The Brown Bear in the House
"I'm screwed."
That was the first thought that popped into his head. He had completely, utterly screwed up.
"National jokes." Sure, they carried a slightly discriminatory undertone, but since he and Elena weren't strangers, he figured they could banter like that. But if other family members heard it, that was a different story. A rough joke traded between friends could easily end up wounding someone else who shared that same background.
'Well, not that it really matters.' Surely they wouldn't actually throw him in a meat locker and freeze him to death. 'It was a joke, just a joke. An American joke, at that. Besides, this isn't an era where politically incorrect remarks are scrutinized to death yet.'
Even as he made these excuses, Sion couldn't shake the creeping sense of dread. He had even spent the hours leading up to his visit frantically searching his house for a decent housewarming gift. When the heavens cruelly revealed he had absolutely nothing—and since he couldn't exactly gift them an unopened can of whipped cream spray he'd bought on a whim—Sion had rushed to his backyard garden. There, he plucked the flowers he had been growing as a hobby and hastily arranged them into a bouquet.
He silently wiped away a tear. 'I'm so sorry, Tiffany! Alexa!'
After his regression, Sion had adopted the persona of a battle-weary, reclusive actor to dilute his former "brat" reputation. During his self-imposed confinement, he had discovered a new hobby: gardening. Having to sacrifice the flowers he had nurtured with such love and care filled him with profound grief. Once again, he was forced to confront the pain of loss, much like the themes of Fragments of You.
Navigating by the memory of their previous "date," Sion drove to the Asimov estate in Bel-Air. After parking his car, he cradled the bouquet of Tiffany and Alexa in his arms as gently as he had held Noah in the film, and rang the doorbell with a trembling heart.
BAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPP—!!
The typical buzzer of an ultra-wealthy estate echoed through the air. Before long, the heavy front door swung open, and a familiar face appeared.
"W-Why are you here?" Elena Asimov asked, her eyes wide.
"Why are you picking a fight the second you see me? You're the one who told me to come."
"...Just because I told you to come, you actually did?" Elena glared at him, then turned around and scurried down the hallway. Her steps were strangely light. Would it be rude to compare her to a Siberian Husky seeing snow for the first time?
'I guess she's let her guard down because it's the holidays and she's at home.' Seeing her unusually innocent demeanor, Sion couldn't help but think that she was still just a kid.
The hallway was vast—easily four times the size of his own house. Every visible piece of woodwork was premium hardwood, and the floors, naturally, were polished marble. He looked around as if wandering through a museum, taking in the array of fine art, exquisite sculptures, and lavish decorations.
Elena, who had been walking ahead, noticed Sion lagging behind. She doubled back, closing the distance as if to urge him along, and asked, "Who are those flowers for?"
"...Honestly, I don't want to give them to anyone."
"Huh?"
"They're for you, of course. Elena, my love."
"W-What are you talking about! Our movie is over! Don't make jokes like that in front of my parents! They'll misunderstand!"
"Come on. If I'm invited to your house, doesn't that mean we're practically official?"
"No, it doesn't!"
"Then why was I invited? Didn't your mother personally call me?"
"...I-I don't know why either. But it's not bad."
"Why?"
"Because it feels like my mother is acknowledging you. Hehe. Actually, ever since she watched our movie, she hasn't stopped praising you. She kept saying how great your acting was. I'm a little jealous, but... for some reason, I'm also happy."
"Olga Asimov praised me? First the Soviet Union collapses, and now World War III is probably going to break out tomorrow."
"Well, we'd like to avoid another Cuban Missile Crisis. As Americans, that is."
"Me too, as an American."
They both burst into natural laughter.
'Yeah, this is it.' This was real humor—taking each other's sensitive spots and turning them into banter. If the legendary Asimov family of Hollywood had one vulnerability, it was their Russian heritage, especially given the tense relations with the US. He had heard that both Dmitry and Olga had faced their share of discrimination during their younger years. But that was decades ago. By now, it was something they could laugh off... or so he thought.
'Holy crap. Future Elena never looked this terrifying.'
Sion suddenly felt as if a starving Russian brown bear was glaring at him from a distance. At the end of the hallway stood a woman with short, near-platinum blonde hair, quietly observing him and Elena.
"Ah, sorry! ...Let's go," Elena squeaked.
"Why are you apologizing?" Sion whispered.
"For keeping a guest waiting at the door while we flirted."
Must be a Russian thing. Sion fought off an instinctive, inexplicable wave of terror as he followed behind Elena.
***
When they finally stood face-to-face, the first words out of Olga Asimov's mouth were:
"You really are handsome."
"...Ah, thank you."
"Is this what you look like when you're not putting on a show? Hmm, surprisingly charming."
Sion could only offer an awkward smile. Unless he was actively managing his public image or teasing someone like Charlie, Danny, or Elena, he had no reason to play the brat. Sensing his polite demeanor instantly, Olga gave an amused smile and led him toward the kitchen.
"The food is almost ready, so make yourself comfortable. This is my husband, Dmitry."
"Hello. I'm Sion Lee."
"Dmitry Asimov. A pleasure to meet you."
Dmitry, who was sitting at the dining table sipping black tea from an elegant cup, welcomed Sion with unexpected warmth. Seeing the man's gentle, friendly smile, Sion relaxed slightly as they shook hands.
However, the moment Dmitry's eyes fell upon the newspaper-wrapped bouquet in Sion's hand, his gaze turned razor-sharp.
"Who are those flowers for?" Dmitry asked, his voice dropping.
"...Of course, they are for the lovely Barynya Olga Asimov, who graciously invited me!"
Behind Sion, Elena puffed out her cheeks in a slight pout. Olga, on the other hand, raised an eyebrow and laughed in delight.
"Oh, my. Thank you. You even know the word barynya? Impressive."
In Russian, barynya meant "noblewoman" or "lady." The fact that Sion had used this specific term instead of generic titles like "Mademoiselle" or "Madame" instantly thawed the atmosphere. Sion silently thanked his past self for watching so many Russian films as he naturally presented the bouquet to Olga.
Caressing the petals with satisfaction, Olga remarked, "How did you know my latest hobby is drying flowers?"
"...Drying them?"
"Yes. It's surprisingly fun. They get so delightfully crispy."
Sion squeezed his eyes shut and silently whispered, 'Goodbye, Tiffany. Goodbye, Alexa.' Fortunately, no one heard him.
After staring at Sion with lingering suspicion, Dmitry finally withdrew his intense gaze and gestured toward a chair. "Shall we sit?"
"You two chat. I'll go bring out the food," Olga said.
"You cook as well?" Sion asked, genuinely surprised.
Olga gave him a sly wink. "Of course. Did you think a woman like me would leave everything to a housekeeper?"
Tying her apron back on, Olga headed to the kitchen. Elena, casting a quick glance at Sion, stood up. "I-I'll help too."
"My, what's gotten into you? You usually don't lift a finger."
"Ahem..."
Olga simply chuckled, seeing right through Elena's self-consciousness around Sion. It was a warm, festive atmosphere fitting for the end of the year. Yet, Sion couldn't completely let his guard down.
'I've seen her face countless times in the media, but her real-life presence is something else. She's smiling, but... it feels like she isn't.'
Before long, dishes began filling the table. Olivier salad, vareniki, and borscht. Faced with a feast of unfamiliar Russian delicacies, Sion maintained a polite smile, taking in the spread.
Dmitry, who had been quietly sizing him up, spoke in a gentle tone. "Congratulations on the movie. The reception has been explosive."
"Thank you, sir. It's all thanks to Elena's brilliant performance."
"Everyone around me is talking about it. Of course, they praise Elena, but this time, there's been a lot of talk about you, Sion. People ask if I've met you, and how you suddenly managed to pull off such acting... I'm quite curious myself. I hope to hear a lot from you today, Mr. Lee."
"I just did what I've always done, sir."
"Always done? When Elena worked with you on her last project, she did nothing but complain. But for this film, her eyes would sparkle whenever she talked about you. How great your acting was, how cool you were in this scene or that... It certainly felt like she was observing you very closely every single day."
Thud!
Sion lightly tapped the table. "Excuse me, sir. I have a question."
"...Ah, yes?" Dmitry's chilly gaze softened slightly, caught off guard.
'Phew, this guy isn't easy either.'
Steering Dmitry away from what was rapidly turning into a dark, overprotective interrogation, Sion asked with a deadpan, serious face, "I heard you struggled quite a bit with your accent early in your career. How did you overcome it?"
"Hmm..."
Even Sion knew it was a terrible, blunt question. But just as Dmitry was pondering how to answer, Olga arrived with the final dish—kotleti, Russian-style meat patties. She set the massive platter down with a grunt and answered for him.
"Practice, of course. But the interesting part is... the accent wasn't actually the real problem."
She set down a bottle of champagne she was holding in her other hand. "Let's have a drink first, grab some food, and dive into some real Hollywood talk, shall we?"
***
It had been a very long time since Sion had seen a family dinner this boisterous.
"Seriously?! Me too! Ugh, back when I was on that kids' show, the PD absolutely hated my guts just because I had a pretty face. He threw the most ridiculous tantrums!"
"Is that so? Well, people are the same no matter the era. Once I grew up a bit, some big-shot producer went crazy trying to get me to go on a date with him. I turned him down, and when he tried to grope me next time, I kicked him square in the balls. My work dried up completely after that. But you know what? Apparently, that kick awakened a whole new preference in him."
Elena watched the scene unfold, feeling a strange sense of unfamiliarity at her own thought: 'This isn't half bad...'
She had been picking at a large slice of Napoleon cake served for dessert, but under her mother's watchful glare, she had reluctantly set her fork down to watch her weight.
"Wow, I really can't wrap my head around that one," Sion said, shaking his head. "Was his brain completely hijacked by his libido?"
"This is the arts, after all. There are far more lunatics at the top than you'd think. Honestly, the greedy ones who only care about money are much easier to deal with."
"Ah, I completely agree. One hundred percent."
"See? We speak the same language."
From the very beginning, Sion and Olga dominated the conversation. The two of them got along famously. After finishing just one glass of champagne, they immediately moved on to vodka. Elena, thoroughly exhausted by the sight of them tossing back high-proof alcohol without so much as a change in expression, had been nursing her single glass of champagne for nearly two hours.
The Asimov family dynamic was strictly matriarchal. Whenever they gathered, Olga led the conversation with a somewhat chilly authority, while Dmitry and Elena mostly chimed in to agree. But now, with the sly and silver-tongued Sion thrown into the mix, it felt as though a perfect balance had been struck.
Listening to the person who cared about her the most and the person she had been caring about the most lately share intimate, industry-savvy stories about their experiences was incredibly enjoyable for Elena.
...Even if she was starting to get incredibly sleepy.
Perhaps because she had eaten so much and had a bit of alcohol she wasn't used to, her large, clear eyes began to flutter shut.
"Sion," Olga said, now addressing him comfortably. "So, this performance of yours. What was the mindset behind it?"
"Acting is acting, ma'am. There wasn't any special mindset."
"I'd like to hear something a bit deeper. What drives your acting? Were you thinking of your mother?"
"...Hic!"
Elena let out a sudden, startled hiccup. When both Sion and Olga turned to look at her, she quickly averted her eyes in embarrassment.
In truth, Elena had always considered the word "mother" to be a taboo subject for Sion Lee. Even back when they were on terrible terms, she had made a conscious effort never to touch upon that topic. A boy with no mother, and no father either. Someone whose life was the complete opposite of her own.
Yet, her mother had brought it up so casually in front of him. While it was typical of her mother's direct nature, Elena felt a sudden, sharp pang of sympathy in her chest.
"No matter how much I think about it, that has to be it," Olga continued. "Your acting improved far too suddenly. Drawing from my own decades of experience, it simply makes no sense. When I watched Deadly and then Swing, I thought it was just a fluke—perhaps a rookie director's exceptionally good guidance. But it wasn't a fluke. What was the catalyst? What caused such a dramatic transformation in you? I kept asking myself that the entire time I watched Fragments. ...And with my limited perspective, I couldn't think of anything else but your mother's passing."
"I had an accident between those two films," Sion said softly.
"An accident? ...Ah, the motorcycle crash? The media brushed it off so lightly, I didn't think it was anything serious."
"It was serious. Serious enough to completely change my outlook on life. I stood at death's door."
Sion offered a gentle, enigmatic smile. Then, glancing at the half-asleep Elena, he said, "Forgive me for cutting our conversation short, but it seems I've stayed far too late."
"...You're right. Honey, take Elena up to her room. I'll see our guest out."
"Alright. Get home safely, young man."
Dmitry readily complied with Olga's request, helping Elena up as he stood. Leaving behind a sleepy, uncharacteristically cute "Bye-bye..." from Elena, Sion walked down the same lavish hallway with Olga.
Once they were alone, the warmth vanished from Sion's eyes, replaced by a sharp, calculating gaze.
"So, how did I do?"
"...Pardon?"
"Did I pass the test?"
"My, what test?"
"Don't play innocent. You invited me here to size me up, didn't you?"
Olga's eyes gleamed with intrigue. Sion was entirely correct. She had invited him to her home to test whether he was the right fit for a specific project she had in mind. She was not the type of person to casually invite a guest over just because they were an acquaintance of her daughter. She genuinely admired his recent performances, and he was currently a hot topic online—yet his footing in the industry was still precarious enough to make him highly exploitable.
But seeing Sion drop his polite facade and show his true colors the moment they were alone, she was certain.
'He knows his own worth, and he knows exactly how to play his hand.'
It was a skill Elena, who had focused solely on honing her acting craft, had yet to acquire. 'Perhaps I raised her too protectively.'
But this boy... he would do perfectly.
"Hmm. When did you realize?"
"The moment I saw you from down the hall, Krasavitsa."
Krasavitsa—the Russian word for a beautiful woman.
"You really are a smooth-talking rascal. You shouldn't call an old lady like me that."
"Ah, my Russian is a bit rusty. Forgive me."
"I like how you slide out of trouble with that silver tongue of yours. I wonder what that whole idiot act in the past was about. I thought you were going to end up as nothing more than cheap tabloid fodder, but somewhere along the way, you grew up and learned how to do a real 'actor's job.'"
At the end of the hallway, right before the front door, their gazes locked. On one side stood a legendary actress who had overcome rampant discrimination to dominate her era as a Russian-American. On the other stood a notorious troublemaker who commanded the spotlight with nothing but his breathtaking looks.
Olga made her offer casually. "Once your schedule for this movie wraps up, I'd like us to work together. For 'one season' or so."
Sion's eyebrow twitched. But a split second later, he let out a scoff, putting on an act of disbelief. "After you spent all this time trying to bury me to protect Elena's image?"
"First of all, that wasn't my doing. The head of Longday simply got cold feet after I lodged a complaint. Second, the version of you I knew back then is different from who you are now. Through your last two films, you proved to everyone that you're no longer a brainless brat. You showed what you've done, and what you're capable of. And finally, I protect my own fiercely."
Olga laid out her points with mechanical, chilling precision. Her eyes, cold and sharp, gleamed like a leopard stalking its prey.
This was a grand mansion, far from a normal family home. Though her acting career might not have reached the absolute pinnacle of box office stardom, she was the matriarch of the Asimov family—a powerhouse who wielded immense, steady influence in Hollywood through her robust filmography and active union leadership.
'First Jack Nicholson, and now Olga Asimov.'
She was the perfect stepping stone for the goals Sion wanted to achieve next.