1798-1800

Chapter 1798: Riding the Wind and Breaking the Waves 

Slap! Slap! Slap-slap-slap! Slap-slap-slap! 

The rhythm pounded against his heart, hot blood and surging adrenaline rushing to his brain in a flood. His entire body trembled uncontrollably. 

A moment’s lapse in focus could sweep him into the hurricane, rising and falling in this wave of fervor. Reason, willpower, and self-awareness vanished entirely—he even forgot to breathe. He was adrift in an endless sea of fervor and passion, his body breaking down into countless cells, dissolving into the frenzy. 

Who am I? Where am I? What am I doing? 

What in the world was going on? 

It felt like a dream. Will tried to trace the starting point, to uncover the root and reason for the scene unfolding before him, but he suddenly realized his memory couldn’t backtrack. Like a dream, he couldn’t recall the beginning or the end, swept into a scene without head or tail, where things just happened. 

So, was this a dream? 

But… how could it be? He didn’t even like Anson—barely knew him—so why would he dream about him? 

Or perhaps it was already nighttime, and the events at the airport earlier that day had been so overwhelming, so deeply etched into his mind, that they’d bled into his dreams. Daytime thoughts become nighttime dreams, a dream so vivid it felt real. If that was the case, how had the daytime events ended? 

Chaos. Haze. Dizziness. 

Will tried to take a deep breath to steady himself, but the surging heat from all directions was too intense, too overwhelming, leaving no room to catch his breath. 

Then— 

“Anson!” 

A heart-wrenching cry gripped Will’s heart, yanking at his ankles and tugging at his soul. The weight of gravity snapped him back to reality, his feet rediscovering the solid ground. The crashing waves of sound and sensation followed, hitting him hard. 

This wasn’t a dream. 

Will froze. This was reality—everything unfolding before him was happening, right now, in real time. 

“Anson.” 

“Anson!” 

“Anson…” 

“ANSONNNNNN!” 

The screams rose and fell, varied and escalating, filling the entire airport terminal like a gushing spring. All kinds of voices calling Anson’s name erupted like a flood breaking through a dam. 

Will had no time to react or think. The noise dragged him back into reality. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to stand firm, pushing the chaotic thoughts swirling in his mind aside to focus on the sea of people before him. His eardrums began to throb with a faint sting. 

Everyone—literally everyone—was trying to catch Anson’s attention, shouting with all their might as if his name were a magic spell for happiness. They called it out again and again, with heartfelt passion, until their brains starved for oxygen. 

Sight. Sound. Touch. Smell. 

Every sense was stuffed to the brim. The “crowd” had a tangible weight, pressing down from all sides like a torrential summer storm, leaving him gasping for air. 

Yet Anson remained calm and composed, moving at his own unhurried pace, even finding time to nod and wave at the surrounding crowd. 

This steadied Will a little, too, allowing him to focus on his job. 

Perhaps it was Anson’s rhythm influencing the crowd, but the layers of people didn’t rush forward recklessly. They kept their distance, their screams mingling with the flashes of cameras, a relentless bombardment, yet they parted like the Red Sea, allowing Anson a clear path toward the airport exit. 

Still, the frantic arms and crowded bodies pressed forward relentlessly, tugging at Will’s clothes—his jacket, T-shirt, pants, no part spared. Even his cheeks, mouth, and throat weren’t safe from stray hands, fists, or collisions. It was a veritable tempest. 

For Will, this was a good thing. The pain and chaos helped him focus, pulling him back to reality and keeping him grounded in his task. 

“Protect Anson!” 

That was the only thought in Will’s mind. 

“Complete the mission!” 

Will spread his arms, shielding Anson firmly behind him. Together with two other security guards, they formed a solid barrier, moving slowly through the chaotic crowd, riding the wind and breaking the waves. The rhythms and melodies from earlier echoed involuntarily in his mind. 

Sail on! 

Again and again. 

Those melodies, those drumbeats, those rhythms boiled in his blood, generating endless energy. His steps grew firmer, more resolute. 

They made it to the curb, where a black Mercedes-Benz waited at the entrance. 

Will and the security team held the crowd back, allowing Anson to approach the car. But then, unexpectedly, Anson paused and turned to look at Will. 

Will hadn’t anticipated this and froze for a moment. 

Anson seemed to say something, but without lingering, he got into the car. Will quickly shut the door, keeping the surging crowd at bay. 

The car merged into the airport’s dense, chaotic traffic and gradually disappeared into the distance. 

In his line of sight, Will saw some diehard fans chasing after the car, sprinting frantically until they ran out of steam, panting heavily as they watched the vehicle’s taillights fade. Some screamed Anson’s name with hoarse desperation before collapsing to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably. 

Nearby, the lingering crowd stood reluctantly in place, silently watching the car’s departing silhouette, trying to process what had just happened. 

Including Will. 

“…Will?” It wasn’t until he heard his name that Will snapped out of it, realizing he’d been standing there, dazed, for who knows how long. 

Everything felt the same yet entirely different. 

Working at Heathrow, Will had seen countless top-tier celebrities, including Princess Diana, and had witnessed all sorts of spectacles and scenes. But in his memory, there had never been anyone like Anson. He couldn’t even find the right words to describe it—it didn’t feel real. 

Superstar, superstar. In the age of the internet, the term “superstar” was thrown around casually, slapped onto any popular actor for promotional hype. 

But now, Will had seen what a true superstar was. 

No need for pomp or grandeur—just one person was enough. Even alone, their every gesture, their innate charisma, was impossible to look away from. Standing amid a surging sea of people, they still shone brilliantly, effortlessly stealing the spotlight and becoming the center of attention. 

Will felt a bit dazed. 

Then he noticed the stunned and curious looks from his colleagues, as if they’d never seen this side of him, their surprise barely concealed. 

Will himself was no exception. 

Normally, Will lived by a simple code: do the job you’re paid for. This was just work. He wasn’t some superhero, nor was he out to save the world. His role was to maintain order and ensure safety—that was it. If those top-tier stars got themselves into trouble, that was their problem. He was just a regular employee, refusing to take on anything beyond his job description— 

Unless they were willing to cut him a check. 

Otherwise, look at those private security firms or mercenaries—one day’s pay for them could match his monthly salary. 

But what had just happened? What was all this? 

Chapter 1799: Pitiful and Pathetic 

You get paid to do a job, nothing more, nothing less. No need to act like some superhero. 

That had always been Will’s work mantra. 

But… what just happened? 

Giving it his all, burning with passion, working diligently, throwing himself into the moment without a second thought. 

Even Will couldn’t recognize himself. What had gotten into him? Even the song “Sailing,” still blasting enthusiastically behind him, felt strangely unfamiliar. 

To cover up his embarrassment, Will quickly changed the subject. “What?” 

Luckily, the other security guards were just as stunned, if not more so. They’d never seen anything like this either. 

“What did Anson say? Right before he got in the car?” 

Will froze, the moment replaying vividly in his mind. The words slipped out naturally. “Thank you.” 

“What?” 

Will repeated, “Thank you. Anson said thank you. He thanked us for our work.” 

Just a simple phrase, one you might hear countless times in daily life, yet it carried an almost magical weight. 

Not just for Will, but for the other security guards too. As they exchanged glances, a joy and happiness that words couldn’t quite capture filled their chests to the brim. 

“Anson said thank you.” 

“Haha, thank you! He actually said thank you.” 

“Did you hear that? Anson Wood—the Anson Wood—thanked us for our work.” 

“That includes me, right? Anson thanked me too.” 

“Oh, and he shook my hand earlier, haha!” 

Back and forth, their chatter erupted, unable to contain themselves as their moods soared to the clouds. 

Will stood there, dazed, his gaze instinctively drifting to the direction Anson had left. 

The Mercedes-Benz was long gone, but staring that way, knowing Anson was out there somewhere in the sea of people, a soft smile tugged at the corners of Will’s mouth, blooming with quiet pride. 

Today, he truly didn’t recognize himself. He’d broken his own code of conduct, and for a moment, he’d become the kind of person he used to despise— 

Someone scraping by on a meager salary, pretending to be a superhero. 

Yet, as he calmed down, he could feel happiness and joy bubbling up in his chest, a kind of elation that words couldn’t fully describe. It wasn’t quite the same as the thrill of getting a paycheck, but this feeling… it wasn’t bad. It might even be something to linger on. 

“Hm hm hm… hm hm hm… Sailing…” 

Softly, from deep in his throat, Will started humming along, his body feeling lighter, as if the gloom overhead was letting through faint glimmers of golden light. 

Will thought to himself, This is a good day. 

Meanwhile, Anson wasn’t in such high spirits. 

He’d barely gotten into the car, not even catching his breath, when his phone started buzzing in his pocket. No time to deal with it yet, he grabbed a bottle of mineral water from the front, twisted it open, and chugged it down, finally soothing his parched, nearly burning throat. 

This was a reminder to himself: next time, he should hold back on these unprepared surprise events. 

Not only was his throat dry, but his stomach was growling too. 

Worse, his arms and shoulders ached, his calves and thighs were sore, and as his tense nerves finally relaxed, his entire body was a mess of pain and tingling. 

On the surface, it looked like Anson hadn’t done much. But in reality, he’d been on high alert the whole time, eyes and ears everywhere, unable to let his guard down for a second. Any slip could’ve led to an accident, not to mention the impromptu meet-and-greet where his hands had practically given up the ghost from all the clapping. 

Right now, he needed to completely shut off his brain. 

Finally catching a moment to breathe, Anson pulled out his phone. The call had already disconnected. He glanced at the screen— 

Thirteen missed calls. 

Anson’s head throbbed. As he was pondering what to do, the phone buzzed again, the relentless ringing all too familiar, all too intimate. 

No suspense needed. 

With a soft sigh, Anson answered the call. “Hey, Lucas…” 

“Anson Wood! What the hell were you thinking?!” A barrage of shouting came through, loud enough to rival a Howler from Harry Potter, practically bursting out of the phone. 

Anson glanced up at the rearview mirror, catching the driver’s eyes. Sure enough, the driver was so shocked he looked up, their gazes meeting in the mirror. 

Anson gave a small shrug. “Getting chewed out.” 

The driver hadn’t expected Anson to be so blunt. A grin crept up, and seeing Anson’s crumpled, disheveled, pitiful state, he couldn’t help but chuckle. “Sounds like someone who really cares about you.” 

Anson’s face was pure resignation. “As much as I hate to admit it…” It was true. 

Instead of responding, Anson let the tirade pour out from the phone until it quieted down a bit. Only then did he bring the phone back to his ear. 

“…Anson, Anson! I’ve vented it all out now. You can put the phone back to your ear. We need to talk.” 

Anson played innocent. “Mm.” 

Lucas cut in, “Eight bodyguards.” Sensing Anson was about to protest, he barreled on, “Non-negotiable. I already let you stay in Edinburgh alone, and then you run off to London and cause this chaos? What were you thinking? You don’t want Mom and Dad finding out about this, do you?” 

Anson replied, “It was an accident, really, just an accident.” 

Lucas snapped, “I know it was an accident, but that’s exactly why bodyguards exist, isn’t it? To prevent accidents like this! Do you have any idea how big this has gotten? The entire North American continent is buzzing!” 

Anson thought for a moment. “It’s probably early morning in L.A. right now, isn’t it? Buzzing? Isn’t everyone asleep?” 

Lucas groaned, “Anson Wood, are you messing with me?” 

Realizing Lucas was genuinely upset and worried he might hop on a plane right then and there, Anson quickly backpedaled. “Sorry, my bad.” But then he pivoted, “Aren’t you worried about me? Don’t you care if I’m hurt?” 

Lucas’s heart skipped a beat, and even through the phone, you could hear the rustle of him jumping to his feet. “What? You’re hurt? Damn it!” 

Anson: Oh no. 

Backfired spectacularly. 

“No, I’m not. I didn’t mean that. I’m fine, really. Everything’s okay. Trust me, I’m good,” Anson scrambled to explain, but there was no response from the other end. 

Anson pressed a hand to his forehead. “Lucas, calm down, calm down! I’m fine, really. Don’t believe me? Ask the driver. I’ll put it on speaker.” 

“Hey, driver, can you tell my brother how I’m doing?” 

Lucas finally seemed to settle, pausing to listen intently. 

The driver: ??? Hey, why am I, an innocent bystander, getting dragged into this sibling squabble? 

Seeing Anson curled up, looking utterly pathetic, what was he supposed to do? One wrong move, and was his life in danger? 

Sure enough, Lucas’s calm voice came through the phone. 

“Sir, you’d better tell the truth. No matter what kind of look that guy’s giving you, just describe exactly what you see. Otherwise, I’ll find a way to track you down, and you’ll regret it.” 

Chapter 1800: Cultural Immersion 

“…I’ll always find a way to track you down, and you’ll regret it when I do.” 

Calm, cold, and chilling to the bone. 

The driver’s eyes widened as he whipped his head toward Anson, his face a picture of innocence. 

Then, a voice crackled through the phone: “Did you just turn around? Please keep your eyes on the road, drive carefully, and stay safe.” 

The driver flinched as if stung, immediately facing forward again. His hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white, his throat suddenly dry— 

No need to wait for regrets later; he was already trembling, small, and helpless right now, okay? 

Dear heavens, Jesus Christ, all the gods and Buddhas above, please protect this innocent little driver. Please, oh please! 

Swallowing hard, the driver clung to his composure and glanced through the rearview mirror. “He… uh, he looks a bit disheveled…” 

Anson: ??? 

Lucas’s voice boomed, “Anson Wood!” 

Fury roared across the Atlantic, bursting through the phone’s speaker. Even its aftershock felt like it could reduce the driver to ashes. 

The driver panicked. “But! But! But!” He stammered the word repeatedly. “That’s all! He just looks slightly disheveled on the surface. He’s fine, everything’s fine, all’s well as far as I can see.” 

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Anson: “Sir?” 

That didn’t help, please! 

The driver scrambled, “I don’t know how to explain it. You look fine, just… hair a bit messy, cheeks a little flushed. That’s it. Nothing special. I can’t see anything else, and I can’t exactly check your body, can I?” 

Anson: … 

Lucas: … 

The air fell silent. 

Anson struggled to stifle a laugh, nodding lightly. “Right, you can’t exactly check my body. After all, you’ve got to focus on driving.” 

The driver realized his words might’ve been misinterpreted, his face flushing as he held his breath. 

Lucas seemed to sense the driver’s sincerity, and the tension in his voice finally eased. “Sir, so he really looks okay?” 

The driver nodded vigorously, then remembered Lucas couldn’t see him. “Yes, he’s fine. He just looks a bit tired.” 

Lucas: “Anson?” 

Anson let out a long breath. “The airport was a bit chaotic just now. Things were about to spiral out of control, so I lent a hand…” He briefly explained the situation, proving he was just a little worn out. “The airport security team did a stellar job.” 

Lucas: “Yeah, I know. That’s why I said you need a security team.” 

Anson: … 

Lucas ignored him. “Airport security team, right? What’s the leader’s name? I should thank them.” 

Anson sighed, exasperated but compliant. “Will. The leader’s name is Will O’Connell.” 

Because Anson knew—gratitude was one thing, but Lucas also wanted to dig into the details to confirm he was okay. 

Even if Anson didn’t spill, Lucas would find out somehow. Better to cooperate and maybe enjoy a bit of freedom while it lasted. 

After wrapping The Hangover, Anson hopped on a private plane, quietly crossing the Atlantic from North America to the British Isles, landing in Edinburgh. 

The reason? One word: accent. 

Children of Men is a story set in Britain, and both Alfonso Cuarón and Forest Pictures wanted to honor that. The story’s details are deeply tied to the city and continent, which meant Anson needed to speak flawless British English. 

Not an easy task. 

Since the ‘90s, actors from the UK, Australia, and Canada have flooded Hollywood, alongside others from France, Germany, Italy, and beyond. But English-speaking actors from these countries have a slight edge. 

And it shows. Most of these actors come from academic systems, trained rigorously and honed through years of stage work. Their casting process is rooted in traditional academia, unlike Hollywood, where half the actors are self-made. 

As a result, these actors bring exceptional professionalism, forming a wave that easily snags roles from local Hollywood talent. 

This is why the British Academy Awards are a key indicator during Oscar season. British actors have become integral to Hollywood, and BAFTA results often hint at how British film professionals vote. 

Back to accents: British actors effortlessly mimic North American dialects, even nailing regional nuances—New Orleans and Atlanta’s Southern drawls differ from Chicago or Baltimore’s Northern ones. 

But the reverse? American actors struggle with British accents. Even distinguishing between England, Scotland, or Wales is tough, let alone the subtle variations within London. It’s like learning a new language. 

When American actors play British roles, a bad accent can ruin the performance. It doesn’t take an expert—regular audiences notice, and it’s happened more than once. 

Now, Children of Men faces the same risk. 

Anson knows his role: he’s the eye candy. A “vase” in a project like this draws scrutiny, with every detail—especially his accent—under a microscope, ready to be picked apart. 

So, Anson needs to master the accent, not just learn it but embed it in his soul, fully integrating into the language. 

Why is the British accent—especially London’s—so tricky? 

Pronunciation is only part of it. The real challenge lies in sentence structure, word choice, and more. Language reflects class, family, and culture. 

For example, the same act—going to the bathroom—uses entirely different words depending on whether you’re royalty, elite, blue-collar, aristocratic, or a transplant to London. 

In Titanic, Mrs. Brown, a nouveau riche, tries to blend into high society with fancy dresses and jewelry. Yet, she’s instantly exposed. 

Why? Her language. 

Accent, vocabulary, enunciation—it betrays her the moment she speaks. It’s etched into her soul, unchangeable without years of immersion and training. 

The same goes for The Count of Monte Cristo. The cautious Count spends years refining his speech to fit into high society, but a slip in word choice still gives him away. 

For Anson, this is a daunting, meticulous task. 

The Hangover wrapped in August, and since then, Anson has been quietly living in Edinburgh, studying the language, refining his accent, and blending into daily life. 

For nearly three months, he went unnoticed in Edinburgh. 

But the moment he returned to London? Busted. 

Damn it!