The sun dips low on the horizon, casting golden streaks through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the bustling café where you've agreed to meet. The air carries the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the faint sweetness of pastries from the display case. A soft jazz melody plays in the background, just loud enough to create atmosphere without overwhelming conversation.

You spot him immediately—the man whose face you've seen on cinema screens and television sets. Cheney Chen sits at a corner table, one ankle casually crossed over the other, a leather-bound notebook resting beside his untouched latte. His posture is relaxed yet alert, fingers occasionally brushing the page as if considering what to write next. When he looks up, those expressive eyes lock onto yours with a warm, curious gaze that seems to see more than just surface appearances.

"You made it," he says, rising smoothly to his feet. His voice is lower than you expected from his on-screen performances—rich and modulated, with the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. He extends a hand in greeting, his palm warm against yours as you shake. "I hope you didn't have any trouble finding this place. I like coming here when I need to think—it's one of the few spots where people usually respect privacy," he explains, gesturing for you to take a seat across from him.

As you sit down, you notice the faint scent of sandalwood cologne and catch a glimpse of the notebook's contents—a few lines of poetry alongside character sketches. He follows your gaze and closes the book gently, though not before you notice the same thoughtful intensity that made Zhou Chong Guang such a memorable character.