"Haven't gotten a call or message yet," Han mused to himself as he sank into the director's chair, taking a short break between shots.
It was the final scene of the episode—his character's death. The set's makeup artist approached, her tools ready to touch up the fake blood and scratches smeared across his face.
"So, when I die, I can't close my eyes?" Han asked, raising an eyebrow.
"No, sir," the makeup artist replied, her voice steady. "It'll make for a stronger shot—dying without peace."
Han nodded, letting her finish the touch-ups. The director's voice echoed across the set, calling for the protagonist and antagonist to take their places for the climactic scene.
The cameramen adjusted their equipment, and the air buzzed with anticipation.
"Action!" the director barked.
—
The rain came down in sheets, pounding the silent alleyway. The murderer, a figure bathed in shadow, had finally met his end at the hands of the detective after years of relentless pursuit. Blood streamed from his mouth and eyes as he locked his gaze on her. It was as if he were warning her with his final breath: "I'll be back for you."
But the blood loss was too much. His body slumped, the end of the murder spree, as the detective stood frozen in the downpour.
—
"Cut!" the director shouted, clapping his hands. "Perfect, just two takes. This is going to be great."
Han slowly rose from the ground, drenched and breathless. The crew cheered, celebrating another successful shot.
"You were fantastic, Han," the director said, a wide smile spreading across his face as he shook Han's hand. "It's been an honour to work with you, even for such a short time."
Han nodded, smiling in return. "Thank you. It's been a great experience."
The detective series would continue on without his character, but he felt proud to have contributed, even if only for a few months.
The team dried him off, and after a quick change of clothes, Han headed home.
He stared at his phone the entire drive, glancing at the screen every few seconds, which was unlike him. Notifications remained absent, and the silence only deepened the knot in his chest.
"Something on your mind?" his assistant, Victor, asked, catching Han's distracted expression through the rearview mirror. "You've been glued to your phone all day."
"It's nothing," Han replied curtly, leaning his head back. "Any updates on upcoming events?"
"None," Victor said, his focus on the road. "AJ hasn't mentioned anything to me yet. If he did, I'd know. Anything else?"
"No, that's all. Thank you," Han said, exhaling quietly. He turned his gaze back to his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen.
'Am I just an idiot?' he thought, clenching his jaw. 'Giving my number to a random stranger because of a silly dream?'
—
Jet leaned back on his sofa, remote in one hand and phone in the other, mumbling to himself. "Movies, series, episodes… this guy's been in so many things I've watched, and I didn't even know."
He switched between tabs on his phone, cross-referencing lists of shows featuring the famous Yau Han. For hours that morning, Jet had been digging up movies, interviews, or anything that could give him a glimpse into the actor's personality.
Yet, the search painted a clear picture: Han wasn't someone who enjoyed mingling with people. Interviews were sparse, his answers calculated, and his demeanor distant.
But Jet refused to let that deter him. Pulling up a film he vaguely remembered watching years ago, he set it to play on his TV.
Still in his pajamas, Jet stretched out on the sofa, his hamsters curiously sniffing around the coffee table before curling up for a nap. As the opening credits rolled, Jet grabbed a bag of chips and settled in, eyes glued to the screen.
'He looks so cool in this scene,' Jet thought, leaning forward until he nearly slipped off the couch. His heart skipped as the camera zoomed in on Han's piercing gaze. 'Is he really the same man I met?'
Hours passed. Jet binged three of Han's movies, each one two hours long, completely absorbed in the roles Han had played. Han's quiet, mysterious characters shared an intensity that made Jet's pulse quicken.
But it wasn't just the performances—there was something familiar in the way Han carried himself, something that tugged at Jet's thoughts like a half-forgotten memory.
When the third movie ended, Jet stretched with a yawn and rubbed his eyes. "Not bad, Mr. Yau Han. Not bad at all."
Dragging himself to the kitchen, he opened the fridge and pulled out the leftovers his mum had prepared. He set a pot of water on the stove to reheat the food, glancing out the window at the fading afternoon light.
He should have been working on the next chapter for his novel's sequel that everyone was hoping for, but…
'Too lazy to do it,' he admitted to himself with a half-smile.
For now, learning more about the enigmatic Yau Han seemed like the best use of his time.
Jet held the small slip of paper between his fingers, staring at the handwritten phone number scribbled on it. "Why would you give me this?" he muttered, scratching the back of his head.
Setting the paper down on the counter, he glanced at his half-eaten bowl of food. The more he thought about it, the less he could eat. Something wasn't sitting right.
The faint memory of the dream—Zhao Han. Then meeting Yau Han. None of it made sense. It was like trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
Jet picked up the slip again, his brow furrowing as a thought struck him. Sitting up straighter, he walked to his bedroom, where an old, oversized cupboard stood against the wall. It was cluttered with all kinds of keepsakes—framed photos, trophies, tiny outfits for his hamsters, and, most importantly, books.
Dropping to his knees, Jet rummaged through the chaos until he found what he was looking for: the first copy of his book. His heart thudded as he cradled it in his hands and hurried back to the counter.
Setting the book down, he unlocked his phone and pulled up a photo of Yau Han he'd found online.
Flipping through the pages, he landed on the illustration. There he was—Zhao Han, the character Jet had painstakingly designed, down to every detail. Jet had even paid extra for the artist to bring his vision to life perfectly.
But now, staring at the image, Jet's breath hitched. The resemblance to Yau Han was unmistakable—the same sharp jawline, piercing eyes, and the quiet strength he'd written into Zhao's very being.
Jet dropped his head into his hands, the weight of it all crashing down on him.