"Who's this?"
Li Chengjun's attention shifted to Bruce, who was walking out behind Chen Zhen.
"This is the guy I mentioned on the phone," Chen Zhen said, throwing an arm around Bruce's shoulders with a mix of admiration and showmanship. "Bruce Guo. Grew up in the States. Master's in Computer Science from Stanford, plus bachelor's degrees in economics and history. Three degrees at nineteen. Total monster. And now he's already running his own startup in Silicon Valley. Pretty crazy, right?"
Li Chengjun's pupils tightened slightly as he took in Bruce's young, still somewhat boyish face. Then he extended his hand.
"It's an honor to meet someone like you, Mr. Guo."
Assuming Bruce wouldn't speak Chinese well, Li Chengjun used English, and not just any English. His accent was polished, almost textbook London.
Bruce shook his hand, then replied in clear Mandarin with a faint smile.
"You're being too kind. I'm not a genius. I just work harder than most people."
Too many motivational essays in his previous life had clearly left their mark.
Still, he had to admit, it sounded pretty good.
Li Chengjun looked genuinely surprised.
"I didn't expect your Mandarin to be this good."
Bruce gave a small shrug.
The officer beside them stepped in before the conversation could continue.
"You'll each need to post five thousand pounds in bail. Also, for the next fifteen days, neither of you is allowed to leave London. Keep your phones on and remain available in case the station needs to contact you. And if your earlier statements are accurate, you may choose to press charges against the men who assaulted you."
After giving them a moment to discuss it, he added, "Any questions? If not, sign here and you're free to go."
"My phone's gone," Bruce said. "Replacing it will take time."
The officer glanced down at the earlier paperwork.
"You're staying at the Hilton Waldorf, correct?"
"That's right."
"We'll contact the hotel front desk if we need to reach you."
"In that case, no problem."
"Same here," Chen Zhen said.
"Then sign."
The two of them signed, paid bail, and walked out of the station together.
"Come on, Old Guo," Chen Zhen said. "Let's go."
Bruce shook his head.
"No, I'll grab a cab back. The Waldorf's in the opposite direction from where you're headed. And you're worse off than I am. Go get some rest."
Chen Zhen hesitated, then nodded.
"All right. Keep in touch."
"Of course."
Bruce watched him leave, then stepped out of the station, hailed a taxi, and returned to the Waldorf.
He had been running on fumes for hours. After the chaos, the fighting, the injuries, and the station, he was too exhausted to do anything. He didn't even bother showering. He just collapsed into bed and went to sleep.
The next morning, he felt much better.
He was still young, and this body was in good condition. Most of the soreness had already faded. The cuts on his forehead and arm would take more time, though. He had originally planned to visit Buckingham Palace and Westminster Abbey that day, but one look in the mirror was enough to kill that idea.
He ordered room service, finished breakfast, opened his laptop, checked his email, replied to a few company messages, and then settled down to work on his novel.
This kind of routine felt completely natural to him. He had lived like this for years before.
But in the afternoon, his room door was unexpectedly knocked on.
"Christopher?" Bruce opened the door and looked surprised. "What are you doing here?"
"I couldn't reach you by phone, so I had to come in person." Christopher Ritt stepped inside, then frowned when he got a better look at Bruce. "What happened to your face?"
Bruce gave him a dry look.
"Ran into some thugs. Did my civic duty. Something like that."
The phrasing was odd enough that Christopher looked momentarily lost, so Bruce smiled and changed the subject at once.
"What, did you already finish reading the manuscripts?"
As expected, the mention of the books pulled Christopher's attention immediately to what he actually cared about.
"I did. Pirates of the Caribbean and Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them are both excellent."
Then he paused, and for the first time since arriving, his expression turned complicated.
"But... did you really write Fifty Shades of Grey?"
Bruce let him in, closed the door, and nodded.
"Is there a problem?"
Christopher chose his words carefully.
"To be honest, Fifty Shades of Grey is much weaker than Pirates and Fantastic Beasts, both in literary quality and in storytelling. If it gets published, critics are going to tear into it."
Bruce wasn't surprised.
There was always that kind of gap. And Fifty Shades really was more blunt and commercially driven than the others.
"I know," he said, nodding. "But I'm still young. If a young writer stumbles now and then, if the quality swings a little, that's not exactly unusual, is it?"
As he spoke, he poured Christopher a glass of bottled water and handed it over.
Christopher thanked him, took a sip, and continued.
"For Pirates and Fantastic Beasts, I can probably get endorsements or forewords from Rowling and a few respected names in publishing. That would help a lot. But for Fifty Shades... I doubt anyone will want to attach their name to it."
Bruce wasn't surprised by that either.
A known name on the cover functioned a lot like advertising.
"That's fine," he said. "No need to force it. As long as someone publishes it, that's enough."
The truth was that out of the three projects, Fifty Shades was the one Bruce had the most confidence in commercially. It had once sold at a rate of one copy every two seconds, passed one hundred million copies worldwide in under two years, even surpassed the entire Harry Potter series in combined print volume, and helped drive an enormous jump in profit for one of the largest publishing houses in the world.
Christopher nodded.
"I understand."
Then he opened his briefcase and pulled out the marked-up manuscripts Bruce had left with him the day before.
"I went through all three and made editorial notes. Take a look. If you agree with a change, mark it. If not, skip it or write your own note in red."
That, too, was part of a good literary agent's job. Beyond negotiating with publishers, they also acted as first-line editors, flagging weaknesses and suggesting revisions.
Bruce looked at the heavily handled stacks of paper and nodded.
"I'll go through them as soon as I can and send you my responses."
"Good. I should get going. Turning around three titles in a week is not exactly easy."
"I'll walk you out."
"Sure. Oh, one more thing."
Christopher reached into his pocket and held out a Nokia phone.
"Take this for now. Use it until you replace yours."
Bruce looked at the phone, then back at him.
"What about you?"
"I've got another one. This one's for work anyway. If you don't want to get harassed, don't answer unknown numbers."
Bruce nodded and took it.
At this point, Christopher Ritt wasn't just some outside contact anymore. With contracts signed and work in motion, he was someone Bruce could actually rely on.
Christopher studied him for a moment, then said with a half-teasing, half-serious look:
"Bruce, I understand young men have energy to burn. But getting into fights over women or pride is a good way to cause yourself trouble. And once these books come out, you're going to become a public figure. You should think about your image. It'll help when the next book launches."
Bruce twitched slightly.
Christopher had clearly misunderstood what had happened.
Still, he didn't bother correcting him. It wasn't worth the effort.
"Noted. Don't worry."
"All right then. I'll go. If anything comes up, call me."
"Wait."
Bruce suddenly remembered something, stopped him, and hurried into the bedroom. A moment later he returned with a slip of paper.
"This is my email address. If the phone doesn't go through again, send me a message there."
Christopher took it, glanced at it once, and nodded.
"Got it."
Then he turned and left.
Bruce watched him disappear down the hall, closed the door, picked up the revised manuscripts, and sat down on the sofa in the sitting room to start reading.