A few hours later, the party at Nicholas Pileggi's house was nothing but a memory, replaced by the quiet hum of the city outside. Henry and Jeff slid into the backseat of Jeff's company-issued car, the soft thrum of the engine filling the pause between words.
Jeff leaned back and loosened his tie, letting out a long exhale. "Exhausting, right?" he said with a knowing smile.
Henry slumped into the seat, shoulders finally dropping. "Yeah… bloody hell," he replied, a chuckle escaping him as he let himself relax. "I didn't realize how much smiling and nodding could drain a person."
"That's Hollywood networking," Jeff said. "You don't notice you're tired until you stop pretending you're not."
Henry nodded, staring out the window at the city lights streaking past. "Everyone talks like they're negotiating some secret deal," he said quietly. "Even when they're just asking where you're from."
"That's because they are," Jeff replied. "Always weighing something. You, the room, who's watching. Doesn't mean they don't mean it—but there's always an angle."
Henry let the silence settle, feeling the night air shift around them. There was something honest about the quiet, something he hadn't felt in hours.
"Well," Jeff said finally, rubbing his face as if to prepare himself, "we're still not done for today. Unfortunately."
Henry turned toward him, eyebrows raised. "You have a talent for that word, don't you?"
Jeff ignored him, reaching into his briefcase and pulling out a thick stack of manuscripts. Some were neatly clipped, others had colored tabs and handwritten notes in the margins. He handed them over to Henry with a knowing smirk.
"Read through these when you get the chance," Jeff said. "No pressure to decide immediately. Just get a feel. We'll talk in a week or so."
Henry held the stack, impressed by the weight. "Light reading," he said dryly.
Jeff's smirk widened. "You're welcome."
"Any particular order?"
"Whatever calls to you," Jeff replied. "That usually tells me what I need to know."
Henry nodded, flipping the top script open as the car rolled to the hotel where he would stay the next few days.
The hotel room was quiet in that generic, neutral way, a place designed for passing through rather than living in. Henry dropped the keys onto the table and tossed the manuscripts onto the bed before heading to the shower.
The water was hot, steam rising and fogging the glass. He closed his eyes and let the heat settle over him. For a moment, the city, the lights, the pressures of Hollywood faded, leaving him only with his thoughts—and the weight of possibility in his hands.
By the time he stepped out, towel around his waist and hair damp, he was ready.
Henry set the scripts aside for a moment, leaning against the headboard. His gaze drifted across the quiet hotel room, the soft hum of the air conditioning blending with his own thoughts. Each script felt familiar, yet unfamiliar at the same time, like stepping into a room he'd seen only in flashes.
"17 Again… Mike O'Donnell," he thought. The story of second chances. In another life, he had read a script much like this one—an actor rediscovering youth, making amends, realizing the beauty of small moments. He remembered the subtle expressions, the pacing, the pause in a comedic beat that carried the weight of regret. Acting wasn't just movement or voice—it was rhythm. He'd seen it, felt it, in plays across London and the West End, long before Hollywood became a reality. 'This one's simple on the surface, but there's a depth to it if you know where to look.'
Then came Dylan Marshall in Modern Family. Comedy, timing, chemistry. It reminded him of ensemble pieces he'd been a part of in theater, where one gesture could shift an entire scene. He could almost hear the quick repartee, the snappy cadence of dialogue—so effortless to watch but so precise to perform. 'Precision. Balance. That's what makes people laugh without realizing why. And I can do that.'
Henry flipped to Tommy Cahill in Brothers. The script weighed heavily in his hands. Drama had always fascinated him more than comedy. In his past life, he had watched performances where every pause, every glance, every silence told a story. Tommy's struggles reminded him of those moments: a man caught between duty and desire, truth and deception. He felt the tension in his chest, the anticipation of exploring such a layered character. 'This is where the craft hits its peak… this is where acting becomes something bigger than myself.'
Columbus in Zombieland made him grin. Chaos. Physicality. Improvisation. He thought back to other roles he had seen or imagined, where actors were required to respond instinctively, to make humor bloom in impossible circumstances. 'Energy. Timing. Fear, comedy, survival… all at once. This is fun. This is different.' He almost wanted to jump up and start running lines out loud in the room.
And then, the weighty elegance of Caius in New Moon. Cold, precise, commanding. In his past life, he had studied films of similar characters, analyzed performances where silence spoke louder than dialogue, where posture and restraint carried authority. 'Control. Power. Presence. These roles… they aren't just performed. They're inhabited. You don't act cold—you make them believe in it.'
He leaned back, thinking about the contrast. From comedic chaos to layered drama, from playful timing to chilling presence—each role demanded something entirely different. And yet, the thread connecting them was clear: observation, discipline, understanding of rhythm and human behavior. All of it felt strangely familiar.
Henry thought. 'Each one is a challenge, a chance to see what I can pull off. And… maybe even push me to see who I really am as an actor.'
Henry let out a quiet sigh, running his fingers through his damp hair. 'This is it. This is where all the time, the focus, the discipline I've carried from one life to this… it all comes together.' He thought about the tiny details, the gestures, the pauses, the expressions he had once admired from a distance. Now, he had a chance to embody them.
He picked up 17 Again again, flipping to a pivotal scene where Mike stands before his high school class, awkward and nervous, yet hopeful. He began to read aloud softly, testing the cadence, the weight of each word. Then Dylan's script, then Tommy's, then Columbus, then Caius. Each time, he felt a different rhythm, a different heartbeat, a different part of himself emerging.
The night stretched on, quiet except for the occasional rustle of pages. Henry felt the strange mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration—like standing on a precipice, looking out over something vast, with both fear and anticipation coursing through him. He placed the scripts neatly back on the bed, folding his hands over them, and whispered, almost to himself:
"Alright. Time to figure out who I am in all of these worlds."
He stood, stretching, and let the calm of the moment settle around him. Outside, the city pulsed faintly, oblivious to the choices and possibilities stacked neatly in that hotel room. But Henry knew: each role, each line, each subtle movement could define the next chapter—not just of his career, but of who he was becoming.
He leaned against the window for a final moment, letting the night sky wash over him.
And with that quiet resolve, Henry allowed himself to rest, knowing that the next week would be a test—not only of his skill, but of the way he had grown, the way he would continue to grow, and the way these scripts would become part of him, long after the cameras stopped rolling.