My teacher is Bruce Lee, who dominated Hollywood.

Chapter 17 The Down-on-his-Luck Writer

Hilton Hotel, Midtown Manhattan, New York.

Peter Benchley sat in the corner of the last row of the hall, idly twirling his ballpoint pen.

On stage, an editor-in-chief from The Washington Post was passionately waving his arms and spitting as he spoke about "the balance between journalistic truth and commercial interests."

"That's all nonsense," Peter muttered to himself.

For a freelance writer with only fifty dollars left in his pocket, he would never waste his time sitting here if it weren't to show his face in front of his former employer, maintain his meager connections, and prevent the editors from completely forgetting the name "Peter Benchley."

"Damn it, I could have perfected that idea..."

His thoughts began to drift, gradually sinking from the dull meeting room into a deep blue sea.

Fear is the most primal instinct humans have when facing the unknown abyss. How can we visualize this fear?

A gaping maw and sharp teeth are tricks used in second-rate horror novels.

The real fear comes from that bottomless deep blue, from the dorsal fin that suddenly pierces the calm surface of the sea when you think you are safe...

To place this sense of oppression in a secluded seaside town...

Just then, a strong scent of perfume suddenly wafted into his nostrils, and a woman sat down beside him.

Peter instinctively turned his head, his eyes lighting up:

Golden wavy hair, an exquisite haute couture business suit, and a pair of piercing blue eyes.

This face is all too familiar to anyone who works in the media industry.

"Lorna Barrett?" Peter's voice was filled with disbelief. "Am I seeing things? You actually have time to attend this old-fashioned tea party?"

He had heard that Los Angeles was currently in a frenzy because of the Rolling Stones' arrival, and all the entertainment reporters were practically living outside the stadium.

"Yes, I'm wondering about it too," Rona said softly, as if talking to herself.

"Logically, I should be queuing outside the Rolling Stones' dressing room right now. But some people insist that seeing you is more valuable than seeing the Rolling Stones' lead singer."

Peter froze, pointing to himself: "See me?"

In this snobbish circle, I am now an outsider.

Someone actually traveled across the entire United States, abandoning the Rolling Stones hype, just to meet an unemployed former presidential speechwriter?

"Miss Barrett, that joke isn't funny," Peter said self-deprecatingly. "I'm powerless now, and I don't even have enough money in my pocket to buy a souvenir from this meeting."

"Don't ask me, I'm waiting for an answer too." Lorna casually straightened her cuffs. "My business partner is waiting for you in the executive lounge outside."

"A partner?" Peter's curiosity was piqued. "What kind of partner could command the renowned Lorna Barrett?"

Luo Na's cheeks flushed slightly: "In his excitement, he sent me goods worth 'several hundred million'."

Peter gasped.

Several hundred million?

He couldn't sit still any longer. He quickly closed his laptop, straightened the hem of his suit jacket, and nodded to Lorna: "Thank you for letting me know."

Upon arriving at the entrance of the executive lounge, Peter's gaze began to search for the tycoon who had done "hundreds of millions in business".

The lounge was empty at the moment, except for two men.

One of the young mixed-race men, dressed in a well-tailored dark gray suit, exuded an air of sophistication as he intently flipped through a document.

And the one opposite him...

His suit looked like a cheap find from a thrift store, and he was waving a free glass of lemonade in his hand, staring intently at the Manhattan street scene outside the window.

Is that them? They don't look like it.

"Mr. Benchley." The man suddenly turned around and called out his name accurately.

Peter paused, then pointed hesitantly to himself: "Are you calling me?"

Qin Han stood up, his upright posture and confident smile giving him an aura that rivaled any Wall Street elite.

"Of course. Please have a seat if you don't mind." He gestured for him to sit down.

Peter walked over with a belly full of suspicion and looked Qin Han up close.

Too young, and a Chinese person at that.

If it weren't for the very gentlemanly mixed-race man standing next to him, he would have felt like he'd been tricked by some kind of prank.

"Let me introduce myself, Qin Han." The Chinese man extended his hand: "This is my assistant, Andrew Morgan."

Andrew immediately put down the documents in his hand, politely stood up to shake hands, perfectly playing the role of a cool and aloof business elite.

Peter gave a perfunctory handshake, only sitting on a third of the chair, ready to get up and leave at any moment.

"Mr. Qin, if I may be frank, Lorna said someone wants to discuss a collaboration with me. But I really don't see what I have that would make you two fly all the way from Los Angeles."

His gaze lingered for a moment on Qin Han's worn-out cuffs, his disappointment undisguised:

"If you're trying to sell me any financial products or want to publish a self-funded book, you've come to the wrong person. I'm poorer than you think."

"Mr. Benchley is too modest. In this world, some wealth resides in the mind, not in the pocket."

He placed his hands on the table: "I heard you're currently working on a novel?"

"Clang." Peter's water glass hit the table with a crisp sound.

He abruptly looked up: "You're investigating me?"

The outline of this novel has only just been completed. How did this unfamiliar Chinese person know about it?

Qin Han remained calm and began to spout nonsense with a straight face:

"The Benchley family is a renowned literary family. Your father, Nathaniel, was a well-known writer, and your grandfather, Robert, was a columnist for The New Yorker."

"Since you no longer serve the White House, it's not hard to guess that you'd return to your family's old profession of writing novels."

These words eased Peter's wariness slightly, but the doubt in his eyes deepened.

"So what if I'm writing novels? Thousands of people write novels in New York every day, and 99% of them are just waste paper."

Qin Han laughed: "Those are ordinary people, you're different, you're a genius..."

Peter chuckled and leaned back in his chair:

"Mr. Qin, you're very good at flattering people. But I've only just finished the outline for this book; I haven't even started writing the first chapter yet."

"You don't even know what I'm writing. Are you trying to tell me you can read minds?"

"I don't need to know what you're writing, as long as it's written by you, that's enough."

Qin Han snapped his fingers, and Andrew, who was standing next to him, immediately understood and pulled out a document with the logos of Golden Harvest and Universal from his briefcase and placed it on the table.

That was a copy of the outer shell from when the distribution contract was signed, which Qin Han used as a prop.

"Currently, we are searching for promising original literary IPs globally, with plans for joint development."

Andrew added, "Mr. Benchley, Golden Harvest and Universal Pictures have entered into a partnership."

He reassured himself that co-publishing was still co-publishing.

"We have consulted some of your short stories and manuscripts and believe that if you were to write a novella, it would be very suitable for film adaptation."

These words, combined with his mixed-race appearance and the prominent logo on the table, were incredibly damaging.

Peter Benchley's gaze lingered on the document for a long time, and he swallowed hard.

Golden Harvest? Never heard of it, but Universal Pictures!

One of the seven giants of Hollywood.

For a writer who has just lost his job and is still struggling to pay rent, this name represents a ladder from the bottom to the top.

"Since it's Universal Pictures..." Peter re-examined Qin Han, "Why send...excuse my bluntness, such a representative who doesn't seem well-off to see me?"