1527-1529

Chapter 1527: A Blooming Spectacle 

Joy, cheer, happiness, brilliance. 

Bright, vivid emotions poured into the notes. Those rich, heavy feelings lifted off like hot air balloons, rising from the ground, mingling with the endless sea of white balloons, soaring toward the vast blue sky and golden sun. Before they knew it, their feet seemed to shrug off gravity, bodies turning weightless. 

Just a beat—yet it lit up the world. 

Different rhythms, layers, and colors wove together, seamless and graceful, a dance of sound. 

In an instant, it was like… stepping back to adolescence. Fifteen, sixteen—awkward, clueless, brimming with life. Everything bathed in a hazy golden glow, the world theirs for the taking. A light push off the ground, and they could soar. Life stretched out with endless possibilities, dreams and hopes right in their hands. 

That vitality radiated from within. 

Without realizing it, they sank into the rhythm, letting go of reason, ditching thought, trusting instinct. Their bodies felt the flow. 

Dreamlike, unreal. 

Before they knew it, their lips curved up into a soft, wondrous smile. 

Anson spun around, facing the crowd again. He pulled off the mic, strode to the edge of the stage, and stood with feet together— 

“Hey, hey, hey… woo woo woo…” 

“Hey, hey.” 

“Woo woo woo, woo…” 

Hip-hop? 

Wait—hip-hop? Or R&B? Maybe pop-rap? 

Instant jaw-drop. 

The second Anson opened his mouth, the crowd froze. No exceptions—Nicholas, Claire, Gloria, everyone—stunned into silence. 

A tingle shot up their scalps— 

Hip-hop? 

Anson was doing hip-hop? 

Oh, God! 

The shock hit like a jolt, zapping from their toes to their heads and back down, leaving them numb, gaping in place. 

Anson seemed to love the reaction. His grin widened, radiant, but he didn’t pause or give them a breather. 

With a leap, he hopped off the stage, diving into the crowd. 

Right then, the packed audience on the red carpet instinctively stepped back, parting like a tide to clear a path. They stood dumbfounded as Anson passed within arm’s reach. Finally, someone snapped out of it, clapped a hand over their mouth, and let out a muffled scream, their brain turning to mush. 

“No doubt, I’m always in control; no matter what, she’s a stunner, so bold. I’m not tryna think now, baby, I’m a mess; come to my place, baby, you’re a mess.” (Note 1) 

He sang loud, striding forward. 

But this Anson was different—looser, freer, wilder than ever. A carefree swagger hid in his voice, breathing life into the notes. It felt like a cool breeze sweeping through a valley on an early summer afternoon—you couldn’t help but want to spread your arms, breathe deep, and lose yourself in it. 

From Manhattan streets to The Tonight Show studio, across Europe’s cobblestones to the Grammy stage, Anson stayed true—unbound, untamed. That free spirit infused his music with soul, touching countless lives. Yet today, he kept the surprises coming. 

Fresh, distinct, flipping every stereotype about him in his own Anson way, painting the world in his colors. 

This long journey never dimmed the yearning for freedom deep in his soul. His footsteps still raced wild to the ends of the earth. 

Could it get any more perfect? 

“No doubt, I’m always in control; no matter what, she’s a stunner, so bold. I’m not tryna think now, baby, I’m a mess; come to my place, baby, you’re a mess. 

Drowning in the lows, losing my grip, yelling at me, baby, don’t flip. Someone’s down bad, I don’t know that taste, look around, the party’s in your face.” 

The laid-back, freewheeling melody unveiled a brand-new Anson. Before they realized it, the crowd melted into it, feeling the beat with their bodies, their hearts, letting themselves roam, run, fly in the music—part of that reckless, youthful rush. 

The throng was packed tight, shoulder-to-shoulder. Anson left the stage, and the sea of people behind couldn’t even see the action. But, magically, no one shoved forward. Instead, they flowed with Anson’s steps, naturally clearing a small pocket of space. 

The world turned into a dance floor. 

It wasn’t just watching anymore. Seventy thousand, eighty thousand, ninety thousand people—all part of the show, reveling in the moment. Didn’t matter if they couldn’t see Anson; they were up there with him, living this life-fueled party together. 

Leaping, joyful, free—they danced to the melody. Then, eager, fervent, hyped—they awaited Anson’s approach. 

Anson moved against the red carpet’s flow, leaving Radio City Music Hall behind, diving back into the crowd. He looked up, scanning— 

Found it. 

A spiderweb flag waved high. Anson headed toward it, the crowd parting like waves, following his gaze. 

“Ah! Aaaah!” 

There—Kirsten Dunst! 

No way! 

Wait—when did Kirsten slip into the crowd, just like Anson? 

A shy, reserved smile bloomed on her face. She wore a light blue floral dress, her hair in a fishtail braid, looking sweet and charming amidst the masses. Two plainclothes bodyguards flanked her. Without sunglasses to hide it, their slack, rhythm-swaying shoulders would’ve given away their “on-the-job” slip-up. 

Anson stretched out his right hand, inviting her. 

Kirsten hesitated, a little shy, but spun forward, grabbing his hand. She stepped into the clearing, swaying to the beat beside him. 

Aaaah, aaaah! 

The crowd stirred faintly. Nicholas couldn’t believe his eyes—his heart nearly burst. 

He hadn’t predicted Anson’s entrance, nor the Spider-Man 2 cast’s reveal. Everything shattered the norm. 

But what could he say? 

Drop the overthinking, drop the guard, drop the work—enjoy this. That’s how to do this premiere right. Party together. 

After a brief shock, he gave in… lost in the vibe, hooked. 

Anson and Kirsten moved like prom partners, shoulder-to-shoulder, swaying light. Then Anson took her right hand, leading her on. 

The rhythm shifted. Anson had Kirsten hold her spot, circling her once. The youthful, carefree lyrics tugged smiles from the crowd, ripples of easy laughter spreading. 

“Oh… some things you just can’t deny, she wants to ride me ‘round the world, and I won’t back down…” 

Then, Anson left Kirsten behind, stepping deeper into the crowd. 

This time, they knew the drill. Following his gaze, they spotted the second flag. 

Whoa! 

Oh! 

Gasps, cheers, and awe rose and fell. 

There, in a hoodie, jeans, and street-style gear—who else but James Franco? 

Note 1: “Sunflower” by Post Malone 

Chapter 1528: High School Musical 

James Franco crossed his arms over his chest, striking a hip-hop kid pose. He strutted toward Anson and Kirsten, stepping to the beat in an awkward, downright bizarre way. 

Then he stopped in the clearing. 

Kirsten started forward to greet him, but James dropped into a floor move. Just as the crowd thought they were about to witness some street dance magic, James… flopped. 

Not even funny—just a total nothingburger. He ended the move plopped on the ground, scratching his head. 

Hahaha! 

The crowd couldn’t hold it in anymore—they burst out laughing. Kirsten stood there, stunned, before a snort escaped her. 

Anson, off to the side, grinned wide. The catchy melody hooked everyone’s ears, and before they knew it, they were swaying along. 

“And then you’ll crash to the ground, unless I’m by your side—you’re a sunflower, your love’s too wild to hide.” (Note 1) 

“Or else you’ll crash to the ground, unless I’m by your side—you’re a sunflower, you’re a sunflower.” 

Effortlessly, naturally, the tune grabbed them—no weight, no pressure, no edge. They sank into it, blending with the melody, feeling the youthful energy and life pulsing behind the notes. 

Youth, unleashed. 

Love that burned hot and fierce, like moths to a flame, ready to set themselves ablaze. But that passion? It was so intense it nearly scorched their souls. 

Once, everyone craved love, craved forever. But when that eternal love actually showed up, they weren’t sure they were ready. Love, eternity—it turned into a shackle, crushing their young spirits until they couldn’t breathe. So they shrank back, fleeing in a panic. 

Wasting it. Messing up. 

That’s youth too. 

A sunflower, always chasing the sun with its bright yellow face—who’d have thought it’d become a symbol of blazing, reckless teenage love in Anson’s hands? 

It was pure, simple, fierce, and scorching—but also stubborn, obsessive, unhinged enough to burn everything to ash. 

Standing in the sea of people, Anson moved with such ease, such grace, showing off youth’s wild rebellion in a smooth, carefree flow. 

Not bitter or regretful, but a bold, reckless dash—any sadness or longing swept away in the howling wind. 

“Mmm-mmm… oh-oh-oh…” 

“Hey-hey… hum-hum-hum…” 

It was hip-hop, R&B, jazz, pop—with a splash of Latin flair. 

The rhythms clashed, the melody soared, swirling over Rockefeller Center. Every single person—literally everyone—dropped their baggage, swaying gently, dancing slowly. Some swatted at falling white balloons, some turned to smile at the friendly strangers nearby, some sang along with Anson at the top of their lungs. 

Happiness, so simple. 

Following Anson’s lead, they spotted Sam Raimi, J.K. Simmons, Rosemary Harris, and more weaving through the crowd. 

The Spider-Man 2 cast popped up one by one, but this was nothing like any premiere before. Eyes didn’t just stick to the stars—even the smallest side characters broke the fourth wall with their entrance, sparking cheers across the scene. 

But that feeling? It was so thick, not something you could just ditch or cut off. Even running away, you’d still feel the pull. 

“Every time I try to leave, you make it hard to go—I wish I could stay by your side, give me a reason to hold on.” 

“Every time I head for the distance, I hear you calling me back—you’re fighting to earn my trust, nothing can stop you, even if we’re risking it all right now.” 

It was like a musical. 

The Spider-Man 2 cast and key crew trickled in, forming a fifty-person squad. Other staff lingered at the crowd’s edge, not stepping into the clearing. You could see it in their shy, stiff faces—this wasn’t easy. 

Especially Sam Raimi, looking lost like a confused puppy, fumbling around. 

Because those fifty people were turning Rockefeller Center’s streets into a stage, dancing in the heart of Manhattan. 

No fancy steps—just the line dances from the ‘70s and ‘80s disco halls. March forward in sync, pause, turn, clap, stomp. Simple moves, but the point was everyone in the room chugging along like a train, grooving to disco beats together. 

Here, though? It was hip-hop. 

Now you get why only fifty joined, right? 

Sam looked like he wanted to bolt. He stuck out like a sore thumb in the crowd, even tripping over his own feet. But that awkward bashfulness drew warm, friendly smiles. 

The steps were so basic some onlookers picked them up after two watches. One by one, they jumped into the clearing, joining the dance. 

The scene? Unreal. 

Earlier, Anson had turned the crowd into a rhythm section, clapping along. Now, he made them dancers, moving as one. 

It was epic. Blair, Gloria, Karen—they all dove in, laughing freely, soaking it in, their spirits soaring under the golden sun. 

But wait—something felt missing. 

Anson stood at the crowd’s center, actors and crew forming a square around him. 

“I know you’re scared of the unknown, you don’t want to face it alone—I know I’m always coming and going, but it’s out of my hands.” 

The buzzing throng pointed to the last flagpole. The dense crowd parted, and there was Alfred Molina. 

Doc Ock himself. 

A lightbulb flashed in Nicholas’s head—everything tied back to the movie! 

They couldn’t see the full picture yet, but no doubt about it—every moment of this premiere linked to Spider-Man 2’s story. 

Like right now: the final entrance wasn’t just Doc Ock—it synced perfectly with the lyrics. 

The whole crew pointed at Alfred, and Anson kept singing. 

“And then you’ll crash to the ground, unless I’m by your side—you’re a sunflower, your love’s too wild to hide. 

“Or else you’ll crash to the ground, unless I’m by your side—you’re a sunflower, you’re a sunflower.” 

Alfred stepped forward. The back of the crowd cheered, but the front was clueless—until he stopped in front of Anson and pulled a sunflower from behind his back. 

Instantly, the place erupted—laughter, applause, whistles, pure joy. 

Anson took the sunflower from Alfred, spinning like a flamenco dancer, striking a pose with both arms raised high. 

One move, one signal—the crowd hushed. The rustling spread outward from Anson like ripples, silence swallowing everything. 

All eyes locked on him, the air still, even the stage sounds fading. Thousands of gazes fixed on Anson alone. 

Note 1: “Sunflower” — Post Malone 

Chapter 1529: Welcome Aboard 

The whole place fell silent— 

Picture this: over eighty thousand people crammed into the scene. Beyond the blocked-off streets, more lingered outside, scattered and staring. Up in the towering buildings around Rockefeller Center, another hundred thousand-plus office workers peered down. No way to count them all. 

Yet right now, every single one held their breath, lips sealed, not a sound. 

Sure, New York’s traffic still rumbled—engines growling as cars rolled by—but for a fleeting moment, it was like Manhattan’s heart stopped beating. A breathtaking sight. 

Every eye, thousands upon thousands, locked on one person: 

Anson Wood. 

In that instant, he didn’t need a stage, didn’t need a spotlight. He was the center of the world. 

And in that same instant, Michael Lynton regretted everything. They shouldn’t have let Anson run wild, shouldn’t have greenlit his every idea, shouldn’t have blindly agreed to his every demand. This scene? It was spiraling beyond control, unstoppable. 

Clap, clap! 

Anson threw his hands up high, smacking them twice. Right on cue, the entire Spider-Man 2 crew was ready—not just the cast, but every staffer, even their friends and family tagging along. Young and old, men and women, all in. 

The vibe was electric, buzzing loud. The crowd straightened up, buzzing with it. Even Nicholas felt the itch to jump in. 

Stomp, stomp—two stomps. 

Clap—one clap. 

Anson led the way, the crew up front mirroring him. 

Stomp, stomp—two stomps. 

Clap—one clap. 

Anson stepped forward, showing how to hit the rhythm while moving. The crew followed suit. 

Again. And again. The crisp, synced beat rippled out, spreading with Anson’s steps, growing from a ripple into a tidal wave. 

He circled Radio City Music Hall, and everywhere he went, the onlookers picked up the beat. 

They stayed put, watching the Spider-Man 2 crew march grandly around, hitting every corner, pulling every pocket of the crowd into the fold. That massive, swelling clap synced with their heartbeats, surging wilder, fiercer, setting their blood on fire. 

Before they knew it, the passion erupted full force. 

“Stomp, stomp, clap.” 

“Stomp, stomp, clap.” 

Layered soundwaves rolled like a storm, a tsunami crashing through Rockefeller Center. 

It tore through everyone’s sanity, unstoppable. 

People always talk about Woodstock in the ‘70s—a milestone in pop culture history. But that was ages ago, thirty-five years past, and nothing since had hit that peak. 

Until today. 

June 29, 2004, Rockefeller Center—a day for the history books. 

Office workers in the skyscrapers felt it deep in their bones, that soul-shaking rhythm. They couldn’t hold back, throwing open windows, peering down, clapping along, swept up in the tide, desperate to be part of history. 

And the ripple kept spreading. 

One full loop later, Anson finally led the crew back to the red carpet. He hopped back onstage while Kirsten and the others bowed to the crowd, filing into Radio City Music Hall in stride. Once the whole team was inside, it was just Anson again. 

All eyes on him, he raised his hands high, grabbed the mic, and bellowed with every ounce of strength, “Welcome aboard—let’s party!” 

With that, he dropped the mic. 

Thud! 

It hit the stage, a dull thump ringing out. 

Anson turned, no hesitation, and walked into Radio City Music Hall. 

BOOM! 

The crowd detonated, plunging into madness. 

Boom, boom, boom! 

Finally—finally—they could let it all out, scream their hearts out, roar without restraint. 

Gloria spun to her friends, scalp tingling, jumping and yelling, “Aaaah, aaaah! Did you see how hot Anson was? He owned it! Look at my goosebumps—I’m losing it, I’m gone!” 

Elaine, usually chill, gaped and joined in, “Aaaah, aaaah! Anson hit a new level of hot today—unreal! That live performance? Did you see that quality?” 

Nearby, Karen stood frozen for ages, then—“Waaah!”—burst into sobs. She didn’t even know why, just stood there bawling like a lunatic, unstoppable. Three years ago, Anson’s Manhattan street gig moved her. Three years later, this was something else entirely. 

Gloria turned, ready to grab Blair and celebrate, but saw Blair’s knees buckle. She sank down, hugging her legs. It spooked Gloria. “Blair, Blair? You okay?” 

Blair looked up at Gloria, then at Karen hiccupping through tears, and grinned, laughing out loud. “Karen, if Anson saw you like this, we’d be in trouble.” 

Karen’s eyes widened, tears pausing mid-flow. 

Blair’s eyes sparkled with amusement. She waved Gloria off. “I’m fine. Just too tense, too wound up—then it all let go, and I couldn’t stand.” 

Gloria let out a long breath, staring at Blair, then couldn’t hold it in. “Blair, we did it!” 

Yeah, they did—kicked off a storm at this premiere, one way bigger than they’d dreamed. 

For weeks, Blair had been hustling for today. Not just her—the whole crew had huddled up, plotting and planning. Now, the payoff smashed every expectation, a dazzling, wild success. After the high and the frenzy, the crash left her drained. 

But it wasn’t over, right? 

Blair said, “Now it’s up to the movie. Hope it’s a good one.” 

Gloria grinned. “I’ve got faith in Anson. Didn’t you hear his last line? ‘Welcome aboard’—he’s inviting us into Peter Parker’s world. Blair, I’ve got a hunch—these performances aren’t random. They tie into the film.” 

“Whoa!” Elaine gasped. 

Gloria wagged her head smugly. “I trust Anson. It’s not that simple—you’ll see. The premiere party’s just getting started.” 

They couldn’t help but look up, scanning around. The crowd was unhinged. 

Some stomped balloons, others tucked them away as keepsakes. People danced, clapped rhythms, hummed Anson’s set—nearby, someone crooned the catchy hook of that second song. A little farther off, someone belted “Sail!” with fiery passion. 

A quick turn, and “Anson, aaaah!” roared through like a gust. 

This scene—unbelievable. Even with the premiere winding down, the party vibe rippled out, spreading through Manhattan, New York, and across North America. 

Then, Gloria and the gang turned their eyes to Radio City Music Hall— 

Spider-Man 2’s debut was ticking down. The real blockbuster of the night was about to drop.