The night in Seattle was dimly lit, yet a profound dampness pervaded the air. It gave rise to waves of sapphire halos, rippling outward in concentric circles. The air bore a faint mist, intermingled with scents of soil, trees, and the ocean. A different aroma pervaded beneath the nostrils, distinct from that of any other city.
"Miss, it's windy tonight. You might want to close the window to avoid catching a cold."
The voice of the taxi driver came from the front seat, laden with warmth and concern. This brought a faint smile to Rooney Mara's lips, and she kindly replied, "It's okay. I need a bit of fresh air right now." Without elaborating further, she turned her gaze back to the window, watching as the buildings receded continuously, like a slender boat sailing against the night's waves.
Rooney felt certain she must be losing her mind, or at the very least, she was dangerously close.
Tonight was the Oscars, the annual grand event where the global spotlight converged on the Kodak Theatre. Actors from all over the world would vie for the opportunity to attend this gala, even if it meant just making a brief appearance on the red carpet.
Every person stepping onto the red carpet would undergo a laser-like scan of a million eyes. Every detail of their bodies would be subjected to a stringent test. For female actors, in particular, they strained to maintain their best appearance, disregarding all flaws, in hopes of presenting themselves in the most impeccable manner.
As a hint of red amidst a sea of green in "The Social Network", Rooney easily secured her qualification to attend the awards ceremony. In fact, David Fincher personally accompanied her on the red carpet, a sign of his favor toward her. Even though, in reality, the movie was an entirely male-centric production, and the presence of female characters was almost nonexistent, reduced to symbols of value.
Her agent repeatedly emphasized how crucial and rare this opportunity was tonight. It could play a decisive role in her future acting career. Her agent incessantly chattered about manners, social skills, and politeness, stressing the importance of mingling with certain producers, directors, and actors tonight.
She constantly felt a sense of absurdity and emptiness. Not just because she hadn't received any nominations, not just because her role in the film wasn't substantial, not just because she wasn't even a presenter, but because she felt detached. She seemed like nothing more than an ornament placed at the entrance of the red carpet or perhaps a sculpture. To put it in simpler terms, a mere vase.
When the moment arrived, and the flashbulbs cascaded down, Rooney felt like a commodity up for sale. The gazes and glances concealed behind the camera flashes were akin to a judgment, scrutinizing her every aspect. Every part of her body, every detail, could be measured in monetary terms.
Earrings worth $80,000, a necklace valued at $300,000, a handbag worth $250,000, an evening gown priced at $170,000, high heels worth $55,000...
And then, her hair, her nose, her eyes, her chest, her waist, her hands, and her feet...
Every element carried a price tag, and those scorching gazes left her breathless. A poised smile graced her face, but deep within her soul, she remained an observer—a spectator to the world's madness, cold and indifferent.
She had gone mad. Rooney believed it. Perhaps she was the murmuring, waiting figure from "Waiting for Godot", living within her own world, becoming an outlier in the eyes of others, out of sync with society. And then, bit by bit, the oxygen was being drawn away, until she embraced death in solitude.
After the awards ceremony, the next event was the Oscar night—the celebration hosted by Vanity Fair. It was even more festive than the Oscars themselves. Rumor had it that a ticket for the Oscar night had been sold for forty thousand dollars.
Forty thousand dollars, just to enter that merciless yet exciting living-dead tomb.
Rooney got into a taxi, ready to return to the hotel, change into her second evening gown, and attend the Oscar night. At that party, she had an incredibly significant task. Her agent handed her a list, a long string of names—all the individuals she must meet and interact with. Only then could she secure the role of "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo".
Yes, everything was for the role.
After the project for this film was announced, almost half of Hollywood's age-appropriate actresses swarmed to audition. Everyone scrambled to get this role, often by hook or by crook. Leveraging her involvement in "The Social Network" and her personal connection with David Fincher, Rooney managed to seize an edge, but that was still insufficient.
Tonight was the decisive moment.
However, as she gazed at the broad, bustling streets of Los Angeles outside the window, a wave of irritability swept over her. She felt cheap. She knew it was her pride and youthful arrogance getting the best of her, but she couldn't control it. Before she realized it, she blurted out, "To the airport, please."
And then, she found herself here. After a three-hour flight, it was already one in the morning when the plane landed.
As her overheated brain gradually cooled down and impulsive emotions dissipated, she finally regained her composure. She understood what she had done. At the airport counter, she casually bought a ticket for the nearest flight with no destination restrictions. She boarded the plane and turned off her phone, falling into a deep sleep on the plane.
Wearing her evening gown.
But why? Why had she done this? What should she do next? And where was this place?
When she learned that she had arrived in Seattle, Rooney couldn't help but laugh. Was this luck? Or a coincidence? She had randomly bought a ticket, and yet it had led her to this emerald city. She had no friends living in Seattle, but she had a friend working there.
Renly Hall.
With almost no hesitation, she told the taxi driver to take her to the address of the "50/50" production. That address had become widely known in the past few days, with half of Hollywood's journalists gathering there, surrounding Renly Hall's apartment as if they were once upon a time encircling Michael Jackson.
"Renly Hall," Rooney whispered softly, the unfamiliar syllables dancing on her lips.
In a unfamiliar city, encountering a friend and passing some time—it was a good thing. However, it was already the middle of the night, and Rooney didn't know whether Renly Hall was still awake. She was also uncertain if the "50/50" production was still ongoing at that hour.
Tonight, Renly had not attended the awards ceremony.
Unbeknownst to her, Rooney felt a tinge of envy and admiration. This kind of Renly compelled her to look up. What kind of courage did it take to decline the Oscars and choose to remain on set to work? What kind of determination was needed to convince one's agent to give up the obsession with the academy? What kind of resilience was required to focus wholeheartedly on acting amidst all the hustle and bustle?
Moments from The Social Network played back in her mind, vivid as an old movie.
"Miss, we've arrived."
The taxi driver's voice interrupted Rooney's thoughts. She looked up and handed him her credit card. Inside her small handbag were just a lipstick, a compact powder, a credit card, and a phone. "Thank you."
"Miss, are you sure you're okay?" The taxi driver asked, concerned.
Rooney followed his gaze, looking down at her elegant attire, and chuckled softly, "I'm fine." Yes, she hadn't been fine before, but now she was. "Better than fine."
Stepping out of the taxi, Rooney raised her head to locate the famous Peacock Blue Apartments' entrance. There, she saw a plump young man sitting on the steps, his hands supporting his chin, his gaze drifting occasionally in one direction. Rooney instinctively followed his line of sight.
Then she saw a bald head.
"Pfft." Rooney's initial reaction was laughter. Under the lazy, honey-yellow lights, that completely bald head looked utterly comical. Yet, it wasn't like another light bulb; it was more like... a cactus, a pruned cactus at that.
Rooney gently pursed her lips, her laughter dissolving like wistful smoke in the humid air. She then noticed the curving profile of the bald head's contours. His handsome, refined facial features had a touch less of scholarly elegance and a touch more of poetic tranquility. His brows and eyes, outlined like ink brushstrokes, took on an additional layer of resolute determination beneath the cool moonlight.
The corners of Rooney's mouth involuntarily lifted, a hint of surprise flashing in her eyes. Those charming round eyes widened, almost disbelieving what they saw. She couldn't help but take a half step forward, attempting to see more clearly. Yet, fear and unfamiliarity made her come to a halt, leaving her standing at a distance and simply watching.
That was Renly Hall.
Rooney knew, although it seemed strange, unfamiliar, and even odd, it was undoubtedly Renly. What had happened? Was it simply the time difference caused by the Oscar ceremony? In just that time gap, Renly had transformed into... a bald-headed man?
It was somewhat absurd, somewhat amusing. Rooney couldn't suppress the smile that curled her lips. Upon deeper reflection, that sense of ridiculous delight surged even more.
The actors had done everything they could to grace the Oscars' red carpet. They embodied elegance, wit, grace, and poise under the spotlight. They donned masks, pretending to be unfamiliar faces, basking in the world's applause.
Meanwhile, Renly had quietly remained in Seattle... with a bald head, sitting silently on a bench, the long street devoid of anyone. The desolate streetlamp stretched its projection long and thin.
"Ha." Rooney couldn't hold back anymore. She clapped her hands and burst into hearty laughter.