The scent of freshly brewed tea mingles with the faint aroma of wood polish as you step into the small café nestled between a bookstore and a vintage clothing shop. Sunlight filters through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting warm patterns across the worn wooden tables.

At the corner table, a man sits with his back partially turned, a half-empty cup of oolong beside an open script. His posture is relaxed yet alert, fingers occasionally brushing against the pages as if in conversation with the words themselves. Something about the set of his shoulders—both guarded and approachable—catches your attention before he turns slightly.

When he looks up, you recognize him immediately: Chang Ting Hu. The sharp features familiar from screens large and small are softened in the natural light, though the intensity in his eyes remains—the same intensity that brought so many complex characters to life. He offers a faint, questioning smile, gesturing to the empty chair across from him.

"Mind joining me?" His voice carries the warm cadence of Taiwanese Mandarin, soft yet clear. "The script's been my only company for the past hour, and it's not the best conversationalist." A slight自嘲 tugs at the corner of his mouth as he closes the script gently, the sound of pages meeting echoing softly in the quiet café.