1524-1526

Chapter 1524: Summoning the Storm 

For a moment, time paused, lingering over Rockefeller Center. 

Back at the start of the year, at the Staples Center on the Grammy stage, August 31st had performed Don’t Be a Prude. Anson had made all of Los Angeles stop in its tracks. For those ten fleeting minutes, the wheel of time froze, everything in the world halting to soak in the soul-shaking moment. 

Now, in the height of summer, it was happening again—this time in North America’s greatest city: 

New York. 

Engines still roared, horns blared, and protests rippled under the sunlight. The hurried, frantic bustle flowed like a raging river. 

But for one brief, oh-so-brief instant, a sound rolled out from Rockefeller Center, carrying a scorching wave of heat. 

“Sail!” (Note 1) 

Riding the wind, breaking through waves toward a distant unknown, that courage and audacity outshone the stars and sun, stirring the dreams buried deep in every soul. 

Busy footsteps, endless traffic, and lives worn thin by stress—they all paused for a heartbeat, listening to that sound. 

Deep inside, in a corner sealed tight with dust, something twitched, itching to break free from its chains and breathe again. 

It wasn’t just the streets. Even in the steel jungle of skyscrapers and the city skyline, busy hands slowed— 

Instinctively, they held their breath, chasing that sound circling beneath the sky. 

In office break rooms, the chatter and gossip hit pause. Chins tilted up, ears strained, searching for it—faint, elusive, like it came from the cosmos. A fleeting daze, yet it felt like it rose from within. 

Eyes closed, they hunted for it in their souls. A whisper of an echo pulsed through their blood, calling over and over, rippling outward. 

“Sail!” 

Fingertips tingled, a rush of longing and excitement swelling up. That yearning for freedom, dreams, hope—it surged like lightning, a supernova bursting before their minds could catch up, shattering the iron walls of their thoughts with unstoppable force. 

But right then, just as the emotion teetered on the edge of detonation— 

Anson’s voice softened, cradling them like a lullaby. 

“La la, la la la; la la, la la la.” 

From fiery passion to tender depths, from soaring heights to a freefall plunge, the jolt yanked their hearts into a dazzling, warm abyss. Endless golden sunlight swallowed them whole, effortlessly brushing against hidden wounds buried deep in their souls. 

Wounds they thought were long healed, long forgotten, throbbed faintly again. A sharp pang stole their breath, melting them into the blazing sunlight, turning to ash, vanishing into nothing. That vast, mighty force crushed the darkness and made it disappear. 

In an instant, the taut, soaring vocals softened into a murmur, yet that gentle hum unleashed an even stronger, tougher power, lifting the performance to a whole new plane. 

The sound hovering over Manhattan faded. People scattered across the city hunted for its trace, peering toward Rockefeller Center with urgent, hungry eyes, desperate to find it again. 

Rockefeller Center was no exception. 

No call, no cue—the clapping stopped on its own. They stared at Anson, dumbfounded, lost in time’s current. Their softness and passion, their hopes and fears—all torn to shreds. 

For a moment, they forgot to cheer, forgot to move, just gazing up at that figure. 

Mouths hung open, eyes locked on the sun, tears blurring their vision. The warmth stung their souls. 

Anson gripped the mic, his body looking like it might collapse any second, the stand his last tether. But he stared fearlessly into the sky, straight at the sun, pouring every ounce of himself into a shout. 

“Sail!” 

Power erupted. 

The melody roared, and Gloria joined in, belting it out with abandon. 

“Sail!” 

The sound tore from her throat, a shiver racing through her soul. A smile bloomed on her lips, bursting with fearless courage— 

No matter how tough, how dark, how long, how painful, nothing could stop her from chasing Anson’s footsteps. That was hope, that was dreams, that was the future, that was life’s meaning. 

“Sail!” 

One voice, then another—beside her, a fervent cry rang out. 

She turned and saw Blair, tears streaming down her face. Their eyes met, and they both broke into wild laughter. 

Looking at each other, they shouted with all they had— 

Smiles exploded. 

In a flash, the wave swept the crowd. 

No one could resist. One by one, they sang in unison, the catchy melody so simple it pulled everyone in. After clapping rhythms with their hands, now they joined the show even more directly, singing as one. 

The heat rolled out, leveling everything in its path across Manhattan—across all of New York. 

The world stirred back to life, reborn from ashes. 

That sound returned, guiding the strength in their souls to break free, unshackled and alive. Tremors poured down like a storm. 

Lines of sight from every corner of New York converged on one spot, brimming with hope and anticipation, joy and bliss. Whether they could see it or not, those gazes pierced the steel forest’s barriers, seeking the promised land of hope amid the chaos and noise. 

Instinctively, they joined the throng, reveling together, screaming until their voices gave out. 

“Sail!” 

It wasn’t just Rockefeller Center anymore. Echoes thundered in from every inch of Manhattan, trickling streams merging into an ocean, unleashing a tsunami that boomed between the sky and the universe. 

At the stage’s heart, Anson watched it all, his smile widening in approval: 

They were in sync, pulling off a stunning performance together. 

Then, he stopped singing, handing the reins to the crowd. Their deafening voices repeated the song, energy bursting with every round. 

Anson clutched the mic stand, humming low. 

“Maybe I should cry for help, maybe I should kill myself… maybe I should cry for help, maybe I should kill myself…” 

The broken, gravelly whisper slipped out like an unconscious murmur from the soul, unleashing the darkest, most tormented shadows hidden within. 

Should they really do that? 

The mood sank quietly. Sorrow and bitterness rippled on their tongues, but before they could savor it, Anson’s voice rose above the lingering echo. It detonated through the mic, unleashing a flood of raw power that blasted their eardrums and sank into their souls. 

“Sail!” 

The storm arrived. 

Note 1: “Sail” — Awolnation 

Chapter 1525: Hidden Surprise 

From the peak to the valley, from confusion to resolve, from soaring to crashing, from ice to fire. 

A rollercoaster of twists and turns. 

In the end, every emotion burst free, detonating within the melody. The world spun fast, a kaleidoscope of chaos, minds buzzing with a deafening roar. 

“SAIL!” (Note 1) 

Giving up wasn’t the answer—sailing was. 

Right now, the performance stripped down to nothing—no frills, no garnish. Not just the melody, but even the lyrics boiled down to their rawest form, just one simple word: 

“SAIL!” 

Anson unleashed a gritty, husky tone he’d never used before, a transformation honed over the past few months. His voice teetered on the edge of breaking, tugging at the limits of raw emotion. That dangerous, razor-sharp delivery scraped across eardrums, raising a thin layer of goosebumps. Shivers shot from toes to scalp, wave after wave, relentless. 

It wouldn’t stop! 

“SAIL!” 

A surging, overwhelming tide crashed down, drums pulsing through veins, rhythm leaping at fingertips, melody rippling deep in the soul. Resilience and defiance, grit and glory—it all forged into an unstoppable will. 

Through the storm, they stood firm to the end. 

Then! 

It slammed to a halt, cut off at its peak, sharp and clean. 

The echo lingered, the fading song curling through the air with softening drums and instruments, sinking deep into the soul. 

Dazed, woozy—they could barely stand, even rooted in place. Gasping, drenched in sweat, the crowd steamed with rolling heat. Wobbly eyes locked onto the figure onstage, clinging to it like a lifeline, steadying themselves. Minds blank, they gazed up in awe, practically worshipping. 

The next second, Anson straightened, chest out, eyes blazing across the crowd like a towering giant, pouring every ounce of energy into the moment— 

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Anson Wood!” 

BOOM! 

His voice exploded. 

Blair took a deep breath: the signal. This was it. 

They didn’t know the full plan or the nitty-gritty details of today, but Eve had clued them in ahead of time—this was the moment they’d been waiting for. 

Their thoughts still reeled, still shook, bowed before the stage in the wake of that vast, thunderous emotion. It wouldn’t settle. 

But Blair hadn’t forgotten their mission. Couldn’t forget. Wouldn’t forget. 

“Gloria!” 

Blair shouted, yanking the white balloon pinned to her shirt and hurling it high into the air. 

Gloria, Karen, Elaine—they snapped to it, fumbling to pull off their own balloons and tossing them skyward. 

Blair’s white balloon shot up like a flare. The crowd caught on, riding the lingering wave of passion and adrenaline, ripping off their balloons and setting them free. 

One by one, then all at once, the white balloons multiplied, sweeping across the scene in a flash. Like an extension of the white T-shirts, they filled every inch of Rockefeller Center. 

Literally—every corner! A storm hit Manhattan in an instant, shifting from sound to sight, lighting up New York in a whole new way. 

White balloons? 

Nicholas blinked: What was this? 

As he watched the scattered white balloons bounce and flip above the crowd, his mind—still swimming in awe and emotion—couldn’t quite catch up. His brain stalled, staring at the haphazard mess with a head full of question marks. 

And these weren’t even helium balloons—just regular ones. Tossed up, they didn’t rise far before drooping back down, powerless. 

The sight was pitiful, almost embarrassing. 

But Nicholas’s sympathy lasted less than three seconds. What unfolded next dropped his jaw, turning confusion into shock. 

More and more balloons started flying. The ones too weak to climb got knocked back up by the crowd below, like a game of keep-away. The white balloons danced and darted through the throng. 

Wave after wave. 

Before his eyes, the balloons moved like a musical fountain, rising and falling in rhythm. 

More balloons, bigger chaos. 

In mere moments, the balloons in his view snowballed into an avalanche. Nicholas doubted his eyes, unable to believe it. 

Three thousand balloons? Five thousand? Wait—ten thousand? 

No. 

Way more! 

Just with his eyes, he couldn’t count them. The sky and ground drowned in white balloons, stuffing the world full. 

Finally, it clicked for Nicholas. Most of the crowd today wore white T-shirts. He’d written it off as basic promo fluff, not worth a second thought. Seeing balloons pinned to those shirts? Same deal—balloons were everywhere at a campus fest, nothing special. He’d figured they were just souvenirs handed out onsite. 

Until now. 

Nicholas stood gobsmacked. He’d prided himself as a pro journalist, thinking he’d cracked every layer of this premiere. 

Turns out, he was a frog in a well, blinded by arrogance and bias, totally misjudging the brilliance of this event. 

He raised his hands, snagging a white balloon. Two lines were scrawled on it: 

“One of a kind. 

Anson Wood.” 

Nicholas froze. A chill raced from his feet to his head, his cluttered thoughts blowing wide open, reeling from the impact. 

Instinctively, he pushed the balloon back into the air. Looking up, the endless rise and fall of white balloons filled every corner, turning Rockefeller Center into an ocean of white. 

Right then, from the tops of the four skyscrapers ringing Radio City Music Hall, a flood of white balloons poured down in unison. Dense and relentless, they cascaded like a waterfall from the steel jungle’s peaks. 

“Flying straight down three thousand feet, as if the Milky Way fell from the heavens.” 

The mass of white balloons blocked out the sun, a rolling gust slamming into them, plunging the world into brief darkness. But it didn’t last—golden light pierced through the surging white, refracting and dancing in dazzling, chaotic bursts. It was blinding, surreal—hard to tell— 

Was this a dream or reality? 

They stood stunned! 

Forget the others—Nicholas himself was floored. Surprise after surprise, flipping everything they thought they knew. 

Now, his mind was blank, overwhelmed by the sea of white balloons. The sheer force hit like a physical weight—first raining from the sky, then swallowing the streets. They felt it, lived it, etched it deep into memory. 

From sound to sight to touch—a full-on immersion. 

Note 1: “Sail” by Awolnation 

Chapter 1526: Unveiling the Mystery 

Nicholas had always been confident and composed. His resume and experience spoke for themselves. After surviving the rookie jitters and the brash impulses of youth, countless surprises and mishaps had polished him into the calm, steady figure that age and time bestow. No need to panic. 

But standing in front of Anson, Nicholas always found his expectations shattered, his plans scrambled. He flailed like a newborn. 

Rumor had it that in Hollywood, among the top-tier stars, paparazzi hated digging up dirt on Anson the most. The guy never played by the rules. 

For once, Nicholas saw eye-to-eye with the paparazzi. He even felt a genuine pang of sympathy for them. 

Because today? Yeah, today was one of those days. 

Surprise after surprise after surprise—it pummeled Nicholas’s sanity into dust. Staring at the sky full of white balloons raining down, he’d lost all ability to think straight. Caught in a hurricane, he could only brace himself, powerless to fight back. 

Nicholas was certain he’d never forget this moment—not for a long, long time. And he doubted his fellow journalists would either— 

Or Sony Columbia, for that matter. 

He was 99.99% sure this wasn’t their doing. This summer might just go down as legendary. 

No question about it: for Hollywood, this was a moment to remember. After Spider-Man 2, movie premieres would never be the same. Even Anson himself might never top this peak. 

But did that matter? 

Not a bit. Anson didn’t need to outdo himself. With this premiere alone, he’d carved a bold, indelible mark in Hollywood history. Even Sony Columbia wouldn’t argue—they’d kill to be part of that legacy, even as a backdrop. 

“After Spider-Man 2, there were no more premieres”—that’s the legend Hollywood would pass down. Twenty years later, no one could recreate it. 

It wasn’t just Nicholas. Right now, Anson, standing on that stage, was just as stunned. 

Eve had only hinted at a “little” surprise for the premiere. 

To keep Anson in the dark and maintain his innocence in front of Sony Columbia and the press, Eve and Edgar had locked it down tight. They made sure Anson—and everyone else—would see this for the first time, together. Even Blair and the crew had no clue about the rooftop twist. 

Whoosh, whoosh. 

It wasn’t just the visual shock. The rush of air pressure and wind from every direction hit hard, every inch of skin feeling it. 

Anson blinked, then couldn’t hold it in—he burst out laughing. 

Honestly, picturing Amy Pascal and Michael Lynton’s faces right now? That’d be comedy gold. 

Too bad he couldn’t snag a front-row seat to watch them squirm. 

No worries, though. At the press interviews later, Anson would “properly thank” Sony Columbia. The credit was spot-on—the masterminds behind this grand surprise had to be Sony Columbia, could only be Sony Columbia, must be Sony Columbia. He’d make sure to give them a big shoutout. 

But for now? 

The show wasn’t over. 

Taking a deep breath, adjusting himself, Anson didn’t even wipe the sweat. Amid the frenzy of white balloons raining down, he turned back to the crowd. 

No waiting for the balloons to settle—he spun toward his bandmates on stage. His grin broke wide, a spark of exhilaration shining through. 

These musicians, like Miles, Connor, and Lily from back in the day, were all street performers with a raw, burning love for music. They’d come together for this premiere, rehearsing day and night with Anson for two solid weeks. 

It wasn’t just a performance—it was joy, a return to music’s heart, savoring every second. 

All for this moment— 

The last song? Just an appetizer. The real main course was about to drop. 

Finally, the mystery was peeling back! 

All eyes landed on Anson. 

His crew’s eyes sparkled with excitement too, pulling their focus from the balloons. They seized the heat of the moment, channeling it into the next act. One by one, they grabbed their instruments, ready to go, their bright, blazing gazes locked on him. 

Waiting for the signal. 

Ha! 

Anson’s lips curved up—a rush of joy, happiness, freedom. That’s the magic of music. Right now, the premiere didn’t matter. The party, the revelry—that’s what counted. Letting loose, singing loud, dancing wild, feeling life’s rhythm in your bones. 

Then— 

Anson started tapping his right foot on the ground, setting the beat. 

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. 

The simplest 4/4 time, no frills, no challenge. 

This time, the crowd was still reeling from the balloon drop. Only the front few caught Anson’s move. 

Like Blair. 

Surprise! 

Another surprise tucked behind the last one—Anson’s performance wasn’t done yet! 

Blair held her breath, ready to jump back into his rhythm like before, the whole crowd becoming part of the show again. 

But she quickly noticed something different. This time, they weren’t needed. 

Anson kicked off the beat, then the guitarist—like that legendary August 31st gig—slapped the guitar body, laying down a rhythm. It didn’t match Anson’s tempo, though—it was a back-and-forth, a fast-slow interplay weaving together. 

Then the others joined in, bit by bit. Some stomped the floor, some clapped hands, some snapped fingers. No limits to instruments—they turned the whole stage into one giant beat machine with their bodies. 

Like a cappella. 

Blair had no idea a cappella could look like this. 

Three years ago, after his Peter Parker audition, Anson had sparked “Wake Me Up” on Manhattan’s streets, igniting a frenzy. 

Now, three years later, at the Spider-Man 2 premiere, he was doing it again on these same streets. And Blair? She was lucky enough to witness it twice. 

She glanced over and saw Karen’s eyes—wild with excitement, her whole body trembling. No words, no movement, just pure joy radiating out. Their eyes met, and they nearly screamed, barely holding it in with every ounce of willpower. No words needed—they turned back to the stage. 

Gloria, Nicholas, the whole crowd—they were floored. No one expected to witness this, a legend reborn. They held their breath, silent, every fiber of their being glued to the stage. 

The musicians felt that surging energy. Faces lit up, blood pumping, they poured their passion and bliss into every move. Notes slammed into the air, bouncing with giddy abandon.