One encore.
Two encores.
Led by Judd Apatow, the members of the Frat Pack—though still just grains of sand in Hollywood's vast ocean and not yet a solidified group—already showcased their camaraderie. They egged each other on, hyping up the encore until the party atmosphere was in full swing.
Only when the encores ended did James and Seth step offstage to thank the audience. The crowd surged forward, creating momentary chaos.
Edgar moved against the tide.
Since he'd chosen to stay, he might as well make his presence known and start building connections.
Otherwise, how could he justify missing his afternoon tea?
Amid the crowd, a shorter figure pushed to the sidelines by the enthusiastic mingling caught Edgar's eye—standing right beside the young man who'd noticed him earlier. Edgar searched his memory—
Sam Levine.
Born in 1982, eighteen years old, standing around 5'4" (166 cm) with an unremarkable but somewhat endearing, nerdy look.
Actors like him—not conventionally handsome—might never land leading roles, but in Hollywood, they were invaluable.
They played the protagonist's best friend, the villain's sidekick, the heroine's lucky charm. Though never in the spotlight, they were indispensable.
For agents, this didn't mean superstardom but stable income—after all, agents lived off their clients' earnings.
If memory served, Sam had only appeared in one TV show so far: Freaks and Geeks. And he still didn't have an agent.
Big-shot agents wouldn't glance twice at such roles, but Edgar could use this as a steady way to expand his portfolio.
"Supporting actors" were always a crucial part of any production.
Plus, Sam was standing next to the owner of that gaze from earlier.
Two birds with one stone.
Edgar naturally approached Sam and initiated conversation.
"Hey, Sam. Good afternoon. Your scenes with James Franco today—you'd clearly done your homework on the character."
Lying through his teeth was Agent 101.
Sam was flattered. "Wow, thanks."
Edgar smiled, gestured toward Sam, then casually turned to the figure beside him. "And this is?" Smooth transition.
Sam didn't overthink it. "Oh, Anson. He's a friend of James's."
Anson's eyes gleamed with quiet amusement as he extended his hand. "Anson Wood."
Now Edgar got a proper look at Anson's face—sharp, handsome, radiating effortless charm. "Edgar Cook."
He sensed the knowing glint in Anson's eyes, but Anson said nothing. The two exchanged a glance of mutual understanding.
This one was sharp.
First impression: check.
Edgar turned back to Sam. "Do you have an agent yet?"
Sam blinked. "No, not yet."
Edgar lifted his chin slightly, exuding confidence. "I think we'll be seeing each other again."
As he spoke, he pulled out a business card and handed it over.
Sam took it, his eyes widening. "Oh, you're with William Morris?"
He couldn't help studying Edgar again—
Understated, reserved, steady.
At first glance, Sam had pegged Edgar as in his thirties. Now he realized Edgar couldn't be older than twenty-five.
His features and complexion were youthful, but his demeanor was oddly mature.
Forgettable at first glance—the kind who'd vanish in a crowd. But on second look, there was something different: chestnut hair, dark eyes, around 5'7" (175 cm), slightly frail build, but with a warmth to him.
Like polished jade.
Wait—this guy's an agent?
Sam wasn't so sure.
Under scrutiny, Edgar remained unflappable—neither eager nor aloof. He nodded. "Feel free to reach out anytime."
A pitch, but not desperate. Then, seamlessly, he turned to Anson.
"You're an actor too? Do you have representation?"
Edgar tensed slightly—
He assumed Anson already had an agent.
With those looks, that poise, that presence—no agent in Hollywood?
Unthinkable.
Anson... thought for a moment. He wasn't sure.
But if memory served, Darren had said not to worry about the agent—he'd handle it.
Just as Anson was about to reply, he spotted a figure approaching behind Edgar. He opened his mouth to warn him—
Thud.
A shoulder collided with Edgar's—hard, deliberate.
Caught off guard, Edgar nearly face-planted but managed to steady himself at the last second. Surprisingly strong core for his slight frame.
He turned to see James Franco's smirking face. Rolling his shoulder, Edgar deadpanned, "You only dislocated it slightly. Thanks."
James grinned, waving it off. "Nah, barely touched you. Just a graze."
Then, to Anson and Sam, he spread his hands. "Or maybe I just don't know my own strength."
He flexed a bicep for emphasis.
Sam gulped, unable to hide his concern, and handed James the card. "James, you're talking to an agent from William Morris."
For small-time actors like them, William Morris was the pinnacle—an untouchable.
James feigned surprise but showed no trace of nerves. Still grinning, he said, "Oops. Foot in mouth."
"My bad!"
"So... how do I make it up to you?"
The words were an apology, the tone a joke.
James had always been bold.
Anson watched Edgar, curious how he'd respond. Would he seize the chance to retaliate?
But Edgar took it in stride, playing along with mock seriousness. "A glass of red would do. Beer in a pinch."
The back-and-forth eased the tension.
Daggers drawn, then sheathed—all in the span of a laugh, leaving no trace of the undercurrents.
Anson had heard the saying before: Life's a stage, and we're all actors. Now, in Hollywood, he was seeing it firsthand.
James took the card from Sam, glanced at it, and shook his head. "Sam, dear Sam, don't let the William Morris name fool you."
"This guy might be a fraud."