams from the female fans made even him grin wider — sharp, boyish, and dangerously likeable.

He went through the motions with practiced ease, flashing smiles, tilting his head for the best angles, giving the photographers just enough to keep them hungry, flashing that trademark smile the world couldn’t resist. The screams, the flashes, the frantic shouts — it was all the same sweet noise he had grown addicted to.

Until it wasn’t.

His gaze drifted across the press line and snagged on one photographer who was frowning down at his camera like it had personally betrayed him. The young man looked no older than nineteen, maybe twenty. And God…

He was breathtaking.

Pale, almost silvery hair slicked back but rebelling at the temples, catching the searchlights like moonlight on water. A perfectly tailored black suit hugged his frame — modest compared to the custom tuxedos around him, yet it looked devastatingly elegant on that slender body.

He stood with a quiet, calm composure that felt completely out of place in the roaring chaos, shoulders straight, chin slightly lifted, one foot planted forward with unconscious grace. Long, elegant fingers — the kind made for sketching or playing piano rather than wrestling heavy press cameras — fiddled with the lens, brows drawn together in frustration. A small, concentrated frown creased his brow.

Then he lifted the camera.

For one suspended second, Cheng Xiaoshi forgot how to breathe.

Those lips. Soft, pink, and delicately shaped — almost too pretty for a man — parted slightly in concentration. When the young photographer finally raised his grey eyes above the camera, their gazes collided.

Everything else vanished.

The screaming fans, the exploding flashbulbs, the jazz spilling from the theatre, Xu Shanshan’s subtle touch on his arm — it all faded into a dull hum. The entire glittering, mad world of Hollywood Boulevard narrowed down to this one boy standing behind the velvet rope with his old Speed Graphic and that calm, stormy aura.

Cheng’s heart gave a hard, unexpected kick against his ribs.

Who the hell are you?

The young man adjusted his grip, fingers steadying on the camera body, and for a moment his soft pink lips pressed together in determination. He looked straight at Cheng — not with the usual starry-eyed worship, but with something sharper. Something that felt like both challenge and reluctant fascination.

Xu Shanshan discreetly nudged his side. “Xiaoshi,” she whispered.

“Mr. Cheng!”

A brilliant flash exploded directly in front of him, snapping him back to reality.

Cheng blinked, momentarily dazed, the afterimage of that pale-haired boy burned behind his eyelids. The roar of the crowd rushed back in like a wave. He was vaguely aware that he had stopped moving completely in the middle of the red carpet — something he never did.

He recovered with effortless charm, flashing a devastating grin toward the cameras while his eyes kept drifting back to the young photographer.

That calm face.

Those elegant fingers.

Those impossibly soft lips.

For the first time in a long while, Cheng Xiaoshi felt something stir that wasn’t boredom or calculated ambition.

He wanted to know his name.

He wanted to make that composed young man flustered.

And as the lights shuttered, as the many starlets smiled at him or how loudly the crowd screamed his name, Cheng Xiaoshi’s attention kept pulling back to the quiet boy in the black suit with the silver hair and the stormy grey eyes.

The press descended on them like a glittering swarm the moment they hit the prime section of the carpet.

Reporters thrust microphones forward while flashbulbs popped relentlessly. Xu Shanshan pressed herself closer to Cheng Xiaoshi’s side, the champagne-gold of her gown shimmering against his black tuxedo. She handled the questions with polished grace.

“I’m incredibly grateful for this opportunity,” she said warmly, the rehearsed answer flowing like silk. “Working with Mr. Cheng has been an absolute dream. He’s the perfect co-star — funny, handsome, caring, and so generous with his time and talent.”

Cheng Xiaoshi barely heard her.

His gaze kept dragging back to the young photographer with the pale hair like a magnet pulled by unseen force. 

Even as questions flew at him from every direction, Cheng found himself searching the press line. There. 

The boy moved with quiet confidence through the chaos. Pale silver hair glowing under the klieg lights, a few rebellious strands falling across his forehead. That tailored black suit hugged his lean frame perfectly — narrow waist, straight shoulders, long legs planted with natural grace.

The boy had lowered his camera. He wasn’t fighting for shots of them anymore. Instead, he had turned toward the fan stands, bending gracefully at the waist to capture a better angle of the excited crowd. His long fingers adjusted the lens with surprising tenderness.

What the hell is he doing?

Most photographers clawed for the stars. This one was ignoring the biggest name on the carpet to photograph ordinary fans — girls clutching signed pictures, young men cheering, families waving handmade banners.

When he bent slightly to capture a better angle of the fans, the fabric pulled taut across his back and thighs in a way that made Cheng’s mouth go dry.

And then it happened.

The boy laughed.

The young photographer said something that made a cluster of fans laugh. He grinned in response — and laughed.

It was low, warm, and unexpectedly rich — a velvet sound that slipped under Cheng’s skin and settled deep in his chest. His soft pink lips curved into a genuine smile, eyes crinkling, that small dimple flashing near the corner of his mouth. For one electric second, the entire noisy, glittering world of Hollywood Boulevard faded into nothing but the sight of that beautiful face lit with real joy.

Cheng Xiaoshi forgot how to breathe.

Fuck.

Heat licked down his spine. His fingers flexed at his side, suddenly aching to touch — to tilt that sharp jaw, to brush those rebellious strands of pale hair back, to taste those soft, supple lips. The boy’s calm, stormy grey eyes held a quiet intensity that felt more alive than any rehearsed adoration Cheng had ever received.

No one looked at him like that. No one ignored him like that.

And it was driving him insane.

Cheng Xiaoshi felt it like a punch to the chest.

Xu Shanshan subtly nudged his ribs. Cheng barely registered it. His eyes stayed locked on the young photographer.

The boy’s fingers tightened on his camera. Cheng watched those long, elegant fingers and imagined them elsewhere. On his skin. In his hair. Gripping his lapels as he pulled him close.

“Mr. Cheng—”

He snapped back to the interviewer, blinking.

“—your thoughts on the Oscar buzz? Many are saying Whispers in the Echo could make you the youngest actor to win Best Actor. How does that feel?”

Cheng had no idea what the man had said before that. He hadn’t heard a word. He recovered with a smooth, arrogant smile, the one that always made reporters weak.

“It feels exactly how it should,” he replied, voice rich with confidence. “I gave everything to this role. The Academy would be foolish not to recognize it.”

His eyes flicked back to the pale-haired photographer almost immediately.

The young man was still laughing softly with the fans, raising his camera again to capture their joy. That calm, beautiful face glowing under the sweeping searchlights. Those elegant fingers steady on the camera body.

Cheng Xiaoshi’s smirk deepened, slow and predatory beneath the charm.

Who are you, pretty boy?

For the first time in years, the King of the Red Carpet found himself far more interested in one quiet photographer than in the entire screaming, glittering circus built to worship him.

“Excuse me for a second,” Cheng Xiaoshi said abruptly, pulling away from Xu Shanshan without waiting for a reply. He ignored her startled expression and the puzzled murmurs from the interviewers behind him.

His heart was hammering — actually hammering — something he hadn’t felt since his very first audition years ago. The screams of the fans grew deafening as he veered off the center of the crimson carpet toward the velvet rope.

He greeted a few fellow stars with warm hugs and easy laughter, flashed Jasmine Low his most dazzling smile when she batted her lashes at him, but his eyes never truly left the pale-haired young man.

Closer.

Every step sent a thrill through him. By the time he was barely a foot away, Cheng realized with genuine shock that he was nervous. Him. Nervous. Over a photographer.

The boy was even more devastating up close. Those storm-grey eyes. The soft pink lips. The way the tailored black suit skimmed his body. That calm, reserved aura that made Cheng want to ruffle him up until he came undone.

“Nice pictures,” Cheng said, voice low and velvet-smooth, the kind he usually reserved for seduction.

The young photographer whirled around, startled. For a second his grey eyes widened, then he relaxed — but only slightly. A guarded mask slipped into place.

“Oh… thank you,” he replied, polite but cautious. His voice was quieter than Cheng expected, smooth and well-spoken.

Cheng leaned one arm casually against the velvet rope, bringing him even closer. The scent of the boy’s pomade and faint soap reached him — clean, simple, and strangely intoxicating amid the heavy perfumes of the night.

“You’ve got a good eye,” Cheng continued, his dark gaze roaming openly over the young man’s face, lingering on his mouth before flicking back up. “Most photographers here only chase the stars. You actually see people. The real ones. I like that.”

The photographer shifted his weight, fingers tightening around his camera. He looked equal parts flattered and wary, like a wild bird deciding whether the hand offering crumbs was safe.

“It’s… just what interested me tonight,” he said carefully, keeping his tone neutral. “The fans seem more honest than the stage sometimes.”

Cheng’s lips curved into a slow, magnetic smile. God, he wanted to hear that low, warm voice say his name. He wanted to make those guarded grey eyes flicker with something hotter than caution.

“You’re not going to ask for my autograph?” Cheng teased, tilting his head. His voice dropped, intimate despite the roaring crowd around them.

A faint flush colored the young man’s cheeks. He glanced down at his camera for a moment before meeting Cheng’s eyes again — still guarded, but unable to fully look away.

“I’m working, Mr. Cheng,” he answered, subdued. “I don’t think the Examiner pays me to collect signatures.”

Cheng let out a soft, amused chuckle. That answer only made the pull stronger. Most people tripped over themselves to please him. This one was holding back, and it made Cheng want to break through that calm exterior even more.

“I don’t think they’d mind that you’ve caught the eye of Cheng Xiaoshi,” he said, voice low and teasing, though his pulse was anything but calm.

“I mind.” The young photographer replied immediately, grey eyes steady. “I’m not interested in being anyone’s arm candy tonight. I’m just here to do my job and get paid.”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s eyebrows rose. 

“You don’t think I pay well?” he asked, lips curving into a smile.

“I don’t expect my money to come from you,” the photographer stressed, voice quiet but firm.

Cheng laughed — a rich, genuine sound that drew a few curious glances from nearby reporters. No one had spoken to him like this in years. Not with that calm defiance. It made him want to push harder, to peel back every layer of that guarded composure.

“The Examiner does pick their men well, don’t they?” Cheng murmured, eyes drifting to the press pass hanging around the young man’s neck. “Mr. Harlan.”

The photographer flinched slightly. His fingers tightened on the camera strap, but he recovered quickly. “I suppose,” he said hesitantly, then added in a subdued, polite tone, “Oh, um… congratulations on your movie premiere.”

Cheng Xiaoshi studied him in the pulsing glow of the searchlights. The careful way he held himself — calm on the surface, but Cheng could see the tension in his jaw, the way his elegant fingers gripped the camera like a shield.

This was dangerous. For both of them.

One wrong look, one whispered rumor, and careers could burn. Cheng had seen what happened to men in this town who were too careless with their desires. Whispers. Blackmail. Quiet exile. And yet here he was, unable to tear his eyes away from this beautiful boy with the stormy grey eyes and the backbone to tell a superstar “no.”

He leaned in just a fraction closer, lowering his voice so only the two of them could hear beneath the roar of the crowd. “You’re very composed, Mr. Harlan, articulate even. Most people would trip over themselves when I speak to them. You on the other hand...” His dark eyes traced the line of the photographer’s mouth again. “You look at me like I’m just another pretty face on the carpet.”

The younger man swallowed, a faint flush creeping up his neck despite his guarded expression. “With respect, Mr. Cheng… you are just another face on the carpet tonight. A very famous one. But still just a face.”

Cheng’s smile turned slower. That answer shouldn’t have thrilled him this much but it did — they were just two men standing far too close on a public red carpet, surrounded by hundreds of eyes and flashbulbs.

“So, how long have you been photographing… doing this?” he asked, genuinely curious now.

Harlan frowned slightly, those elegant fingers adjusting their grip on the camera. “About two years. I take pictures for a living.”

“Really?” Cheng was momentarily distracted by the fans surging forward, screaming his name. He forced himself to flash them that famous dazzling smile, signing a few photographs and a silk handkerchief thrust toward him, but his attention kept snapping back to the young man in front of him.

“You work? You don’t look that young,” Cheng teased, eyes tracing the sharp line of Harlan’s jaw.

“I’m a working student,” the photographer stressed. His brows drew inward as he took a short, careful step back. “Not everyone can afford to have big dreams and actually make them come true.”

Cheng Xiaoshi smirked, a spark of delight flashing in his dark eyes. “Was that directed at me? Are you jealous that I’m the one in the spotlight while you’re behind it?”

“Honestly, no.” Harlan replied, his voice calm and level. He cast his grey eyes toward the roaring crowd for a moment. “This doesn’t look nearly as fun as relaxing at home.”

Cheng let out a soft laugh, the sound low and warm between them. He leaned a little closer to the velvet rope, voice dropping so only Harlan could hear him over the chaos.

“I don’t think there’s anything more relaxing than standing under a flood of lights just to get your picture taken,” he said dryly. Then his expression shifted, something more honest slipping through the superstar mask. “But then… you’re right. It does take a little something out of you. Every interaction begins to feel like a script you’ve rehearsed a hundred times. After a while, it stops meaning anything.”

For a brief moment, the arrogance softened. Cheng’s gaze lingered on Harlan’s face — those soft pink lips, the faint flush on his cheeks, the way his pale hair caught the silver sweep of the searchlights. The attraction hit him again like a slow wave, heavy and magnetic. Standing this close to another man, speaking like this in front of hundreds of people… it was reckless. Dangerous, even. One wrong rumor could ruin both of them.

Yet he couldn’t make himself step back.

Harlan remained guarded, though Cheng noticed the subtle way his fingers tightened on the camera strap and the way he avoided holding eye contact for too long.

He took a small step back, creating the illusion of propriety, though his eyes refused to leave the young photographer. 

Over on the main carpet, Xu Shanshan was still smiling — that tight, practiced smile that didn’t reach her eyes — as she pulled Ian Somers and his wife Tiffany Grace into a photograph. The three of them looked picture-perfect under the blazing lights, but Xiaoshi could read the stiffness in her shoulders from twenty feet away. He knew he couldn’t linger here much longer.

Yet something about this man kept him rooted in place.

He was stunning, yes — that pale silver hair, those soft pink lips, the sharp grey eyes.

But it was more than beauty.

There was a quiet, grounding calm around him, like cool water in the middle of this screaming, glittering inferno.

Cheng Xiaoshi had never spoken so honestly to anyone, not even Qiao Ling, the person he considered himself closest to. And yet here he was, spilling thoughts to a complete stranger with a borrowed press pass.

Dangerous.

He might as well get something in return.

“How long have you worked for the Examiner?” Cheng asked, tilting his head with genuine curiosity.

The photographer lifted an eyebrow, clearly caught off guard. “What? Are we tracking my records now?”

Cheng Xiaoshi let out a surprised, low laugh — warm and amused. The sound drew a few curious glances from nearby fans, but he didn’t care.

“I’ve had Examiner photographers at my premieres since my first debut,” he explained, gesturing lightly toward the younger man. “I know most of them by sight. As you can see…” His dark eyes dragged slowly over the photographer’s face, lingering on his mouth before rising again. “Your face makes you very easy to remember. I would have noticed you before.”

The younger man shifted his weight, fingers tightening around his camera once more. A faint flush colored his neck and ears.

“I’ve only been doing this a short while,” he answered, voice steady but subdued. “Tonight is… different. Bigger than what I usually cover.”

Cheng smiled.

“You’re very good at pretending you’re unaffected,” he murmured, voice dropping into that velvet register he usually saved for seduction. “But I can see your pulse right here.” His gaze flicked to the side of the young man’s throat. “Beating fast. Tell me, Mr. Harlan… do I make you that nervous?”

The photographer’s grey eyes met his for a heartbeat — calm on the surface, but something flickered underneath. He took another small step back.

“I think your co-star is waiting for you, Mr. Cheng,” he said quietly, a polite deflection wrapped in steel. “You shouldn’t keep the entire premiere waiting.”

Cheng’s lips curved into a wicked, challenging smile. That little show of resistance only made him want to push harder.

He was about to reply when another wave of screams rose from the fans. But even as duty called him back to the spotlight, Cheng Xiaoshi made a silent promise to himself.

This wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

Lu Guang yanked the press pass from around his neck as though it were burning his skin and thrust it into Harlan’s hand the moment they slipped away from the roaring crowd.

“This was a mistake,” he muttered.

Harlan frowned, tucking the brass badge into his coat pocket. “What’s the matter, kid? Didn’t have a swell time?”

“No!” Lu Guang whirled on him, pale hair slightly disheveled, grey eyes flashing with agitation. “The other photographers kept shoving me aside like I was some greenhorn who wandered in off the street. A couple of them acted like they owned the press line. Then four different stars treated me like a damn waiter — snapping their fingers for me to move or fetch something. And the worst of it… some of those fellows couldn’t even frame a decent shot. I had to bite my tongue bloody to keep from correcting their angles.”

He dragged a hand through his hair. “And on top of all that… I caught the attention of Mr. Cheng.”

Harlan’s eyebrows climbed higher with every complaint, but at the final statement, his mouth fell open.

“What? How in the devil did that happen? Weren’t you behind the rope?”

“I was,” Lu Guang said indignantly. “Apparently that didn’t matter to him.”

He exhaled sharply, shoulders slumping as the glittering chaos of Grauman’s Theatre continued behind them — searchlights still sweeping the sky, distant screams rising whenever another star stepped onto the crimson carpet.

“Harlan… I’m not cut out for this life. Truly. I never wanted any part of it. I’m only here because my mother all but dragged me out the door. I don’t belong standing behind velvet ropes, watching people treat you like you’re part of the scenery.”

Harlan studied the younger man for a long moment, his grizzled face softening with sympathy under the glow of the boulevard lights.

“It’s alright, Mark. Not many fellows are built for this circus.”

Lu Guang shot him a glare. “You’re supposed to call me weak and yellow for that, not pat me on the back.”

Harlan shrugged, lighting up another cigar. “Fine. You’re weak, Mark. And a coward.” He paused, watching Lu Guang look away and swallow hard. “That what you wanted to hear?”

The older photographer exhaled a plume of smoke into the warm night air before continuing, more gently this time.

“I’ve been right where you are, kid. Young. Nervous. Scared stiff at my first big premiere. Felt like a nobody in a town that only loves somebodies. Caught a few wandering eyes myself back then, too. Had no family, no friends worth a damn. So I turned to the bottle and worse things to make the nights bearable.”

He looked at Lu Guang — at the sweat-dampened pale hair sticking to his forehead, at the tension in his frame.

“I wish someone had been there to tell me straight: The only way you’re truly weak or a coward is if you let this town chew you up and spit you out without ever fighting back. You got real talent behind that camera. Don’t let tonight — or that pretty movie star — make you forget that.”

Harlan clapped a heavy hand on Lu Guang’s shoulder.

“And if I know Cheng Xiaoshi as well as I think I do… he’ll have forgotten your face by breakfast. New day, new conquest in this town. That’s how he works.”

Lu Guang nodded slowly, trying to draw some comfort from the words as the distant roar of the premiere continued behind them.

“How was he like?” Harlan asked after a short pause, puffing on his cigar.

Lu Guang frowned, but the expression didn’t hold. He swallowed, fingers fidgeting as heat crawled up his neck.

“Pushy,” he said at last. His voice came out quieter than he intended. “A little more attentive… and more vocal than I would’ve thought.” He bit his lower lip, cheeks blooming with a deep, stubborn red that refused to fade. “Expressive, too. Different from what the magazines say,”

The memory of those dark eyes locked on him, that silky voice dropping low — just for him — made his stomach twist again. He could still feel the ghost of Cheng Xiaoshi’s gaze tracing his mouth.

Harlan let out a low, raspy laugh. “Like I said, kid. Don't listen to what you read in the rags. We in the press control the story. For example, I could just print that Mr. Cheng was seen flirting heavy with one of our own photographers—”

“Well, that wouldn’t be far from the truth,” Lu Guang muttered glumly, ears burning.

“—and that the photographer looked plenty receptive to his advances,” Harlan finished with a wicked grin.

Lu Guang’s mouth fell open. “Hey—”

Harlan shrugged. “And people would believe it. There might be some pushback if you had publicists and lawyers, but the damage? That’d already be done.”

There was a heavy pause. Harlan studied him through the smoke.

“Though I’ll admit… I’m surprised. I never took Mr. Cheng for being that direct. He’s usually more arrogant about it — charmingly so — when he sets his sights on someone.”

Lu Guang clicked his tongue, irritation mixing with the persistent flush on his face.

He turned sharply and headed toward the borrowed Model T, his polished shoes crunching on loose gravel. Harlan followed at an easy pace.

“It doesn’t matter,” Lu Guang said, voice tight. “It was a one-time thing. I’m never going to see Mr. Cheng again, so I might as well forget the whole night.”

“Hey, Mark?” Harlan leaned against the side of the car, arms folded across his broad chest. “One encounter shouldn’t stop you cold. You’ve got real talent behind that lens. Talent the whole world ought to see. Hell, if anything, Mr. Cheng could be the stepping stone you need.”

Lu Guang stopped with his hand on the car door. His cheeks were still warm, pulse fluttering annoyingly at his throat. He turned back, grey eyes flashing with something between embarrassment and resolve.

“I’m not going to get close to him just to advance myself,” he said firmly, though his fingers betrayed him by gripping the door handle a little too hard. “That might be what I want in the long run… but I won’t attach myself to him for it.”

Harlan nodded once, cigar smoke curling lazily into the warm night air. “That’s alright. Your choice is your choice… But you’re just gonna scram like that? The premiere’s still going strong.”

“I think I’ve done enough for one night, Harlan,” Lu Guang said, his voice softening. He looked up at the older man.

Harlan was dressed in a well-worn but respectable brown tweed suit, the jacket slightly rumpled from a long night of work. A loosened striped tie hung around his neck, and his white shirt had lost its starch hours ago. A battered fedora sat tilted back on his head, giving him that classic, hard-boiled pressman look.

Something warm bloomed in Lu Guang’s chest as he stared at him.

It had been so long since anyone had spoken to him with simple kindness — without that faint undercurrent of superiority, without the subtle reminder that he was Chinese, an outsider in this golden city of dreams. Harlan looked at him like he was just another young photographer trying to survive.

It felt… good.

Dangerously comforting.

“Thank you,” Lu Guang said quietly, meaning it.

Harlan didn’t look pleased. “At least let me pay you for this, Mark. I got you into this mess. Don’t leave without haggling a price.”

“It’s not your job to pay me.”

“No. But it wasn’t mine to give you my tag either,” Harlan smiled, reaching into his wallet. “Don’t worry. It’s not much. I’m still a meagre earner myself and I’ll need a little something for the bear later tonight. Just a little encouragement, kid.”

Lu Guang scoffed, a small smile tugging at his lips despite himself. He hesitated before accepting the folded bills. Was this proper?

In his mother’s eyes, accepting money from a near-stranger might seem ungracious, almost like charity. But refusing might insult Harlan’s kindness.

In this town, pride could be expensive. He needed the money — his mother needed it more. After a brief internal war, he took the cash and slipped it into his pocket.

“I’d like to see the pictures you took on the carpet, though,” Harlan said, handing over the money with a grin. “Just to see how to best my competition.”

Lu Guang laughed gently, the sound tired but genuine. “Please. You’ve got far more skill than I do.” He reached into his bag to pull out the film holders — and froze.

His hand came up empty.

“Wait a minute…” He rummaged through the bag frantically, then upturned it completely, shaking it over the passenger seat. Nothing. He checked around the floorboards, growing more desperate with every second.

The camera was gone.

All the blood drained from Lu Guang’s face. “My camera…” His voice cracked. “It’s missing.”

Harlan straightened. “You sure, kid? Check again.”

“I’m sure,” Lu Guang said, voice rising toward hysteria. He ran both hands through his pale hair, tugging at the strands. “It’s gone. The film holders, the lenses… all of it.”

That camera had been his pride and joy. He had scrimped and saved for months, bargained with a broke reporter, polished it every night like a prized possession. It wasn’t just a tool — it was his companion, his escape, the one thing that made him feel like he could capture a piece of this glittering world instead of just watching it pass him by.

His eyes stung. He turned away sharply, blinking hard.

“Mr. Cheng must have taken it when he came over,” he whispered, voice thick. “I can’t believe—”

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying not to break down on the side of Hollywood Boulevard.

Harlan raised a hand, trying to calm him. “Now hold on, kid. Don’t go jumping to conclusions. Could’ve been anything. Someone might’ve knocked into you in that madhouse and lifted it thinking it was theirs. Happens more than you’d think on big nights like this. Or maybe one of the studio boys moved it while you were distracted.”

“Wait, Mr. Harlan…” Lu Guang interrupted, eyes widening with dawning horror.

“What?”

“You’ve photographed Mr. Cheng various times in the past, right?”

“Dating back to ’24, why?”

“Goddamn it,” Lu Guang cursed, voice tight with panic. “He knows! He knows…”

“Knows what?”

“I was wearing your press pass,” Lu Guang said, the words tumbling out faster. “He looked right at the tag and smiled. He knows everyone who works for the Examiner — he said so himself. He knew I wasn’t you the whole time.”

The memory hit him again: Cheng Xiaoshi leaning close, dark eyes flicking down to the brass badge, that slow, knowing smirk playing on his lips.

With his connections, the man could track down the real “Harlan“ — him — without even breaking a sweat.

Harlan studied him for a moment, then shrugged, remarkably unfazed.

“Even if he does figure it out, I doubt he’s gonna run to the cops over a little identity mix-up on the carpet. Nobody got hurt. No real crime committed.” He clapped Lu Guang on the shoulder. “Relax, Mark. It’ll be fine.”

But Lu Guang didn’t believe it for a second.

Not only had Cheng Xiaoshi taken his beloved camera — his most prized possession — but he also knew Lu Guang had lied about his name. The superstar now held both his most important tool and a piece of dangerous information.

In this town where reputations were made and destroyed overnight, that combination felt like a loaded gun pressed against his temple.

Lu Guang stared out at the sweeping searchlights still painting the night sky above Grauman’s Theatre. The premiere was still in full swing, laughter and jazz floating on the warm breeze, but all the glamour had soured.

He swallowed hard, chest tight.

This night had gone from bad… to potentially disastrous.