My teacher is Bruce Lee, who dominated Hollywood.

Chapter 30 History is Happening

The concert ended, but the echoes of the revelry still lingered in the night.

A row of black minivans filed away from the stadium.

Inside the lead car, Renée Russell huddled in a corner by the window, her index fingers tightly intertwined.

The scene I had just witnessed backstage kept replaying in my mind—Mick Jagger, joking with Qin Han like old friends.

"Relax, darling." A slender hand reached out and patted the back of her hand.

Lorna Barrett has shed her sharp edge in front of the camera, and her voice carries a hint of languor:

"That big-mouthed guy may seem crazy, but he's actually quite a gentleman offstage."

Renee nodded hesitantly: "Yes...yes, Ms. Barrett."

"Just call me Rona. If you really want to be a good actress, being too tense isn't a good thing. You need to learn to enjoy the spotlight."

After comforting the little girl, the gentleness on Rona's face disappeared, and she moved closer to Qin Han:

"I used all my connections in the media industry to prepare for this live broadcast. After all, I can't just spread your 'prediction' like that."

"If we wait until dawn and the news from Paris is either 'the adjournment continues' or 'the negotiations have broken down'..."

"I'll peel off your skin and make it into my sofa cover."

Through the car window, Qin Han looked at the convoy following behind—Lorna had invited the entire Rolling Stones to her radio studio.

He turned around, met the female reporter's murderous eyes, and shook his head helplessly:

"So, that's why you took us both to the broadcasting studio like prisoners? You didn't even let Renee go home?"

Lorna snorted and pulled out a powder compact from her bag to touch up her makeup: "That's to prevent you from jumping off the train halfway through!"

……

At the same time, on the East Coast, in New York.

The blizzard seemed poised to bury the steel jungle completely, and Peter Benchley sat shivering in his apartment.

The radiators stopped working a few days ago, and if he doesn't pay his rent next week, he'll have to go to Central Park and fight with the squirrels for a bench.

On the desk in front of me were two documents.

On the left is the outline of his recently completed novel; on the right is a press release that he just finished writing.

Title: [Peace is Coming: The Countdown to the End of the Vietnam War]

He sighed and opened his wallet—there were only a few bills left, the largest denomination being no more than $5.

"Damn it..."

Believe it or not?

His eyes were fixed on the press release, and he was tapping his toes on the ground, constantly shaking his leg.

If I publish it and the news turns out to be false, I will become a complete laughingstock in the news industry.

If he didn't send it... he glanced at the $5 bill.

It can't get any worse than it is now, can it?

Peter made up his mind, grabbed the manuscript, and stuffed it into the fax machine.

"Squeak—squeak—"

A piercing mechanical sound filled the silent room, like the gears of fate beginning to turn.

A notification sound indicating successful fax transmission was heard.

He grabbed the receiver and dialed the number of Max Frankel, the political editor of The New York Times.

"Beep...beep..."

The call connected, but instead of the familiar voice of an old friend, I heard deafening music and the laughter of men and women.

"Hey? Who's there?" the person on the other end shouted, clearly in the middle of a lively party.

"It's me, Peter!" Peter had to raise his voice. "Max, I just sent you a fax! It's very important!"

"Oh, it's Peter." The other person's voice clearly carried a hint of impatience: "Listen, buddy, I'm busy here. How about we postpone the article request until Monday?"

"This manuscript is very important!" Peter shouted urgently. "It's about the Vietnam War! This is top secret and exclusive!"

However, the sound of clinking glasses and a soft laugh came from the other end of the phone.

"Understood. I'll take the fax now and we'll talk later."

"Max! Listen to me..."

"Beep—beep—beep—"

Max hung up the phone, pressed the fax accept button, and turned back to find the beautiful girl he had just clinked glasses with.

Peter slumped down on the phone and collapsed into his chair.

The snow outside the window fell heavier and heavier, covering the entire city of New York in a deathly white.

Now, we can only await God's judgment.

……

In the basement of Hell's Kitchen.

Sylvester Stallone lay slumped over a small table, his eyes bloodshot like a spiderweb.

He hadn't slept for a full forty-eight hours.

The scratching sound of the pen nib sliding across the paper was the only sound in the room.

"...The noisy crowd gradually dispersed, and in the center of the boxing ring, Rocky, his face covered in blood, tightly embraced his girl, as if she were his gold belt."

"He didn't listen to the referee's decision, nor did he need to."

"Because he knew he had already won."

After writing the last punctuation mark, Stallone's pen fell to the ground with a "thud".

A tremendous sense of weakness washed over me like a tidal wave, and my vision blurred.

"Woof!" Books jumped onto his lap and licked his cheek vigorously.

The warm touch pulled Stallone back from the brink of fainting.

"Hey, old buddy..." He forced a smile and reached out to rub Brooks' ear.

"I did it... I don't know how much this thing will sell for, but at least... I wrote it down."

Stallone propped himself up on the table, walked to the worn-out cabinet, and took out the last piece of hard bread.

"This half is yours, and this half is mine." He picked up the bread and forcefully broke it in half.

"Tomorrow..." he mumbled indistinctly, chewing his bread, "I'll find a public phone first thing tomorrow morning and call Los Angeles."

……

Hollywood, Los Angeles.

The lights were still on in Lorna's Syndicate Broadcasting Room.

It was already 3 a.m., but the red "ON AIR" indicator light was still on.

Mick Jagger leaned back on the sofa, exuding a captivating nonchalance even in this mundane interview.

"So, dear Rona, you didn't drag me out of bed until now just to chat about everyday things, did you? That's not rock and roll at all."

Although the staff around were still sticking to their posts, many of them were already yawning.

They didn't understand why the boss was making such a big fuss at this particular time.

Rona suppressed her anxiety, glanced at her watch, and realized it was almost time.

She glanced at the director and made a cut-in gesture.

"Of course not, dear Mick. Remember the prophecy I mentioned to you? Ladies and gentlemen, let's connect to the dedicated line at the Paris International Conference Center."

After a crackling sound of electricity, a male voice with a heavy French accent entered the live stream.

"This is Paris, and I am Jean-Pierre, a journalist for Le Figaro."

Lorna tried to keep her voice steady: "Jean, how's the situation in Paris? We've heard some...rumors on the west coast."

"Rumors?" The French journalist scoffed. "Lorna, I suggest you go to sleep."

"Those politicians argued inside for four hours, and neither side would budge on the order of prisoner release."

The air in the broadcasting room suddenly became somewhat heavy.

Mick Jagger looked at Lorna with a hint of mockery, as if to say: Is this the prophecy you were talking about?

"Are there any other signs?" Lorna pressed on, unwilling to give up.

Jean-Pierre sighed. "Listen, Lorna, war isn't child's play, it can't be... wait!"

A violent commotion came from the other end of the radio wave.

Immediately following was a tsunami of gasps and the frantic clicking of camera shutters.

"My God..." Jean-Pierre's voice rose an octave, sounding almost like a scream: "They're out! Everyone's out!"

After ten seconds of noise, the shouts of French reporters rang out again: "Lorna! My God! Kissinger is walking toward the microphone!"