Looking back on everything that had happened over the past two months, Joseph fell silent. In truth, Hugo was right — he had changed, quietly but inevitably.
The success of Scent of a Woman brought with it a flood of applause and admiration. Joseph could clearly feel the benefits of success — the sense of accomplishment, the fulfillment that came from the attention of others. That was the charm of success: it not only gave people confidence but also satisfaction. The reason sports are so universally loved is similar to the thrill of competition drives people to invest themselves fully, to chase the joy of victory. Even after the sting of defeat, people rise again, unwilling to give up.
Then came A Few Good Men, whose massive success completely changed their lives. The way people crowded around Hugo during the New Year's Eve luncheon was only a glimpse of how different life had become. After the new year, the company even assigned Joseph his own office. Though it was still on the 17th floor, the treatment he received was on a completely different level.
Success is like a drug — intoxicating and addictive. That may sound exaggerated, but it's true. Looking back now, Joseph realized that during that time, he had unconsciously begun to resemble the very kind of agent he once despised.
He found himself yelling at overzealous fans. While that could be justified as maintaining safety and order, it also showed he was losing patience and civility. He began scrutinizing show formats, evaluating offers based on size and prestige. Again, this could be explained as "appropriate for Hugo's new status," but in reality, he was being blinded by fame.
Hugo, too, was changing. The cheers of fans, the praise of the media they were becoming something he took for granted, as if they were natural, unquestionable. But they weren't.
Fans are individuals with free will. They don't owe you their support; their admiration is an act of generosity. Even if you don't show gratitude, you should at least show them respect. The same goes for production teams — artists and producers are collaborators, not masters and servants.
Most importantly, Hollywood might be full of opportunities, but for every hundred openings, there are ten thousand competitors. Everyone must learn to face rejection calmly — even the biggest stars. But after recent successes, both Hugo and Joseph had lost that resilience. Where once rejection meant disappointment followed by renewed determination, now it brought irritation and anxiety. A little success had already eroded their patience. If things continued this way, jealousy, arrogance, and discontent would soon follow.
Joseph knew Hugo hadn't become arrogant nor had he. But as Hugo said, they had both changed. Every step higher showed them a different view, and after A Few Good Men, the scenery around them had grown dazzlingly bright — so bright that they lost their sense of direction. Luckily, it wasn't too late to wake up.
Talent and brilliance alone don't guarantee success — hard work does. If an artist lets themselves be blinded by the cheers and flashing lights, forgetting the effort behind it, then they're nothing more than a performer, an entertainer acting for others. There's nothing wrong with that, but it doesn't make them superior. Those arrogant stars who think they're gods, who believe fans' support is a given and their talent justifies their pride they're not geniuses. They're just self-centered fools.
Joseph looked at Hugo, whose bright, refreshed smile made it clear — Hugo hadn't fallen into despair after the crisis. Instead, he'd rediscovered himself, and in doing so, helped Joseph do the same.
"Maybe you're right," Joseph said, his tension melting away like fog in sunlight. A faint smile curved his lips. "Things can't really get worse than this, right? We've done it once before and succeeded — let's do it again."
The clouds over Los Angeles had cleared. The storm above Hugo's head had not, but inside his heart, sunlight was breaking through again. Hope was returning, and maybe — just maybe — the day they'd see the clear blue sky again wasn't far off.
"So, what you're saying is, we should thank Tracy?" Joseph asked this time without hesitation, directly mentioning her name. He knew Hugo was strong enough to face it.
Hugo laughed and shook his head. "No, not Tracy, and not Ron either. Even if it hadn't been them, someone else would've reminded us eventually not to get too full of ourselves. That's how this business works."
In the entertainment world, no one can predict popularity. Even someone destined for history, like Michael Jackson, eventually saw his fame fade. Let alone people like Macaulay Culkin, who once shone brightly before vanishing from the spotlight.
"Hollywood really is a melting pot, isn't it?" Hugo mused. "It's not just about drugs, alcohol, sex, or backroom deals. It's also about flowers, applause, cheers, and flashing cameras. It's like a walled city — easy to get lost in. The longer you stay, the easier it is to forget who you are. Those who lose themselves think they're the center of the world, but really, they're just lions jumping through hoops at a circus — the only difference is, their act gets more applause."
That was perhaps Hugo's greatest realization of the past year. In a way, he really should thank Tracy. If this had happened any later, he might not have woken up at all. For years he had chased the spotlight, craving glory that had always seemed out of reach. And then, in less than a year, he had it — higher than he'd ever dreamed. If things had kept going that way, he really would have thought himself a god, lost forever in Hollywood's neon haze.
"So they're the circus. What about you?" Joseph chuckled, intrigued by Hugo's metaphor.
Hugo shrugged. "Right now, I'm just a juggler. But I hope someday I'll become a magician one who can create his own magic."
"What's the difference?" Joseph asked, genuinely puzzled. After all, they were all part of the same show.
"Maybe there isn't one," Hugo said with a grin. "But at least as a person, I can walk out of the circus — the animals can't."
He paused, then laughed. "Well, except for the ones in Madagascar."
Just then, there was a loud knock at the door, cutting through their laughter.
"Hey, Joseph, Kal — you guys in there?" someone called.
Joseph immediately recognized the voice. "It's Hugin." He hurried to open the door.
Hugo stretched lazily and followed him out of the room. He didn't see Alex or Charlize around. After lying in bed for days, his body felt stiff — it was nice to move again.
"Sorry, I forgot my keys," Hugin said coolly, standing in the doorway. Spotting Hugo, he nodded slightly. "Heard you were sick. Feeling better?"
"I'm fine — perfectly fine," Hugo replied cheerfully.
Joseph fished through a glass bowl by the door, found his own keys, and handed them to Hugin.
Hugin nodded. "I'll open up upstairs and bring them back down in a bit." He waved casually and bounded up the stairs, leaving Hugo and Joseph smiling behind him.
Hugin's footsteps were heavy. Even from downstairs, Hugo and Joseph could hear him reach the door, unlock it, go inside, rummage around, and then come back down. Sure enough, in less than a minute, Hugin reappeared at the third-floor landing and handed the keys back to Joseph. "Thanks."
Hugo noticed the two instrument cases slung over Hugin's shoulders. "Got a gig tonight?"
"No, just regular practice. One of our members' instruments broke," Hugin replied simply.
Hugo smiled. "Ah, practice—that's the lifeblood of any band."
He couldn't help but recall the days with Glory Or Death, endless rehearsals filled with shouting matches and laughter alike.
"The struggle never ends," Hugin said offhandedly, making Hugo laugh even harder.
"What, you don't need to practice anymore?" Hugin added as he turned to leave, remembering that Hugo was a talented guitarist.
"I don't have a band," Hugo said with a helpless shrug. "Remember? I'm an actor."
"Then start one. Who says an actor can't play in a band?" Hugin said without hesitation. "You look like a guy who's been in one before. Call up some old friends, get together and jam or audition for another band's guitarist slot. I bet plenty of groups would fight to have you."
Hugin's casual remark struck a chord with Hugo. Deep down, his passion for band life had never faded—it just hadn't found an outlet. "Wow, that's actually a great idea. Why didn't I think of that?"
"Don't ask me," Hugin replied bluntly. His face stayed as stern as ever, that naturally intimidating keep-your-distance look reminding Hugo of their first meeting—when Hugin's open hostility had been almost comical. Hugo chuckled.
"Alright, I should get going. We'll talk next time," Hugin said before turning away. He descended the stairs quickly, and soon his figure vanished from sight.
Standing alone in the lobby, Hugo couldn't shake the thought.
Starting a band—or joining one—really was a brilliant idea. But… where would he even apply? And if he wanted to form his own, where should he begin?
This wasn't his familiar home turf anymore, and he found himself completely at a loss.
Then, suddenly, a place popped into his mind.
"Al's Bar!"
...
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