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The girl politely murmured, "I'm sorry for your loss," just as the dishes were served.
Henry didn't continue the topic.
He simply gestured to the mountain of food on the table.
The girl didn't stand on ceremony—she dug in ravenously.
Watching her enjoy her meal so earnestly, Henry finally resumed cutting his steak, slowly savoring each bite.
This restaurant's food was excellent.
No intoxicating aromas, but the beef was aged perfectly.
The searing heat of the grill locked the juices beneath a lightly charred crust—every mouthful layered with flavor.
They chatted intermittently while eating.
Mostly, she ate while asking Henry about Hollywood, and Henry responded in fragments.
He recounted some beginner advice he'd learned long ago from Old Gary when he'd first arrived in L.A.—choosing only the pieces appropriate for her.
Suggestions like "learn stunts" or "work as a creature performer" were left out.
If she wanted to act in dramas, getting typecast early would ruin her future.
In the specialized Hollywood of today, once you're typecast, climbing out of that niche is nearly impossible.
Both shared little personal information—just experiences about pursuing acting.
But she was a total newcomer, not even past the doorstep of the industry.
Naturally, she listened far more than she spoke.
And Henry… well, he'd only played a handful of background characters.
He had briefly worked on a big-budget production—but he'd been fired halfway through, so he didn't mention it. No need to invite extra questions.
In the end, their conversation was like two rookies cluelessly pecking at each other.
Henry had too few real roles to give profound advice, and most importantly—he had almost no experience working with agents.
In Hollywood, an agent's power determines half of an actor's future.
Their network, their ability to get wind of upcoming productions, their access to producers—these decide how wide the road ahead will be.
Of course, the actor must still be capable of performing—and generating market response—to secure future opportunities.
It could be said that the actor and agent were each other's ceiling.
Henry had nothing to offer in this area—not even someone to introduce her to.
…Which made him think of the unreliable stunt-team leader, Channing Williams.
He hadn't contacted the man in forever, and after being tricked into working as a security guard at that banquet, Henry felt no desire to rely on him again.
After both finished eating, Henry ordered two coffees and pulled out his sketchbook.
The girl asked nervously, "Do I need to pose a certain way?"
"However you like. Relax.
This isn't a fashion magazine beauty shoot—no angles, no dramatic lighting.
Just a simple sketch."
"…Alright."
With zero experience, she chose the worst option—
She stared directly at Henry.
The intensity of her stare made him snort a laugh.
"What's wrong?" she complained.
Henry straightened his face and said seriously:
"Plenty.
"If you stare straight into the camera like that on set, the director will scream at you.
"And this isn't a passport photo—you don't need to look so stiff."
"But I don't know what else to do. You're the one who didn't say anything."
Her baby-fat cheeks, now flushed from eating well, puffed up in displeasure.
Henry sighed.
"Let me try it this way—are you American?"
"No." She shook her head.
"But I'm not illegal or anything, don't misunderstand."
"I won't."
Henry thought a moment and said:
"Then try remembering something fun from when you were little.
Something happy.
If you don't know where to look…"
He glanced around the restaurant, checked the lighting, then moved a salt shaker to a fixed spot.
"Just look at the salt shaker."
The shift in her gaze caused the noon sunlight from the restaurant's large windows to fall across her profile, dividing her features cleanly into light and shadow.
Standing slightly angled, the shadows softened, letting the bright sunlight highlight the youthful glow in her skin.
Her bone structure—naturally pronounced—gave the light depth and contrast.
Henry flipped to a blank page and picked up his pencil.
Unlike ordinary sketchers who had to hold a pencil up to measure proportions, Henry—blessed with Kryptonian precision—could replicate outlines and structure with photographic accuracy.
What he focused on instead were the nuances—the tiny gradients of shadow, the subtle texture of skin, the depth of expression.
The girl noticed he hardly looked at the sketchbook.
He gazed at her instead, pencil moving rapidly.
Was he… scribbling?
No—his previous sketches had been good.
So why was he drawing like this?
Was the sketchbook someone else's?
Or was he making her ugly on purpose?
Uneasy thoughts crept in.
Worse—her childhood didn't hold many "fun memories."
Most involved hiding in her mother's arms, avoiding her father's violence.
Finding something happy to think about wasn't easy.
Life lately had been miserable—her beloved ballet was no longer an option, her Hollywood audition attempts kept failing…
How was she supposed to feel happy?
Thinking that, she suddenly realized—
He wasn't helping.
He was bullying her.
A petty revenge!
Ugh!
This hateful jerk!
Her expression shifted sharply—eyes narrowing, anger simmering.
Henry caught that flash of spirit immediately, adjusting the sketch—the eyes, the mouth.
There it was: the faint echo of a future legendary beauty.
Although he had said the sketch would take ten minutes, he was done in about five.
Henry let out a pleased, "All done,"
and admired his work.
The girl leaned forward, curious.
"Can I see?"
"Of course."
He handed it over.
"I didn't draw you ugly, so don't tear it."
She stared at her likeness—sharp, spirited, eyes bright with defiance—and her emotions became complicated.
"…This was my expression?"
Henry grinned.
"I'm guessing you were thinking about punching me.
Or figuring out how many punches it'd take."
Caught red-handed, she jerked her head away.
"I was not."
Henry passed her the pen.
"Mind signing it for me?
"It's not a stolen sketch.
"At least let me know the name of the girl in the drawing.
"Unless you want future strangers calling you 'Mona Lisa' or something."
She murmured, "You're no da Vinci…"
But still wrote carefully:
Shar-LEEZ_THERR-n
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