Anson had crossed over.
One second ago, he was standing in for an actor during a lighting test on set when a panicked "Watch out!" rang in his ears. Then everything went black, followed by a sharp pain.
The next second, he found himself in a small, box-like bathroom, slumped beside a toilet.
It took Anson a full fifteen minutes sitting on the closed toilet lid to sort through the jumbled memories of the original owner. He had gone from Shanghai in 2023 to Los Angeles in 2000—
April 1st, but this was no April Fool's joke.
Anson Wood, the original owner of this body, had come to a production company for an audition on the recommendation of Darren Star. But as for what project, what role, or any other details, his muddled brain was completely blank—no useful information at all.
He glanced down at the "deadliest weapon in history" in his hand—a Nokia brick phone—its weight pressing solidly against his palm, feeling all too real.
Creak.
The bathroom door swung open, and an ongoing conversation spilled in from outside.
"...Didn't Central Casting already finish auditions a couple of days ago? I thought filming for Episode 21 was starting next Monday. I even heard there was an argument on set yesterday about the tight schedule. Now they're dragging their feet with auditions again—what's going on?"
"Hah, if you were an actor personally recommended by Jennifer Aniston over the phone, you could show up two days late for the audition too."
"Oh, Jennifer, again! This isn't the first time. If the other actors find out, there's going to be another uproar."
"Wait, really? I thought she'd stopped all that now that she and Brad are about to get married! Are the rumors on set lately about him?"
"You saw it yourself—he didn't even go through Central Casting. David handled it personally. If the producer is the one meeting him, doesn't that tell you everything? Honestly, I think today's audition is just a formality."
"Ah, that explains it!"
"What?"
"Haven't you heard? The writing team had a blow-up yesterday. Rumor has it the head writer and David locked themselves in the office and started screaming at each other. Tensions have been running high lately, but yesterday it almost came to blows. Turns out David was just taking the heat for Jennifer."
"No, no, no—I heard he was recommended by Darren?"
"Darren? Which Darren?"
"Darren Star?"
"Oh, that Darren."
"You haven't heard the rumors, have you?"
"What, is Darren the sugar daddy for that pretty boy?"
"No, he's Darren's godson."
"Oh, so another Emma Roberts? Jesus Christ, Hollywood's practically overflowing with these brainless, pretty-faced nepo babies."
The flimsy bathroom door provided zero soundproofing—or, more accurately, the enclosed space acted like an amphitheater, amplifying every whisper. The conversation flowed in crystal clear, word for word.
The amount of information was… overwhelming.
Darren Star—Anson had thought the name sounded familiar earlier. Now it clicked.
As a producer, Star had created hit '90s shows like Beverly Hills, 90210 and Melrose Place, and by the turn of the century, he'd reached his peak with Sex and the City.
For younger audiences, he was best known for Emily in Paris in 2020.
So, this show—with a producer named David and Jennifer Aniston as part of the cast—was none other than…
Friends!
He'd heard rumors before that the Friends set wasn't as harmonious as it seemed. Jennifer Aniston, who'd skyrocketed to fame thanks to the show, held a unique position and could even influence the producers' decisions. Now, it seemed those rumors weren't unfounded.
So, Darren Star had recommended the original Anson to his friend David Crane—Friends' producer—to secure him an audition for a role. But this opportunity had stirred up drama on set, escalating tensions between the producers and the writing team to the point of near-violence. Yet David had still managed to regain control:
He'd insisted Anson come in for the audition today.
Aha!
So… what now?
How do you get an elephant out of a fridge?
Well, here's how he was going to do it—
Step one: Open the door.
Step two: Leave the bathroom.
No overthinking. He stopped striking his Thinker pose, stood up, straightened his clothes, and brushed the white powder scattered around into the toilet before flushing. The conversation outside abruptly cut off at the sound of rushing water. Without hesitation, Anson pushed open the stall door.
Silence.
The three men standing at the urinals turned in unison, jaws dropping like puppets with cut strings. Clearly, they hadn't expected this.
Frank Simmons' brain short-circuited for a second. Instinctively, he wanted to yell, to seize control of the situation.
But the moment he locked eyes with the man in front of him, the words died in his throat—
Those deep, clear blue eyes were like the sun-drenched Aegean Sea in midsummer, shimmering with a lazy, refreshing brightness that made people instinctively relax—and effortlessly trapped their gaze.
Logically, he was the one who'd been eavesdropping, and now he was outnumbered three to one. Yet this man radiated such calm and composure that not a trace of panic showed. Instead, the pressure shifted entirely onto them, and suddenly they realized—
They'd been caught gossiping.
Red-handed.
The reprimand never made it past his lips.
Then—
The man took a few long strides toward the sink. At well over 6'2" (188 cm), his sheer presence made the three men at the urinals instinctively take half a step back.
"Ah!"
Frank felt a warm splash against his calf—his pants were soaked.
He spun around.
"Ah! Ah! Ahhh!"
Piss. Everywhere.
Frank looked down at the wet stain on his pants and nearly choked. By the time he turned back, the tall figure was already walking past him. Without realizing it, Frank shuffled aside to make room.
By the time he processed what had happened, indignation flared—just as a soft chuckle reached his ears.
"Watch your step."
Frank: You—!
His face burned red, fists clenched—but before he could even raise them, the man was gone.
Outside.
Behind him, the sound of cursing and chaos erupted. Even without looking, Anson could picture the mess. He exhaled softly.
The "elephant" was out of the "fridge." So… next step?
Emma Roberts?
Her aunt was Hollywood A-lister Julia Roberts, and thanks to that connection, she'd landed roles as a child, entering the industry early.
And Anson Wood?
Same deal.
Darren Star wasn't his godfather, but he was close friends with the Wood family—practically watched Anson grow up. When he learned Anson was interested in acting, he'd taken it upon himself to set up auditions. For Star, it was just a phone call. And that's how today's opportunity came about.
In his past life, he'd been an ordinary crew member, watching from behind the camera as actors basked in the spotlight, drowning in applause. A single day's earnings for them was more than he'd ever see in his lifetime. He'd been stuck in the mud, gazing up at the stars.
But now?
Now he had a chance—to step out from behind the scenes, not as a stand-in, but as himself, in front of the camera. And he was back at eighteen, with a bright, wide-open future ahead. A fresh start.
His steps paused briefly as he adjusted his direction, heading deeper down the hallway without hesitation.
Only now did Anson finally take a proper look around—
A narrow corridor, cluttered props, flickering lights, and harried crew members rushing back and forth. At its core, a film and TV production company was just like any other office—nothing special.
At the end of the hall was a glass-walled office, its blinds drawn shut. Outside stood a lone desk piled high with paperwork and three landline phones.
Experience told him this was likely an executive's office. But right now, the secretary's desk was empty, and the stream of passing workers didn't seem to mind—just dropping off files before leaving. Chaos, but with its own rhythm.
Anson walked over and took a seat in the chair against the wall opposite the secretary's desk. He took a moment to gather his thoughts, trying to dredge up more details about the audition—
What project? What role? Was there a prepared scene, or was he expected to bring his own?
But before he could get far, the office door swung open. Anson reflexively looked up—but no one stepped out. Instead, someone stood holding the door handle, back turned, as an irritated voice barked from inside.
"...What the hell kind of joke is this?"
"I know, but—"
"I told them—just a small role, that's it! Now they're rewriting whole arcs over one character? They're begging for trouble. Idiots. If filming falls through next Monday, I'll make sure they're all out on the streets."
"But are you sure it's fine? This is Darren Star we're talking about. A minor role—"
"Darren goddamn Star or not, this is my show, understand? NBC isn't HBO. We live and die by weekly ratings. You throw some nobody into a guest spot and the numbers tank—are you gonna clean up the mess, or is Darren Star gonna lick my ass?"
"David, so what now—"
"Just get them to finish the damn script. Out! Get out!"
Before the words even finished, the man stormed out and slammed the door—followed by a muffled thud as something hit the wall, rattling the glass.
The man turned—and froze at the sight of Anson. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, the office door swung open again. A sun-tanned, freckled face poked out, brows furrowed, anger still simmering.
"Frank? Frank!"
"Where's Anson? What time was his slot? If he's not here yet, push it back half an hour. I need to make some calls."
Amid the outburst, a figure slowly rose to his feet—tall, poised, an understated smile playing on his lips.
"Good morning, Mr. Crane."