belamy20

1406-1410

Added 2025-05-12 17:08:58 +0000 UTC

Chapter 1406: A Tiny Flaw

Quietly, gently, Anson hummed, as if he were standing at the world's edge in a desolate, uninhabited place. His light, tender voice seemed so fragile that it might shatter with the slightest touch.

He curled up cautiously in the dark corner, doing his best to hide himself. Battered and broken, he tried to call for help—

Yet no one knew. No one cared. And so, that lonely, fragile soul was left in the endless darkness, abandoned to fend for himself.

"There is no end here… there is no farewell here…"

"Vanished completely… fading into the night…" (Note 1)

As he hummed softly, sorrow seeped into each note. The helplessness and confusion hidden between the scattered lyrics drifted away with the wind, impossible to grasp.

All at once, Lucas felt his heart clench painfully. A fear, clearer than ever before, surged through him—

It felt like he was about to lose Anson.

"Anson…"

Lucas’s hoarse voice squeezed out from his throat. He called again and again, lightly tapping on the window, trying to get Anson’s attention.

But Anson remained unresponsive.

He simply continued murmuring his tune, "Time is slipping away… time is slipping away…"

There was no time left. It was all too late. A missed chance was a missed chance—no more time, no more opportunities. Farewells were inevitable. Just like that, he would vanish into the night.

No!

"Anson."

"Anson!"

Lucas called out again and again, his voice filled with fear—fear unlike anything he had ever known. The nightmares of his childhood came rushing back. He turned around once, and Anson was gone. He was lost in the endless, surging crowd, desperately calling, searching, but never finding Anson—just like before.

"Anson, wake up! Anson Wood!"

Finally.

Anson emerged from his vacuum-like shell, lifting his head at the sound of Lucas’s voice. Through the iron bars, he found that familiar yet strangely distant face.

Lucas clenched his hands tightly. He was gripping them so hard that his body trembled slightly, struggling to maintain control.

He needed to stay calm.

"Anson, look at me. It's me, Luca."

"Tell me, what do you see? Anson, talk to me. I'm right here, and I’ll always be here. No matter what happens, I won’t leave. Do you hear me? Anson, I’m here. Right here with you."

Anson hesitated for a moment, staring at Lucas, a trace of confusion flickering in his eyes—

Why… was he here?

Oh, right—Johnny Cash. They were preparing to shoot the final scene of the Johnny Cash biopic. The scene of Johnny’s first performance at Folsom Prison.

Not only was it a performance in a prison, but it was also Johnny’s first official concert after completely cutting ties with alcohol and drugs. He had finally escaped the darkness, finally let go of his scars, finally started facing himself.

Even though it wasn’t easy.

He still remembered—after his younger brother’s tragic death, his father had blamed everything on him. Without hesitation, he branded Anson as a curse, treating him with nothing but contempt and disgust. The beatings weren’t the worst part—it was the deep-seated disdain, the utter denial of his existence.

Those wounds… he thought they had healed long ago.

But they hadn’t.

They were still there, haunting him like ghosts, whispering over and over again:

"You’re not worthy. You don’t deserve this."

The applause, the cheers, the love—none of it.

The stage was right in front of him, the waves of applause rolling in, yet he was afraid.

Afraid that he wasn’t worthy.

Fear, anxiety, and dread burned in his stomach. He just wanted to destroy himself.

Just like he always had.

In his past life, he had spent ten years struggling to break free from his father’s shadow, finally securing a stable job in a film crew while cautiously holding onto his dreams. But in the dead of night, doubts crept in—

Was he even worthy of those dreams? Was he worthy of happiness?

He was nothing but an abandoned, forgotten, and overlooked speck of dust. Insignificant. His pain, his despair, his loneliness—no one cared.

"…Anson!"

The call echoed again, yanking Anson back to reality.

He jerked his head up and saw Lucas’s face, filled with worry and anxiety. The sorrow and pain between his furrowed brows fought to break free, but he couldn't voice them.

"Anson," Lucas took a deep breath. "You saw Jack again, didn’t you?"

Anson froze, about to deny it—when he glanced up and saw Jack.

Jack was sitting casually on a table in the visiting room, his feet swinging as he flashed a grin at Anson.

Anson’s mind momentarily blanked. He glanced around—

No mistakes, no errors, no illusions.

Jack… why was he here?

This was a prison. How had Jack gotten in?

Lucas noticed Anson’s hesitation—the doubt in his expression, the flicker of shock. A deep fear gripped Lucas’s heart, making it almost impossible to breathe.

Following Anson’s gaze, he looked into the empty visiting room. There was no one else there. Yet he could feel Jack’s presence through Anson’s eyes.

It terrified him.

But Lucas forced himself to stay calm.

"Anson, listen to me. Jack… isn’t real. Jack is just an illusion."

"Look closely, really look. You’ll see it—Jack is nothing but a manifestation of your fears and contradictions. He’s a nightmare, a wound, a fear given form."

Heh.

Anson chuckled. He wasn’t angry—on the contrary, he found Lucas’s seriousness somewhat endearing. "Luca, Jack is real. What are you even talking about?"

Lucas held his breath, clenching his fists even tighter, forcing his trembling body to remain steady. "Anson, think about it. Every time Jack appears, it’s when you’re under pressure, when you’re hurting. He can show up anywhere, at any time, because he exists only in your mind."

"We are what’s real."

"When Jack appears, observe carefully. What is real, and what is an illusion?"

"I am real. The times we played guitar and wrote music in front of Angelica Film Center were real. The arguments your parents had in the hospital room because they were worried about you—that was real. The times we messed with paparazzi and fought back against Sony Columbia were real. The moment you stood outside Wilshire Theater, surrounded by fans—that was real. The times you sang your heart out with the August 31st band at the Staples Center—that was real."

"You could see them. You could feel them. With your heart and soul. The heat, the cheers, the dreams, the euphoria—they were real."

"But Jack is not."

Anson hesitated, his gaze drifting back to Jack.

So real. So vivid. No flaws at all.

"Luca, this isn’t funny…" But this time, just as the smile curled on his lips, it faded again. Unease surged within him.

He still didn’t understand. How had Jack gotten in?

Clearly, this wasn’t a place where just anyone could walk in.

So… was this a dream? Was he trapped in a long, endless dream, unable to tell what was real and what was fake? Otherwise, how else could he explain this?

Anson wasn’t sure.

"Jack is right in front of me. Why do you keep insisting he isn’t real? I don’t understand. How do I tell the difference between illusion and reality?"

Unknowingly, Anson let his guard down, his subconscious thoughts spilling out. Then, he quietly stared at Jack, lost in a fog of confusion.

Note 1: "Wait" - M83

*Chapter 1407: Illusory Reality*

"You can do this, Anson."

Lucas spoke.

"Anson, I believe in you. You can find it."

"Calm down, observe carefully, and take a good look at Jack Priest from head to toe. Don't miss a single detail."

"Slowly, hold your breath, and examine everything closely."

"Every illusion has a flaw. They may be incredibly close to reality, but in the end, they are not real. It's just that our brains deceive us, and if we’re not careful, we miss the contradictions and oddities—mistaking illusions for reality and falsehoods for the truth."

"But the flaws exist. As long as you stay calm and search for them, you will find them. This is the only way to distinguish between reality and dreams, between illusion and truth."

"Anson..."

"I'm waiting here. No matter how much time or effort it takes, I'll be here. All you need to do is turn around, and you'll find me. So, don't be afraid of losing your way. I'm not leaving. Understand?"

Lucas carefully swallowed the bitterness in his mouth, watching Anson in silence, unintentionally holding his breath.

Anson stared blankly at Jack.

Jack sat obediently, swinging his legs, remaining quiet and patient. Then, he turned his head and flashed a big smile at Anson.

"Are you done communicating? Looks like they're really worried about you."

Real. Solid. Indistinguishable.

Anson scrutinized Jack’s eyes, searching for any flaws, but found none. The only thing he was certain of was that Jack shouldn’t be in Folsom Prison.

"...You’re an illusion. Luca wouldn’t lie to me," Anson said.

But Jack didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he burst into laughter.

"Haha, so what Charles said is true? That I’m actually you?"

Anson: ...

Slightly stunned, his brows furrowed as he noticed a detail.

"How do you know about that? When Dad said those words, you were at the overpass."

A hint of confusion appeared on Jack’s face as well. He tilted his head, looking at Anson.

"But… how is that possible?"

"I am me. How could I be you?"

"That’s impossible. Look at us—we don’t even look alike."

"I wish I could be like you, living life easily just because of my looks. But unfortunately… Anson, why would I be you?"

Lighthearted, playful, a touch mischievous.

It seemed like Jack, yet it also didn’t. But more importantly, Jack hadn’t answered his question. That deepened the confusion in Anson’s eyes.

"Jack..." Anson was growing frustrated. "I need to get to work. The entire crew is waiting for me. We’ll talk next time."

However, Jack suddenly leaped down, landing on both feet and stepping closer to Anson.

"Anson, they’re lying to you."

"When you were being beaten, when you were calling for help, everyone pretended not to see, not to hear. They ignored it."

"People don’t care about kids like us. Domestic violence? So what? Online bullying? Happens all the time!"

"Every day in real life, there are kids like us—beaten, despised, disappeared, forgotten. But no one cares. One after another, again and again."

Over and over, Jack’s voice grew louder, as if he was accusing the world itself. Anson’s temples throbbed, his breath nearly failing him.

Inside his mind, thoughts roared like a storm. He needed fresh air.

But just as he was about to stand up, his eyes unintentionally caught sight of the ground—

Jack’s feet.

Covered in wounds, bleeding, without socks or shoes, completely bare. The cuts and scrapes were still fresh, the blood not yet dry.

This… wasn’t right.

Following his feet, Anson’s gaze slowly moved upward. Everything else about Jack’s clothing was neat and in place—too neat, making his bare, injured feet seem even more out of place.

Wait. No—

His clothes.

A white shirt and blue jeans, exactly the same as what Jack wore the first time Anson met him in New York… unchanged, never once different.

Spring, summer, fall, winter. Year after year, always the same.

Normally, it seemed so natural, so ordinary, that Anson had never noticed anything wrong. But now, a chill ran from the soles of his feet to the top of his head.

Anson stared at Jack, then finally met his eyes—those clear pupils reflecting his own image. He froze.

Jack tilted his head up, looking at Anson with admiration and awe.

"Don't ignore me, Anson."

Anson hesitated.

"…Jack, how long have we known each other?"

Jack shrugged slightly and thought for a moment.

"Two and a half years? Almost three?"

Anson’s chest tightened.

"So, Jack, what grade are you in now?"

Jack smiled.

"Ninth grade."

Anson: …

Suddenly, an invisible hand tightened around his throat. Anson couldn’t breathe. Memories surged like a tidal wave, swallowing him whole.

That year, he had been filming Catch Me If You Can in New York. During a scene depicting the Abagnale couple’s divorce, the performance had triggered his past-life nightmares, suffocating him. He had stormed off the set, running blindly through the streets—where he stumbled upon a woman and child being violently assaulted by a man.

That was the first time he met Jack.

Back then, Jack had been wearing this exact outfit. His feet had been covered in wounds, bloodied, running barefoot across the New York asphalt, desperate to escape.

Yet, while the paparazzi had captured photos of Anson arguing with a truck driver, not a single picture showed him fighting Jack’s father.

And even though the NYPD had used surveillance footage to prove that Anson hadn't assaulted the truck driver, there was no video of Jack’s family at all.

The event had happened. Yet, somehow, it had never happened.

Later, in Portland, at the Elephant film set, they met again. Jack and his mother had finally escaped, safe at last. At the time, Jack had said he was in ninth grade. At the time, Jack had been wearing the same outfit, his feet still covered in wounds and blood.

Then in San Francisco, Los Angeles, New York, Las Vegas…

Every time they met, Jack was dressed the same. His feet, always unprotected, always bloodstained.

The memories surged, pouring down like a torrential storm.

Scenes that once seemed normal, unnoticed, now resurfaced—disjointed fragments revealing inconsistencies that disrupted time itself. His memories started collapsing.

Rumbling. Crashing.

School. Cinema. Hospital. Theater. Street.

One by one, the locations in his memories crumbled, blurring the line between illusion and reality until everything was tangled beyond recognition.

Nothing was certain anymore.

"Run, Jack, run! Don’t look back!"

He shouted, voice raw, punching Jack’s father over and over—until, in a fleeting moment, he accidentally turned his head and saw—

Himself.

Anson Wood.

Nine years old.

Barefoot.

Running through the streets of New York.

*Chapter 1408: Shattered*

He screamed—heart-wrenchingly, tearfully, furiously.

All his anger, all his sorrow, all his pain transformed into a storm of relentless punches, pounding mercilessly onto that beast of a man—Jack’s so-called father. He used every ounce of his strength, fighting not for vengeance but to buy Jack a single chance at survival, a sliver of hope to escape.

But in a fleeting moment, as he turned his head, he saw that face—both unfamiliar and eerily familiar.

A boy—Anson Wood, nine years old, small and frail, his face smeared with blood, barefoot as he sprinted wildly through an empty street. His hands and clothes were stained with crimson, as if he had just escaped from hell itself. He ran, blindly, desperately.

“It’s on fire!” he shouted, his hoarse voice drained of all strength.

But there was no response. The doors of those houses remained shut, the windows tightly sealed. Silence met his cries, leaving him utterly alone in the desolate street.

Run.

Without hesitation, without time to question or comprehend, he found himself shouting at the nine-year-old version of himself.

“Run, Anson, run! Don’t look back!”

Behind him, a monstrous shadow surged forward like a tidal wave, its claws stretching hungrily toward him, relentless, merciless. It watched the boy’s desperate struggle with cruel amusement, like a predator playing with its prey.

It didn’t hurry. It didn’t need to. It was certain—he wouldn’t escape its grasp.

He ran. Lips cracked, feet burning with pain, every ounce of energy drained. His voice had long since failed him, and his stumbling steps barely kept him from collapsing. But in his eyes, a stubborn light flickered—he refused to stop. Bloodied feet pounded against the rough ground, running, running, running.

This sight clutched at Anson’s throat, suffocating him.

Then, a voice—shattering, desperate.

“Anson, run! Run!”

A jolt shot through him. He turned toward the sound, and in an instant, his mind exploded in agony—

Mom!

He tried to scream, but no sound came out. It was as if he had been thrown back into his past life.

His mother—gripping a rock in her trembling hands, swinging it wildly, uselessly. She threw herself at the merciless crowd, her tangled hair flying as she rammed her head into their chests, fighting with the desperation of a cornered animal. She had no real strength to resist, but she fought anyway, as if she could drag them all down with her.

The men—cold, vicious—spotted Anson. Like a swarm of locusts, they turned toward him. His mother tried to stop them, but she was powerless—

A wave of bodies crashed forward.

His mother screamed, her voice tearing through the night—“Run!”

But he couldn’t.

His feet carried him toward her. In an instant, the mob swallowed him whole. Fists and boots rained down on his body like a violent storm.

He shielded his mother with his body, taking the blows with his back, absorbing their hatred.

The taste of blood filled his mouth. Inside, his organs felt like they were being ripped apart.

Through the gaps between stomping feet, he saw the indifferent faces of onlookers. They stood at a distance, watching, observing, unmoved.

Some turned away, unable to bear the sight. But none of them spoke. None of them helped.

His mother’s pleading voice rang in his ears, only to be drowned out by the sound of his own beating. His consciousness wavered. The pain faded, replaced by a strange numbness. It felt as if his soul had left his body, hovering above, watching it all unfold.

“Let me go. I don’t want to be your hero. I don’t want to be someone great. I just want to live a simple life.”

These lyrics—from the song Hero—were part of Midnight Summer, the debut album of the band August 31st. It was the song they performed on The Tonight Show, the song Anson had written for their first big stage. It was inspired by Jack.

But now, Anson finally understood.

Those notes, those lyrics, those emotions—they weren’t just about Jack.

They were about him.

Jack was him.

Anson Wood was him.

Anson—was him.

Their pain, their struggles, their despair, their dreams—they were all the same. Because in the end, they were one and the same person.

He tried to call for help—

No.

He *was* calling for help. He always had been. He had screamed until his voice broke, but no one had listened. He didn’t want to be a hero. He didn’t want to be someone special. He just wanted to live—like an ordinary person, with small joys, small dreams. But it was never that simple. The nightmares never let him go.

His eyes lifted.

Jack stood before him, close enough to touch.

Anson tried to speak, but the words were trapped in his throat. He couldn’t make a sound.

Jack looked at him—heartbroken, hopeless. A smile still clung to his lips, but his eyes were drowning in tears.

“Anson… don’t leave me alone.”

“Please, don’t. I don’t want to be alone.”

Anson couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move.

Then—

A child appeared.

Anson Wood—nine years old, small and battered, his body barely holding itself together. Pain and fear flickered in his eyes, his tiny frame swaying as if a single gust of wind could shatter him.

He stood in the corner of the visitation room.

Then, suddenly, he ran forward.

“Run, Anson, run! Don’t look back!”

Again and again, using all his strength, he screamed for help.

Ah!

A cry erupted from the depths of his soul. Tears poured, blood flowed.

Ahhh!

A nine-year-old body was too fragile to withstand the darkness. He trembled, breaking apart in the storm, barely able to stand. He was on the verge of vanishing completely.

But he only looked at Anson.

And he kept screaming the same words.

“Don’t look back!”

Anson froze.

His feet moved on their own. He turned and ran.

Run, Anson, run!

He didn’t know why. He didn’t know where to go. But he ran anyway, grasping at a single thread of hope in the endless darkness.

Behind him, Jack’s voice burst out in terror.

“No!”

Anson Wood was running toward him. Jack was running toward him.

Desperation, pain, sorrow, and confusion crashed together like an ocean wave, engulfing Anson whole. His steps faltered. He couldn’t move. The storm swallowed him, the fear of drowning pressing down on him.

“Let me go. I don’t want to be your hero. I don’t want to be someone great. I just want to live a simple life.”

Anson Wood ran closer.

Jack ran closer.

They were about to collide.

Anson held his breath.

And then—impact.

*Boom!*

Anson Wood slammed into Jack. Jack slammed into Anson Wood.

But the disaster he had expected didn’t happen.

Both figures crashed into Anson.

And then—they vanished.

Gone.

The room was silent.

There was no one left.

Just him.

The three of them had merged into one.

Pain, memories, despair—they surged like a tidal wave, overwhelming him, dragging him into a boundless sea.

Blue.

The color suffocated him.

The tide pulled him under, shattering him into pieces.

The pain reached its peak—too much to bear.

Snap.

His mind broke.

And then—darkness swallowed him whole.

*Chapter 1409: A Lifeline*

A kind of pain, a kind of suffocation—beyond the limits of endurance. The world plunged into an endless blue, cutting off his breath in an instant, spiraling downward into a bottomless abyss.

Pain. Excruciating pain. Agonizing, soul-tearing pain filled every cell of his body. He could feel himself disappearing—being devoured, torn apart, shattered. A tidal wave of despair and suffering crushed his chest, crushed his heart, as he watched himself break into pieces and fade into nothingness.

Anson opened his mouth, trying to call for help, but no sound came out. Despair wrapped around his ankles like ice-cold shackles, pulling him downward in freefall.

Everything... came to a halt.

Outside the meeting room, Lucas was watching intently, holding his breath without realizing it.

In his sight, Anson’s face twisted in agony, his expression a desperate struggle beyond words—as if something was violently ripping his soul apart.

Then, suddenly, his face went still. The pain, the emotions—everything disappeared. But this eerie calm was more terrifying than the torment that preceded it, because the suffering hidden beneath had reached an unfathomable peak. It was as if his fragile, shattered soul was slowly drifting away with the wind.

The overwhelming energy radiating from Anson burst through walls, windows, and barriers, surging toward Lucas like an unstoppable force. It pressed him into place, pinning him so completely that he couldn’t move—not even a single finger. He stood there like a statue, frozen in place.

Then—

“Help me…”

Lucas heard it. Anson was calling for help—

Oh, God.

Lucas gasped, his breath catching in his throat. Without thinking, he broke free of the invisible restraints, an explosive surge of energy erupting from within him. He rushed forward, using the warden’s key to unlock the meeting room door. With a shoulder slam, he forced his way inside, rushing toward Anson in a blur.

He reached him just in time to see Anson collapse—his body drained, all strength gone, as he crumpled to the ground.

Despair crushed Lucas’s heart.

He lunged forward, catching Anson in his arms as they both sank to the floor. Holding his younger brother tightly, terror gripped him.

A deep, consuming terror.

Just like that year—

That year, he had stood frozen, watching his little brother, so small, so thin, curled up in Charles’s arms. His body was covered in wounds, his exposed skin marred by scars.

His hands, feet, calves, cheeks, shoulders—

Everywhere. It was horrifying.

His fingernails were torn off, his hands covered in blood. His small face was deathly pale, his fragile body lying motionless in Charles’s embrace. His chest barely moved, as if at any moment, he might stop breathing altogether.

Lucas had stood there, paralyzed, unable to move. A coward.

His little brother—the same one who had been born so small, like a fragile kitten, yet miraculously survived and grew—now seemed like he might disappear at any second, as if the darkness was swallowing his soul whole.

And it was all his fault.

He had promised to take care of Anson.

He had sworn that no matter what, he wouldn’t let Anson get hurt.

He had vowed to stay by Anson’s side forever.

But he had let go. He had loosened his grip on Anson’s hand.

Only God knew how much he had hated himself in that moment.

Now, it was happening again.

“Help me…”

Anson’s desperate plea gripped Lucas’s heart like a vice.

Lucas grabbed Anson’s right hand, calling out to him over and over.

“Anson, I’m here! I’m here…”

His voice trembled uncontrollably as he stared into Anson’s unfocused eyes. Logic, composure—none of it mattered anymore. He was left repeating the same words over and over, like a fool.

“I’m here. I’m here!”

This time, he refused to let go.

Even if Death itself came for them, he would never let go.

Again and again.

In the endless blue, in the infinite cold, Anson thought he was being ignored again—abandoned, forgotten. Just like before.

In this life and the last, nothing had ever changed.

His struggles, his efforts, his desperate attempts to escape—it had all been for nothing.

So what was the point of holding on?

Johnny Cash had his music. He had June Carter. He had his unwavering pursuit of justice and faith—his guiding light out of the darkness.

But what did Anson have?

Nothing.

He lifted his head toward the vast universe. Darkness and silence enveloped him, suspending him in nothingness. The emptiness seeped into his skin, trickling through his pores, chilling his blood—

Sinking deeper and deeper into his soul.

His consciousness began to fade, dissolving into the void.

His existence was disappearing.

“Anson, I’m here.”

A voice called out from the distance.

Again and again, tireless, relentless—pulling Anson’s attention like a sliver of light cutting through the chaos.

Wait. Who was that?

In the ice-cold emptiness, that voice reached him, bringing warmth, restoring gravity.

His frozen soul began to stir.

Instinctively, his eyes darted around, searching for the source of the voice—desperate to escape the loneliness that had consumed him for so long.

Without thinking, he ran toward the voice.

Darkness. Endless darkness.

But Anson stood up.

He searched for his fate in the darkness, his body battered and broken by despair, dancing in the arms of demons. The abyss tried to swallow him whole, lost in the void with no direction, no sense of self.

All that remained was the voice—

The one voice that shattered the silence and broke the chains.

A fire ignited in his eyes.

It had never truly gone out, even after wandering alone in this forsaken place for far too long—weak, lost, exhausted.

But now, at the sound of that voice, hope reignited.

Terrified, frantic, he searched desperately.

Afraid—afraid it was only an illusion.

Who?

Who was there?

Can you hear me?

Instinctively, Anson ran as fast as he could.

There was no path, no destination—only the voice guiding him forward.

Flames erupted beneath his feet, and he sprinted through the inferno, racing against time—chasing the exit before he disappeared completely.

Thud, thud, thud—his footsteps echoed through the darkness.

Then, behind him, in the opposite direction—

A sound.

It stopped him in his tracks.

He turned around.

And there they were.

Three faint blue figures, waving at him, jumping, shouting—clenching their fists, cheering him on.

“Run, Anson, run!”

“Don’t look back!”

“Anson, hurry! You’re not alone anymore!”

It was Jack. It was nine-year-old Anson Wood.

And it was his past self.

They shouted, they laughed—pure, unrestrained joy echoing through the endless blue and black.

Because this time, they hadn’t been forgotten.

He looked at himself—his past self—

Bright, alive, burning with youthful energy.

Scarred, but still smiling.

He was saying something—

Anson paused, straining to hear.

The wind carried his whisper.

“Don’t be someone else’s hero…”

“Don’t.”

Chapter 1410: A Lonely, Desolate Place

“Don’t be someone else’s hero…”

Anson froze.

He stared at Jack, at the nine-year-old Anson Wood, at his past self. His consciousness wavered, his mind swayed, and his steps, almost instinctively, started moving backward.

But the three of them shook their heads frantically, using all their strength to resist.

They shouted.

“No.”

Anson stopped mid-step, standing motionless, lost once again, unsure of which direction he should take.

From the void, a voice called out again, “Anson, I’m here.”

“Anson… Anson…”

So sorrowful. So painful. So full of despair. The voice called out again and again, pulling at Anson’s heart, making it beat once more.

With great reluctance, Anson took another step forward, turning back three times for every step he took, before finally breaking into a run toward the voice.

At the edge of his vision, at the horizon of darkness, with each pounding step, a sliver of dawn appeared—

Faint, yet bright.

His heart pounded violently, as if it might explode at any moment.

Exhaustion weighed heavily on him. The taste of blood lingered in the back of his throat. Every part of his body screamed in protest. His knees wobbled, his legs drained of energy, his body on the verge of collapse. He felt as if he could fall apart at any second.

Yet that sliver of light made his heart race uncontrollably. From the depths of his soul, a new surge of energy erupted.

Faster and faster, his sprint turned into an all-out charge. His heart soared like Icarus, flapping its wings desperately toward the sun, uncaring that the wax was melting.

Not only did he not stop, but his wings flapped even harder.

With a final push, he stumbled forward, crashing headfirst into the golden glow.

Gasp!

Air!

Anson finally felt oxygen fill his lungs, but the sudden rush choked him, sending him into a violent coughing fit. He collapsed onto his hands, hacking uncontrollably. His arms trembled, unable to support his weight. Just as he was about to collapse completely, he managed to brace himself with his forearms, barely staying upright.

He looked like someone who had just been dragged out of deep water—

Pale-faced, drenched in sweat.

Not just his clothes, but his hair was completely soaked, sweat dripping down in scalding rivulets.

He was utterly disheveled.

Gasping for breath, he struggled to regain control, but the ringing in his ears persisted. His temples throbbed as if about to explode. His body fluctuated between hot and cold, his organs twisted and churned. A violent energy surged within him, colliding chaotically inside his chest. The world blurred into an indistinct mess.

And yet, the sheer reality of it all hit him like a lead weight in his stomach, grounding him, pulling him back to the present. The weakness, the heat, the soreness, the pain—everything was real, flowing through his veins, reminding him that he had escaped the illusion.

Like the sudden jolt of weightlessness in Inception.

Anson slumped onto the ground, lifting his head. Nearby, he saw Lucas—equally disheveled. And at last, he understood.

It was Lucas’s voice that had called him back.

In this vast, empty void, in this lonely, desolate place, a single rose had stubbornly taken root—just like the rose the Little Prince had found in the desert.

A thousand words swirled on Anson’s tongue, struggling for the right expression, but in the end, he swallowed them all.

Anson looked at Lucas. Lucas looked at Anson.

And then, absurdity struck.

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

Lucas: …

Speechless.

His heart still pounded in his throat, his breath unsteady from lingering fear. Yet here was Anson, laughing for no reason. Lucas couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Anson took in Lucas’s appearance—serious, tense, afraid, disoriented. His hair was damp with sweat, his brows furrowed with lingering panic.

He knew this wasn’t the time for laughter. It was clearly an inappropriate moment. But seeing Lucas in such a rare state of disarray, the sheer ridiculousness of it overwhelmed him.

He tried to hold back his laughter.

That only made it worse.

His grin widened until it was fully unleashed.

Anson gave Lucas an exaggerated once-over. “You really should see what you look like right now.”

Lucas: …

For once, Lucas didn’t snap back.

Instead, he simply stared at Anson, worry written all over his face. His usual mask of indifference was gone.

And that only made Anson laugh harder.

“Haha, Luca—your face—hahaha!”

Doubled over, Anson clutched his stomach, laughing uncontrollably. He leaned too far back and—

Bang!

His head smacked against the table behind him.

Lucas jumped in shock.

Lucas: …

A surge of frustration and exasperation rose within him, but as he watched Anson clutching his head and rolling around in pain, the anger slowly dissipated.

Now, Lucas finally understood.

So… did this mean Anson was okay?

Lucas wasn’t sure.

He examined Anson carefully—his expression, his eyes. They were completely relaxed. He still looked messy, but the familiar Anson was back.

And yet, something had changed.

A faint shadow of sorrow and melancholy that had always lingered between Anson’s brows had disappeared. It wasn’t obvious, but it was there—a subtle sliver of light, like the sun peeking through the clouds.

Familiar, yet strangely different.

Lucas had known Anson his entire life, but he couldn’t remember the last time—if ever—he had seen this kind of ease on his face.

Or had he never seen it at all?

Of course, Anson still looked exhausted and disoriented. That new clarity wasn’t enough to bring him full peace.

But Lucas sensed a shift.

Did this mean… the nightmares and shadows had finally loosened their grip on Anson’s heart?

Did this mean… Anson had truly found his answer within the film, within his performance?

The question surged to Lucas’s lips. He wanted to ask.

But at the last second, he held himself back—

Don’t rush.

His fists clenched, trembling from the sheer effort of restraint. That energy, so overwhelming, threatened to break free.

But now wasn’t the time to push.