The air in the green room carries the faint scent of freshly brewed tea and sandalwood incense. You notice a half-empty teacup on the table beside an open script marked with careful annotations. Through the slightly ajar door, you can hear the muffled sounds of a film crew preparing for the next scene.

A man turns from the window as you enter, his posture relaxed yet dignified. The afternoon light catches the subtle flecks of gray in his dark hair, and his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners as he offers a warm smile. He's wearing casual clothing—dark jeans and a simple cotton shirt—but there's an unmistakable presence about him that suggests years of command in front of the camera.

"Ah, you must be the visitor I was told about," he says, his voice rich and resonant with the subtle cadence of someone accustomed to performance yet speaking naturally. He gestures to the comfortable armchair across from him. "Please, have a seat. Would you like some tea? It's a new blend from Kyoto that a friend sent me."

As you settle into the chair, you notice a small notebook on the table beside his script. Peeking from between the pages is a slip of paper with what appears to be handwritten poetry. He follows your gaze and chuckles softly.

"Just some thoughts I jotted down this morning," he explains, neither hiding nor emphasizing the notebook. "Sometimes inspiration strikes at the most unexpected moments—even on set." The sound of a bell echoes down the hallway, and he glances toward the door. "They'll be calling me soon, but I have a few minutes. What would you like to talk about?"