1396-1400

*Chapter 1396: Half Dream, Half Awake*

Exhaustion. Fatigue.

That was Anson’s state.

He felt completely drained, inside and out, as if nothing was left. A weariness unlike anything he had ever experienced washed over him.

After an entire day of intense, fast-paced work, he couldn’t even muster the energy to lift a finger. All he wanted to do was lie on the couch and stare into space, letting his mind go blank. He tried forcing himself to stay alert, to push through, but before dinner even arrived, his eyelids were already drooping. He barely managed to eat, but whether he had put bread or an apple into his mouth, he had no idea. He nearly fell asleep while chewing.

Dinner ended hastily—whether he finished eating or not, he wasn’t sure.

At this point, he no longer cared about the common warning that sleeping immediately after a meal could lead to acid reflux. The moment his head hit the pillow, he lost consciousness, slipping into a heavy slumber.

Yet, his sleep was anything but restful.

Anson kept dreaming—bizarre, chaotic dreams that twisted reality and disrupted logic. They had no cause, no pattern, just an endless stream of strange and incomprehensible visions.

One after another, after another.

His mind was packed with them, leaving no gaps in between.

But when he woke, he couldn’t remember any of them—not even fragments. Except for the last one.

In that dream, he was in a dark basement.

The air was damp, rotten, and filthy, filling his nostrils with the unmistakable scent of decay. The setting made it clear: he was underground. Huddled in a corner, he tried desperately to squeeze his thin body into the shadows, making himself invisible.

His wrists burned from the chafing of the ropes he had just freed himself from, the skin raw and torn. The pain was sharp and fiery, yet his hands also tingled with a numbing sensation from the lack of blood flow—like ants crawling through his veins, spreading into his muscles.

But he had no time to dwell on the pain.

His entire body was tense, every sense on high alert. He used the faint light seeping through the gap under the basement door to gauge his surroundings, holding his breath so still that even his heartbeat seemed to vanish.

He swallowed, only then realizing the metallic taste of blood coating his mouth. His throat was unbearably dry, and the act of swallowing felt like forcing down razor blades.

A gasp nearly escaped his lips.

But just then, a noise came from the door.

He choked it back, his body locking up in fear.

*Creak.*

Someone was there.

Footsteps creaked against the wooden stairs, each sound crashing against his nerves like thunder. His breath and heartbeat disappeared entirely.

"Hmm? Where is he?"

A voice.

Then, the flick of a switch.

Dim, yellow light spilled into the basement.

*Now.*

In that brief moment when darkness and light overlapped—when night had not yet fully retreated, and brightness had not yet taken over the space—he made his move.

Launching from his hiding spot, he threw his entire body weight into the figure standing at the door.

But it was like an ant trying to shake a tree.

He barely reached the man's waist, and his frail body had little strength. How could he possibly knock over someone so much bigger?

But he had planned for this.

He didn't just ram into the figure—he also hooked his leg behind the man's knee and shoved forward. Using speed, momentum, and leverage, he tripped the man.

Caught off guard, the man stumbled backward.

"You—!"

A startled shout.

But Anson gave him no time to react.

In his right hand, he had been clutching a rusty shard of metal. He drove it toward the man's abdomen with all his strength.

But the expected outcome didn’t happen.

In movies, knives, forks, even books could be deadly weapons. But in reality, even a sharp piece of metal struggled to pierce human flesh.

It was harder than he had imagined.

The shard barely sank in before getting stuck. He couldn’t push it any further.

For a split second, he froze.

Was it because the metal wasn’t sharp enough? Because he wasn’t strong enough? Or were Hollywood movies simply lying?

Panic hit him like a tidal wave.

This was real. One mistake, and he would lose everything.

There was no way out.

Damn it.

Fear took hold of him. His hands trembled violently.

But he still reacted.

Even though he had underestimated how difficult it would be to stab someone, he had not overestimated his own weakness. He had known from the start that his strength alone wouldn't be enough against an adult. That’s why he had prepared a backup plan.

Through the mask covering the man’s face, Anson could still see his eyes—twisted with rage, ready to strike back. The raw, murderous intent in his gaze sent shivers down Anson’s spine.

Without hesitation, Anson swung his left hand.

The brick he had been holding came crashing down on the man's head.

*Thud.*

Not the dramatic explosion of blood that movies often showed—just a scrape, barely breaking the skin.

But Anson didn’t stop.

He swung again.

Another blow landed.

Finally, the man staggered, briefly disoriented.

Anson didn’t waste a second.

He turned and sprinted toward the stairs. His knees felt weak, but he climbed with everything he had—hands and feet scrambling to escape the basement.

Then, suddenly—blinding light.

He burst into the open air, his vision spinning, his head pounding like it was about to explode.

Time. Time!

He had to race against time. But fear and urgency would only make him reckless. He forced himself to pause for half a second, quickly scanning his surroundings, searching for an escape route.

At that moment, someone appeared at the front door.

No mask.

A beer bottle in hand, heading toward the kitchen.

The man hadn’t noticed him yet.

By the time he did, Anson was already moving.

Instead of running in the opposite direction, he charged straight at the man.

With a flick of his wrist, he hurled the rusty metal shard toward the man's face.

"Ah!"

The man yelped, instinctively jerking away.

Anson slipped through the opening.

He dashed forward, shoving open the front door and bolting outside. He didn’t look back. He didn’t stop. He ran with everything he had.

*Thud, thud, thud.*

Pain shot through his bare feet.

Only then did he realize—he had no shoes.

But there was no time to care. He forced himself to stay calm.

Pebbles. Gravel.

The rough pavement scraped against his soles, leaving streaks of blood in his wake. His hands, too, were coated in something warm and sticky. His skin stung with every movement, electric jolts of pain shooting through his body.

*"Run. Just run!"*

That was the only thought in his mind.

But he knew—no matter how fast he ran, he couldn't outrun grown men forever. He needed help.

He had two choices:

Hide, like a game of hide-and-seek.

Or find an adult who could save him.

Thirty meters out, he scanned the area.

A middle-class neighborhood. Standalone houses. But neighbors likely knew each other. They might help.

An idea struck him.

He glanced back.

Someone was already emerging from the house he had escaped. No time to hesitate.

Instead of running farther, he veered left, sprinting toward a nearby house.

He pounded on the door with all his strength.

*Bang, bang, bang!*

(End of chapter.)

Chapter 1397: A Final Farewell

His lungs were burning.

His body, weak and powerless without any nutritional support, had exhausted all its energy in just two or three minutes of resistance. He knew he couldn’t hold on much longer—he was already at the brink of complete collapse, running on empty.

There was no time to hesitate.

Without a second thought, he rushed toward a house and pounded on the door.

“Fire!”

He shouted.

“Fire!”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and ran across the street to another house.

From a distance, he spotted the alarm at the door and pulled it without hesitation.

Beep! Woo! Beep! Woo!

He moved on to the next house, picking up a stone and hurling it at a parked car. Though the rock barely made a dent in the glass, the impact was enough to trigger the alarm.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

The car blared its warning.

By now, he had reached the third house, repeating his frantic knocking and shouting.

“Fire! My God, there’s a fire!”

He didn’t stop. He raced toward the fourth house, but as he turned toward the fifth, he saw them—the two men had caught up with him.

The taller man, the one without a mask, grabbed his collar and lifted him like a ragdoll. Realizing he was about to lose his chance, he lashed out, kicking the man squarely in the groin.

A muffled grunt.

Then, he was slammed to the ground.

Stumbling, he collapsed completely.

But he scrambled back to his feet and kept running.

His feet throbbed with pain, his knees trembled, and his body felt light, as if a mere breeze could sweep him away. Yet he pressed on, each step uneven, his hoarse voice refusing to give in.

“Fire…”

“There’s a fire!”

He poured every last bit of strength into those words.

***

“Ah!”

Ansen jolted awake. The searing pain, the unbearable weakness—they wrapped around his ankles like chains, yanking him back into the suffocating darkness of reality. His body was drenched in sweat, as if he had just been fished out of water.

Fumbling, he turned on the bedside lamp. The warm yellow glow pushed back the shadows, gradually revealing the layout of the hotel room.

Heart still racing, Ansen glanced around, scanning every corner to make sure he was alone. Only then did he allow himself to relax—if only slightly. But a lingering dizziness clouded his mind, his vision splitting into three or four ghostly afterimages that wavered in uncertainty. The world felt hazy.

So… what was a dream? And what was real?

He sat frozen on the bed, unable to tell.

A quick glance at the clock on the nightstand—

*11:33 PM.*

Not even midnight. He must have dozed off right after dinner, sleeping soundly for quite some time. Yet in just a few hours, he had experienced so many dreams, leaving his head heavy and on the verge of splitting apart.

He knew he should get up and take a shower, wash off the cold sweat so he could sleep peacefully again. But every muscle in his body ached, and exhaustion weighed him down. Instead, he curled up under the covers, unwilling to move.

That dream…

Was it the buried pain hidden within this body’s memories?

Was that what happened when he was kidnapped?

Ansen couldn’t be sure. The memories still eluded him. No matter how vivid the dream had been, there was no way to confirm if it was real.

Fatigue settled in again. Just as he closed his eyes, slipping back into a hazy state, something felt off—he was utterly drained, yet sleep evaded him. His mind, too exhausted to function, refused to completely shut down.

His body felt like it was being submerged in warm water, slowly boiling from within.

Bzzz. Bzzz.

His phone vibrated nearby.

Half-awake, Ansen couldn’t tell if it was real or just part of his dream. His brain struggled to process it.

He let it buzz for a while, waiting. But when the phone kept vibrating, he figured—it might be real?

Just as he turned over to reach for it, the vibrations stopped. Silence returned, leaving only the soft glow of the lamp standing alone in the night.

Groggily, he stared at the phone, debating whether to call back.

Before he could decide, it buzzed again.

Instinctively, he grabbed it and answered without checking the caller ID.

“Hey, this is Ansen.”

“…Ansen, it’s Jack.”

Ansen blinked.

“Jack?”

He opened his eyes again, glanced at the time, and let his head fall back onto the pillow.

“Jack, it’s almost midnight. If you don’t sleep soon, you won’t be able to wake up for work tomorrow. Film sets aren’t exactly forgiving.”

“…Sorry for disturbing you.”

Jack’s usually bright voice sounded uncharacteristically low, carrying a hint of hesitation and sadness.

Ansen’s lips twitched into a small smirk.

“What’s with the sudden moodiness? Did something happen on set? Did the senior actors give you a hard time? That kind of thing is common in Hollywood. If you need backup, I can come to the set and back you up.”

A lighthearted joke.

Jack chuckled on the other end.

“Haha, Ansen, you underestimate me. I’m not as fragile as you think. If someone tries to mess with me, I’ll fight back. Have you forgotten? I’m Jack Priest—raised in violence. My fists may not be big, but they sure as hell aren’t weak.”

Ansen smirked.

“That’s the spirit.”

“Hollywood isn’t as glamorous as it seems. Strip away the fancy façade, and it’s just a nest of parasites like anywhere else.”

“So, Jack, go show them what you’re made of.”

Jack laughed softly.

“Hah.”

“Ansen… Thank you.”

“Thank you for believing in me. Thank you for helping me believe in dreams—and for giving me the courage to chase them. Thank you for making me believe that life holds endless possibilities.”

“These past few days… I’ve been truly happy. Really, really happy.”

Ansen froze.

Something was wrong.

His smile stiffened.

“Jack, what’s with this farewell tone?”

No. No, no, no.

This had to be his sleep-deprived brain playing tricks on him.

Jack had finally started a new life. He had finally taken his first step toward his dreams.

Why would he be saying goodbye? This should be a beginning, not an end.

Jack chuckled again, but this time, his voice was thick with emotion.

“Ansen, I’m sorry. This is the last time I’ll be calling you.”

What?

Ansen shot upright, tossing aside the blankets.

Swiftly, he threw on his clothes, his hands moving in autopilot.

“Jack, what are you talking about? Did someone say something to you? Ignore them—this industry is full of mind games. Don’t let them get to you…”

“No, Ansen. You don’t have to worry about me anymore. You’ve already done enough.”

“Jack, what nonsense are you talking about? I haven’t done anything. Everything you’ve achieved is because of you. You’re not someone who gives up so easily—”

“Ansen… My father is back.”

Ansen froze.

His breath caught in his throat.

“Ansen, that bastard found us. He’s going to torture Mom again. I… I can’t let him do whatever he wants anymore. I can’t just stand by and watch him destroy her. Destroy me.”

His heart plunged into an abyss.

*(End of Chapter)*

*Chapter 1398: Mutual Destruction*

"No, Jack, no, don't!"

Anson panicked—more than ever before. He shoved open the hotel room door and rushed out.

"Jack, where are you? Tell me, where are you? Let's meet and talk—this can be fixed, everything can be fixed! Don't let that worthless guy ruin you. He's not worth it, do you hear me? He is not worth it!"

As soon as Anson stepped out, he ran straight into Noah.

Noah had been on his way to check on Anson, but seeing him storming out caught him completely off guard. He froze, his words stuck in his throat.

"Noah, I need to see a friend. Right now. Immediately."

Without waiting for a response, Anson sprinted away.

Noah stood stunned for a moment, hearing Anson’s voice echoing down the hallway. He didn’t understand what was happening, but without hesitation, he pulled the emergency alarm.

Then, without a second thought, he dashed toward Lucas’s room at full speed.

But Anson had no time to care about any of that. He ran blindly, like a headless fly, dashing into the night.

"Jack, where are you? Tell me where you are! I'm coming to find you—at least let me see you one last time!"

However, on the other end of the line, Jack’s voice was filled with sorrow.

"Anson, thank you. But there's no time. If you're any later, it might be too late."

"Anson… Anson, these past few months, I’ve been so grateful for your company. You've always cared about me, looked after me—a useless, good-for-nothing guy like me. No one else in this world would do that."

"I had dreams, you know? I wanted to join a film crew, become a cinematographer, chase a dream, create something extraordinary alongside you. And maybe, one day, I'd be able to help my mom escape her struggles..."

"I just wanted… a peaceful life. The right to be happy."

"Anson, you know that, don’t you? I've always been grateful to you."

Sorrow. Despair. Shattered pieces of hope.

Jack's voice made Anson’s heart clench with fear.

He kept running. Harder. Faster. Desperately.

"No, Jack, don't. Don't say goodbye. This shouldn't be the end!"

"Please, just wait—"

"I was wrong. I kept my distance. I refused to interfere in your life, even when I knew you were struggling. I never stepped in to offer you support."

"I'm sorry. I was wrong."

"Jack, don’t give up, do you hear me? If you give up now, there’s nothing left. That man isn’t worth it. He’s not worth your life."

"Jack."

"Jack!"

Anson ran faster and faster. His slippers had long since flown off somewhere, and he was now barefoot, sprinting through the old streets of Las Vegas in the dead of night.

Not far away, the luxurious hotels and casinos along the Las Vegas Strip continued to shine, their dazzling lights painting an Atlantis-like illusion against the night sky.

But here, outside that sleepless city, the residential area was eerily silent. Only Anson’s footsteps and ragged breathing echoed through the cold desert air. The neon brilliance of the Strip only made the darkness here feel even lonelier, even more desolate.

Then—he saw him.

Jack.

Gliding across the street on his skateboard, his jacket fluttering in the chilly wind. His thin frame looked as if it could no longer bear the weight of the night.

Unsteady. Fragile. On the brink of collapse.

"Jack!"

Anson’s breath hitched, and he shouted his name.

But Jack didn’t hear him. He skated past, unaware.

Anson skidded to a stop, ready to chase after him—

Then—

A truck blared its horn.

*Honk! Honk!*

A deafening roar.

The massive vehicle hurtled straight toward Jack.

Anson’s heart plummeted. His chest clenched. His soul shattered.

"Jack—"

He tried to lunge forward, but his knee buckled. He lost his footing, his entire body flipping forward and slamming into a tree. A sharp, dull pain exploded in his chest as his organs felt like they were burning. The world fractured into chaos.

Dizzy. Disoriented.

Everything spun.

His vision blurred. Words surged up in his throat, but he couldn’t make a sound. He could only scream silently in despair.

*Ah…*

*AH!*

Lucas saw everything.

For a second, his breath caught in his throat.

"Call 911!"

"Call 911, NOW!"

Lucas shouted at the people behind him. His mind was blank. Nothing else mattered.

He ran forward, dropping to his knees and gathering Anson—dazed and bleeding—into his arms.

"Anson! Look at me, stay with me!"

Anson’s vision was hazy, but he recognized the man holding him.

"Lucas… I’m fine. Really. Lucas, save Jack. Jack… we have to save Jack."

"Call 911! NOW!"

"Jack is going to be okay. He’s going to be okay."

"Lucas, please… we need an ambulance. Jack needs help!"

As he spoke, Anson didn’t even realize tears had burst from his eyes. Blood and tears mixed together, streaking down his face. He clung to Lucas's arm, panic and terror written all over him.

Nora and Charles arrived a moment later.

When they saw Anson—covered in blood, his bare feet raw with wounds—their expressions shifted.

His hollow gaze was locked onto the empty street across from him. His voice trembled as he kept calling out.

"Jack, it's okay. Everything’s going to be okay."

"Jack, wake up. Don’t sleep. Do you hear me? Don’t close your eyes!"

But—

The street was empty.

No people. No vehicles. Nothing.

Just a desolate, silent road.

And in that instant, Nora understood.

Lucas’s worst fear—was happening.

On the surface, Anson seemed fine. There were no visible abnormalities. But just because they couldn't see it didn't mean nothing had happened.

Nora's heart sank. Deep.

She didn’t hesitate any longer. She rushed to Anson’s side, trying to speak—but no words came out.

Anson noticed her.

"Mom… Jack… Save Jack…"

He fixated on Jack’s eyes—those once vibrant, expressive eyes.

A faint smile seemed to flicker across Jack’s face. He tried to lift the corners of his lips, but he didn’t have the strength.

His expression flattened.

The light in his eyes dimmed.

Slowly. Bit by bit.

Until it faded completely.

Dragging Anson’s heart into darkness.

No.

Jack, don’t.

Jack, don’t close your eyes. Do you hear me?

You shouldn't have to sacrifice your life for that scumbag.

You shouldn’t be trapped by your father’s sins.

You have a long life ahead of you.

There are still endless possibilities.

Anson screamed. Over and over.

Raw. Agonized.

His voice cracked with pain, as if his very soul was being torn apart.

Charles couldn't bear to watch anymore.

His shoulders slumped. His head hung low.

A deep, suffocating sense of helplessness weighed him down.

Sinking.

Deeper and deeper into the abyss of this endless night.

Until—

The piercing wail of an ambulance siren cut through the silence.

Anson was exhausted.

Completely drained.

Even lifting a single finger felt impossible.

His consciousness blurred.

Darkness swallowed him whole.

No nightmares. No dreams.

Only endless blackness.

He floated in the void, lost in time.

He didn’t know how long had passed.

His body ached.

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

And the first thing he saw—

Was Nora.

Sitting quietly by the window, gazing outside.

The golden morning sunlight cast a soft glow on her face.

"...Hey, Mom…"

*Chapter 1399: Resisting Reality*

In the stillness, a hoarse shout shattered the silence. Nora woke up with a start, turned her head, and saw Anson’s eyes. A smile immediately crept up the corners of her lips.

“You’re awake! How do you feel? How’s your body? Do you feel any discomfort anywhere?”

A string of questions poured out as Nora examined Anson from head to toe, afraid of missing even the smallest detail, as if she were looking at a fragile puzzle that might fall apart at any moment.

The vulnerability in her eyes was unmistakable.

Anson caught the look in her gaze and grinned. “Mom, I’m not made of glass. I won’t shatter at the slightest touch. You don’t need to keep looking at me like I’m in critical condition.”

Even now, Anson was joking—proof that he wasn’t in bad shape.

However, Nora couldn’t bring herself to laugh. The weight of her worry pressed heavily on her chest. “So, how are you feeling? Is there anything you want to eat?”

“Nora’s signature chicken soup. Mom, I want your homemade chicken soup, the one with that unique burnt flavor from when you get distracted by other things. It’s your special touch.”

This time, Anson’s joke finally brought a small smile to Nora’s lips.

Seeing her reaction, Anson’s expression relaxed as well. He let out a long breath. “Mom, I’m really fine. Don’t look at me like that—you’re turning a small issue into a big one.”

Looking at Anson’s carefree and nonchalant demeanor, Nora couldn’t hold back a wry smile. “At least you still have a little conscience. You acknowledge that this is a small matter instead of accusing us of making things up.”

Anson: Cough, cough.

Seeing him avert his gaze in silence, Nora’s patience finally snapped.

“Anson Wood—how do you still have the heart to joke with me right now?!”

“In the past six months, this is your second hospitalization. Less than half a year ago, you nearly ended up paralyzed. And this time… this time, you almost…”

Her words came to an abrupt halt. She didn’t know how to describe the current situation. If she directly exposed the reality, would it hurt Anson even more?

She didn’t know. And she didn’t dare think about it.

“Anson, do you really want to keep making your mother worry like this?”

The moment she said it, Nora regretted it. The one lying in a hospital bed, suffering, was Anson. Yet, she had selfishly used the weight of motherhood to try and guilt him. That was never her intention, but the words had rushed out uncontrollably. It made her feel awful.

She opened her mouth to apologize, but Anson spoke first.

“Well, if I didn’t, how else would you get to enjoy the joys of motherhood?”

Nora: …

Looking at Anson’s innocent expression, she nearly choked on her breath. But in the end, she couldn’t help but chuckle. She had long since given up trying to stay mad at him—over the years, it had become a habit.

She knew she shouldn’t spoil her youngest son, but she just couldn’t help it.

“You, you… that sharp tongue of yours never lets anyone off the hook.” Nora shook her head. “Keep this up, and you’ll end up with no friends in Hollywood.”

Anson put on an exaggerated look of realization. “Ah, so that’s the reason! I finally figured it out. Thanks for the insight.”

As she looked at him, a sudden bitterness spread on Nora’s tongue. Her smile froze. A deep, indescribable sadness tugged at her heart, heavy and suffocating. She turned her face away quickly, trying to hide the emotions that threatened to spill over.

Anson noticed. “Mom…”

But he didn’t continue—because he didn’t know where to begin or how to say it.

The conversation came to an abrupt stop just as Charles pushed open the door. He looked at Anson, then at Nora. “What’s going on?”

Nora took a deep breath, quickly collecting herself. “It’s nothing.”

She patted Anson’s arm. “I’m going to make that chicken soup for you. Wait here.”

With that, she hurried out of the room as if fleeing. Outside the hospital room, she leaned against the wall, finally allowing her vulnerability to show. A deep sense of helplessness washed over her, making her knees weak. She almost couldn’t stand.

“Mom?”

At the sound of the voice, Nora lifted her head and saw Lucas.

After an entire night without sleep, Lucas looked even more withdrawn, like a drop of dark ink that wouldn’t dissolve even in clear water.

His shoulders carried too much guilt and pressure.

Nora straightened up immediately, forcing a smile. “Anson wants my homemade chicken soup. I’ll go check if the hotel kitchen will let me use their space. Hopefully, their head chef doesn’t have a meltdown watching my cooking methods.”

She patted Lucas on the shoulder and left without another word.

Once again, only Lucas remained. He stood silently outside the hospital room, his face shrouded in shadows, making his expression unreadable.

Lifting his head, he saw Charles inside, taking a deep breath as if gathering courage.

“Anson…” Charles called softly, hesitating for a moment but not stopping. “Do you remember what happened last night?”

Anson’s expression froze slightly.

A nightmare.

The car accident.

Jack.

The memories clashed and intertwined—what was real? What was a dream? What were mere echoes from his past?

He wasn’t sure.

Charles noticed the hesitation and struggle on Anson’s face. A flicker of pain crossed his own, weighing heavily on his chest.

He tried again, his voice even softer. “Anson, where’s Jack? Where is Jack now?”

Anson snapped out of his daze. “Huh?”

Charles pressed on. “Jack Forrest—you saw Jack last night, didn’t you?”

Anson blinked. So… last night’s accident wasn’t a dream?

Slowly, he turned his head toward the hospital window. And there—across the hallway bridge—stood Jack.

Jack was waving both hands, trying to get Anson’s attention. Their eyes finally met, and Jack’s face lit up with an unrestrained, radiant smile—pure and joyful under the sunlight.

Jack cupped his hands around his mouth and silently mouthed, *“Are you okay?”*

Anson was just about to respond when something clicked in his mind.

If Jack was standing there, completely unharmed, then last night’s accident must have been a dream… right?

Otherwise, how could any of it be explained?

So, was everything that happened last night just a dream? One dream stacking onto another—waking from one nightmare only to enter the next?

Then what about now?

How had he ended up in the hospital? There was a gap in his memory—he had no recollection of the journey from his hotel room to this hospital bed.

Anson didn’t speak, but Charles noticed his movements. Following his gaze, Charles looked out the window—

There was no one there.

Across the hallway bridge, the space was empty.

Yet, Anson’s eyes seemed to be locked in a conversation with thin air.

Charles felt a shiver down his spine. His voice trembled slightly. “Anson, is Jack… here?”

Anson was stunned. He withdrew his gaze and stared at Charles, wide-eyed.

Charles continued, “Anson, this is a hospital. This floor is for VIP patients. Ordinary people can’t just walk in. So, how did Jack get here?”

“Just like last time at Mount Sinai Hospital—how did Jack sneak into your room?”

“Anson… what’s really going on?”

Chapter 1400: Standing in the Midst of Lushan  

However, Charles knew he couldn’t give up. He couldn’t pretend nothing was happening. He couldn’t pretend everything was fine.  

He couldn’t bear the pain of losing Anson again—not even in his imagination. Just the thought of it made it hard to breathe.  

He… couldn’t.  

So, they had to face the storm head-on. No matter what happened, they would stay by Anson’s side and face it together.  

"Anson, what exactly happened?"  

Charles stared at Anson, his youngest son, without looking away. Even though his heart trembled slightly, his gaze remained fixed.  

Anson blinked, the corners of his mouth lifting into a faint smile. "Dad, you probably don’t understand kids like Jack, do you?"  

He let out a slow breath, his thoughts drifting into memories of his past life.  

"They are weak. They are insignificant. They are the children no one sees."  

"Even if they’re beaten black and blue, even if they’re tortured to the brink of death, even if they scream for help with all their strength—no one hears them."  

"Or rather, people see them but choose to look away, pretending they don’t exist."  

"Because they don’t want trouble, because they don’t want to get involved, because they think these kids deserve it. Like weeds, they disappear, and no one cares. After all, when the spring wind blows, thousands more will grow in their place. No one has the energy to save them all."  

"And so, these children vanish. They exist, but no one acknowledges them."  

"They hide carefully, not wanting to be beaten again, not wanting to be seen as a burden. They're afraid that their very existence will become a problem for others."  

"Yes, this is a hospital. But they always know the secret passageways."  

Anson’s voice was as light as smoke, drifting through the air. A soft breeze could carry it away at any moment.  

Charles’ heart tightened. "But you can see him?"  

Anson smiled.  

The corners of his lips curved slightly, forming a shallow arc. But the fragility and sorrow hidden beneath that smile made Charles freeze.  

"Jack trusts me."  

"Maybe I’m the only person he can trust. If I don’t believe in him, then he has no one."  

"They… if people stop paying attention for just a moment, they could completely disappear, as if they never existed. And no one would notice. The world would keep moving, the Earth would keep turning, and their presence would leave no trace behind."  

In that smile, Anson’s eyes turned slightly red, and deep within his pupils, a sadness flickered.  

Charles tried to speak, but his voice caught in his throat. A terrifying and cruel truth clenched at his heart, making it almost impossible to breathe.  

"Anson..." Charles had to take a deep breath to steady himself. "Was it the same for you?"  

"When you escaped from the basement where you were imprisoned… was it like this? Did people pretend not to see or hear you? Did they look away and let you cry for help, only for you to be captured and dragged back?"  

The air fell silent in an instant.  

At the hospital room’s entrance, Lucas’ breath hitched. His fists clenched involuntarily. His usually calm and steady eyes were now filled with panic and fear.  

Every muscle in his body tensed to the extreme. He was utterly frozen, unable to react, his heart sinking deeper and deeper into despair.  

Inside the room, there was no sound.  

Not a whisper. Not a breath. A silence so deep it felt suffocating.  

Yet, this deathly stillness was strangling Lucas, rendering him motionless.  

Charles’ heart felt like it was being torn apart.  

The Anson before him was slightly different from what he had imagined. There was no sadness, no pain, no struggle—just a hint of confusion, lost in thought.  

But it was precisely this expression that shattered all of Charles' defenses.  

For so long, Charles had believed that forgetting was a good thing. It meant Anson would never have to relive those dark years. They could bury the pain and move forward, leaving the burden of that past to the adults.  

Until now.  

Charles realized he was wrong—terribly wrong.  

Forgetting didn’t mean it disappeared. And avoiding it meant giving up on true healing. Pretending the wound didn’t exist meant it had never been treated.  

Anson had been trapped in that damp, decaying, pitch-black basement all along. And they—just like those indifferent strangers—had pretended not to see, not to hear, not to know. They had left Anson to struggle alone in that endless darkness.  

That single thought alone was enough to drag Charles into the depths of despair.  

"Anson..."  

Charles called softly, but Anson was lost in his thoughts and didn’t respond. He had to call again.  

"Anson?"  

This time, Anson finally looked up.  

However, the confusion in his eyes didn’t fade. Dreams and reality, past lives and memories—all tangled together, impossible to distinguish. His past self, his present self, his current existence—all of them merged into one, completely intertwined.  

Charles hesitated. "So… is Jack you?"  

Anson was stunned for a moment. He lifted his gaze to Charles and, unexpectedly, laughed.  

"That’s a bold theory."  

"Haha, honestly, have you guys been doing your homework? Did you watch the director’s last film?"  

Charles was confused.  

Anson studied him carefully and soon realized Charles wasn’t joking. He had no choice but to explain.  

"James Mangold, our director. His last movie, Identity, was about a serial killer with ten different personalities in his mind. Each personality was its own independent being, but the true culprit was the evil personality, which tried to eliminate all the others so it could survive."  

"Anyway, it was a fascinating film."  

"You may not have seen it, but clearly, you guys are letting your imagination run wild. The director would be very grateful—it proves his ideas aren’t far-fetched."  

Anson’s tone was lighthearted, cheerful. It was clear that he wasn’t taking Charles' theory seriously—he truly thought it was just a joke.  

The bystander sees more clearly than those involved.  

Even now, Anson remained inside the mountain, unable to see its true form. He didn’t even suspect anything.  

And to be fair, the whole idea was absurd. When Lucas first suggested it, even Charles’ first reaction was disbelief. Even now, he was only half-convinced. It was hard to believe something so dramatic could happen in real life.  

If even they, as outsiders, felt that way—how could Anson believe it himself?  

Charles hesitated. Should he push further?  

But he had already spoken the words aloud, and Anson still didn’t believe him. What more could he do? Keep insisting? Would that only make things worse?