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*Chapter 1386: Vast Ocean*

"Come on, come on!"

"Who else wants to try? At worst, it's just one life! Who's afraid? Come at me!"

"Let's die together! If you want mutual destruction, I'll accompany you to the end. Come on, let's end this together—no one needs to suffer anymore."

He had lost it—completely and utterly lost it.

His eyes were bloodshot, his face bruised and battered, blood dripping from his wounds. He swung his fists wildly, exuding an overwhelming killing intent, attacking indiscriminately. His staggering steps wavered in the clouds, and his last ounce of strength drained away. Finally, he collapsed to his knees, an explosion of boundless grievance and fury tearing through him.

He wanted to cry but couldn't. In the end, all he could do was scream, using every bit of strength he had left.

"Ahhh!"

His mother held him tightly, calling his name over and over again.

But he couldn't hear her. It was as if he had to pour out all his emotions in one go. Why? Why wouldn't these people leave him and his mother alone? Why, when they already had nothing, did they still have to be hunted down? Why, even while living in hell, was there still no end in sight?

Why had he endured, retreated, and tried to understand that they were victims too, that they also suffered—but in the end, he was the one covered in wounds? Why did victims hurt each other? Why wouldn't they give him and his mother a chance to start over? Why did their guilt and concessions only become weaknesses for other victims to exploit?

Why?!

What was wrong with this world?!

Ahh… ahhh… ahhhhhhh!

Screaming and shouting, Anson tried to expel all his emotions from his body.

"Anson!"

Someone called his name, but Anson didn't want to listen. He refused to calm down.

He wanted to escape—to the ends of the earth. To get away from his father, his mother, even himself. He had never hated himself so much before.

His incompetence. His weakness. His foolishness. His fragility.

He hated himself. He just wanted to strangle himself and end everything.

Running. Sprinting. Dashing.

The bone-chilling cold seeped into his pores through his feet. Only then did he realize he had reached the beach again. The waves wrapped around his ankles. Before he could react, they pulled him into the vast ocean, swallowing him in endless blue.

Crash!

A wave slammed over his head. Instinctively, Anson held his breath as he sank into the infinite blue. The ocean surrounded him, icy and salty. The water seeped into his wounds, sending sharp stabs of pain through his body, as if tearing his skin apart. The agony burrowed into his organs, forcing him to struggle, trying to escape the torment.

Then, suddenly, he thought—maybe this was for the best. Maybe it should all end here.

The waves roared in his ears. The deep, penetrating blue infiltrated his wounds, spreading coldness through his veins. Air bubbles slowly escaped from his lungs. His struggles weakened, and he let the currents carry him, his body gently swaying as he sank deeper and deeper. A sharp pain radiated from his lungs.

So… is this the end?

Ending… didn't seem so bad.

His eyelids grew heavy. His vision darkened, the infinite blue turning into endless black, engulfing him completely.

This was good. It was all over. There was nothing to worry about anymore.

A period. This was the final period.

"Anson! Anson… Anson!"

A voice—sudden and forceful—yanked Anson out of the water. Oxygen burst through the water bubbles, forcefully flooding his throat. Gravity pulled him back, slamming him onto solid ground. The world spun wildly as he sat up, hands grasping at the soft blankets and mattress. Sweat dripped from his forehead as he gasped for air, his head pounding as if about to explode, his entire body sore—

As if he had been beaten to a pulp.

"Anson…"

"Anson, what's wrong? Talk to me, don’t scare Mom."

That voice…

Dazed, caught between dream and reality, Anson turned toward the voice.

And saw Nora's face.

His mind reeled, unable to distinguish between dreams and reality. The face before him overlapped with that of his mother from his past life.

The worry, the fear, the tears shimmering deep in her eyes.

So… was he still dreaming? Or had he returned to reality?

But how could he be sure where reality was?

Maybe he was still trapped in his past life. Maybe this so-called reincarnation was just a dream. Maybe he had briefly returned to reality and was now back in the dream.

The past three years—were they just his imagination?

Had he retreated into a fantasy because reality was too painful?

A sharp pain exploded in his temple, as if his skull were being pried open. His nerves stretched to the breaking point, ready to snap. The pain was so intense that he couldn’t even scream—every sound was swallowed by the depths of his soul.

A sudden jolt ran through his body. His muscles spasmed. His breath caught in his throat.

"Anson…"

Someone handed him a glass of milk. Anson followed the movement, first seeing Lucas, then Charles. The whole family was there.

What… was going on?

His mind was a chaotic mess. He couldn't tell what was real anymore.

He took the milk and gulped it down. The cold liquid seeped into his near-numb stomach, bringing a slight warmth. His thoughts gradually cleared.

He looked around. The ocean was gone. The beach had disappeared. It was just an ordinary hotel room, one he had become all too familiar with.

Dream… or reality?

Anson forced a smile at Nora, barely tugging at the corners of his lips. "A nightmare. Just a long, long nightmare."

Lucas frowned. "What did you dream about?"

Anson hesitated, then half-joked, "My past life."

Charles relaxed slightly. "Not a good one?"

Anson spread his hands. "Do I really need to say it? Just look at me."

Nora remained silent. She pressed her forehead against his, just like when he was seven, checking his temperature. Her slightly reddened eyes held a firm resolve. Even though Anson resisted, she stubbornly completed the action.

His temperature was normal. No fever.

Anson sighed, resigned, as he waited for her to finish checking. Then, he looked at her and offered a helpless smile.

"Now you're sure, right? I'm fine."

"I'm not a child anymore. If I say I'm fine, then I’m fine. If I were sick, wouldn’t I know it myself?"

As he spoke, he lifted the blanket and placed his feet on the floor. His toes curled slightly, feeling the pull of gravity and the solid ground beneath him. The heart that had been floating, untethered, finally settled down.

Anson took a step toward the bathroom, but it was as if he had lost control of his own body. His knees buckled, and he stumbled forward, barely catching himself with his hands on the floor. His breathing grew chaotic again.

"Anson!"

Lucas lunged forward to catch him but was a beat too slow.

(End of Chapter)

*Chapter 1387: Overjoyed*

*Bang!*

A dull thud echoed as his knee struck the ground, sending a deep, aching pain radiating through his thigh and calf muscles. It was as if he could clearly feel the pathways of his pain nerves.

Anson raised his right hand to stop Lucas from stepping forward. He didn’t say a word—just focused on taking deep, steady breaths.

*Weightlessness.*

For a brief moment, Anson felt weightless—something he had never experienced in his dreams. Whether he was falling or plunging into water in those dreams, he had never truly felt the pull of gravity. Not until now.

The instant he fell, the chaotic force of gravity made his heart feel like it was slamming into the ground.

Or perhaps, what had just happened was merely a dream, and now, he had finally returned to reality.

*This… this is reality.*

Closing his eyes, Anson could feel the anxious and concerned gazes fixed upon him. But as his heart, which had been stuck in his throat, slowly settled back into his chest, the line between reality and dreams seemed to sharpen once more.

"I'm fine, don't worry. I’m alright. It’s just the weakness that comes after waking up from a nightmare—no need to be so tense. Please, let me keep a shred of dignity, or else I won’t be able to lift my head around here."

A casual joke, effortlessly lightening the mood. The tension in the air eased slightly, and the lines of concern on Charles and Nora’s faces softened.

Only Lucas remained unconvinced.

Lucas had noticed that Anson’s hands, which were supporting him on the ground, were trembling slightly. He was using every ounce of strength just to prop himself up, exposing his exhaustion and depletion.

Clearly, Anson had experienced a nightmare—a terrible one. It was definitely not as simple as he made it seem. A trace of worry flickered in Lucas’s expression.

Still, Anson eventually managed to stand up on his own, albeit unsteadily, and staggered into the bathroom. Turning on the faucet, the sound of rushing water filled the room, gradually calming his scattered thoughts. It was only then that he realized his clothes were soaked through, as if he had actually climbed out of the ocean.

Closing his eyes, he could feel his heart pounding wildly, his mind a tangled mess.

*A nightmare.*

It had been a long time since he’d had one. When was the last time? He had once believed that the nightmares from his past life were long behind him. But unexpectedly, they had resurfaced because of Sing Along's filming. It was a surprise.

Sinking into the bathtub, he let the water soothe him. After bathing and soaking for a while, his tense muscles gradually relaxed, and the storm in his mind finally quieted.

Only then did he put on a bathrobe and step out of the bathroom—only to be met with the sight of the prairie dogs in the living room all turning their heads toward him in unison.

Anson sighed, exasperated. "I'm an adult. Could you at least give me some privacy?"

A small joke.

Charles chuckled. "Didn’t you walk the runway in Paris? Changing clothes in front of everyone should be nothing new to you."

"That was work. Work!" Whether it was because of last night’s nightmare or the rare occasion of the entire Wood family being present, Anson was noticeably less sharp-tongued than usual.

He turned to get dressed, but before he could leave, Lucas added in a calm, matter-of-fact tone, "He probably needed to clean up anyway. He passed out drunk two nights ago and went straight to bed without washing up. And judging by last night, it seems like he did the same thing again."

Charles gasped theatrically. "Oh my, since when did Anson become so unhygienic? I remember a time when he wasn’t like this. Hollywood really is a bad influence."

"Anson, maybe you should quit L.A. and come back to New York," he suggested.

By the time Anson returned to the living room in a T-shirt and casual dress pants, he had fully regained his composure. His gaze swept over his three family members before landing on Charles.

"Did Lucas tell you something?"

Charles immediately looked flustered. "No, no, absolutely not. We just came to check on you. Yes, that’s it—to check on you."

Anson settled onto the sofa with an air of leisure. "So, the three of you show up in Las Vegas, all looking incredibly worried about me, and I’m supposed to believe that nothing happened?"

"Dad, you’ve never been good at lying."

Charles instantly straightened his back, trying to maintain a poker face.

But his rigid posture only made it all the more obvious that he was guilty.

Nora shot Charles an exasperated look before turning to Anson. "We really did just come to check on you. Lucas said this project is important to you—that you’ve poured everything into it. The crew is full of praise for your performance, so we got curious and wanted to see for ourselves."

"Think about it. You’ve acted in so many Hollywood productions, but we’ve never once visited the set. That’s not right. So here we are."

She kept her smile as she gave Charles another pointed glare.

Charles nodded rapidly. "Yes, yes! That’s exactly it!"

Anson studied his parents with a meaningful look. "Is that really the reason?"

Nora met his gaze head-on. "Why? Do you not want us to visit? Is it unprofessional? Lucas, have you been interfering with Anson’s work again?"

Lucas didn’t argue. He simply put on an innocent expression, as if he were willing to take the blame without protest.

Their back-and-forth wasn’t entirely seamless, but Nora had managed to smooth things over—for now.

Anson shot Lucas a knowing look. He didn’t believe a word of it. He was certain that Lucas had called his parents because he was worried. But honestly, Anson had no idea how to explain it to them.

Saying I’m fine a hundred times wouldn’t make them believe it.

So why not just show them? Let them see for themselves that he was really okay.

Actions speak louder than words.

With that thought, Anson decided to drop the matter. Pretending to believe Nora’s explanation, he said, "Welcome, of course! As long as you don’t get bored, you’re more than welcome."

"Most of the time on set is just waiting around, though. It can be pretty dull."

He turned to Charles. "Dad, how many days off did you take? No projects right now?"

Charles cleared his throat. "Nope, no projects. I just happened to have some free time. Thought I’d take a break… and spend some time with your mother."

Anson raised an eyebrow slightly. He was absolutely certain that they had rushed over here in a hurry. Charles could never hide his emotions from him.

And since when did Charles not have a project?

Hollywood had no shortage of reckless celebrities willing to throw absurd amounts of money at financial advisors. One successful film could turn someone into a millionaire overnight, and their impulsive spending created endless job opportunities for people like Charles.

But Anson didn’t press further.

Regardless of how it happened, his family coming to visit him on set—while not something on his wishlist—was still something to be happy about.

"Alright, Lucas, what’s on the agenda today? Should I take Mom and Dad on a set tour?"

Lucas quickly masked his concern, tilting his chin up slightly. "This is your domain. Of course, you should lead the way."

Nora was more pragmatic. "We’re not going to disrupt your work, are we?"

Anson took a deep breath. "Don’t worry. If you do, I’ll scream."

"Now, let’s head to the set while the prep work is still going on. Once filming starts, it’ll be harder to get around."

He stood up, looking eager. Seeing this, Nora and Charles finally relaxed a little, their excitement beginning to show.

*(End of Chapter)*

Chapter 1388: Blurring the Line Between Reality and Illusion

Las Vegas—an eternal city of lights that never sleeps, open all year round.

Time seems to lose its meaning in this city, where day and night blur together, seasons shift unnoticed, and scorching summers mix seamlessly with freezing winters. The brilliance of sunlight and the depths of night merge into one indistinguishable reality.

Step into any hotel, any casino, and it feels like entering a black hole—dazzling lights, extravagant indulgence, a world of decadence. By the time you step back out, the outside world has changed, and time has completely slipped away. A day, a week, or even a month could pass, and it would feel the same—disorienting and impossible to grasp.

The Wood family was no exception.

In the blink of an eye, they had already been here for several days. But was it five? Six? Seven? No one could say for sure.

Nora gazed at Anson, worry written all over her face.

Anson seemed to sense their eyes on him. He turned to look back and waved with an easy smile, exuding a carefree attitude.

Nora quickly returned the smile and waved back. But the moment Anson looked away, the worry in her eyes resurfaced. "Is this really okay?"

In her line of sight, Anson was holding a handful of pills—white, black, and all kinds of colors—and swallowed them all at once, washing them down with whiskey in one big gulp.

Charles leaned slightly toward Nora and lowered his voice to reassure her. "They're just vitamins and cod liver oil. I asked the crew—everything he's taking was prescribed by the medical team based on his current condition. And that amber-colored liquid? It's barley tea, not alcohol. It's good for his throat and body."

In the movie, his character relied heavily on alcohol, but during filming, most of the drinks used were just props.

Of course, some actors went all in, using work as an excuse to drink excessively. But any actor with even a shred of professionalism wouldn’t do that.

Nora let out a soft breath, relaxing slightly—but not completely. Her heart still hung in suspense. "But before joining the crew, all that alcohol was real, wasn’t it?"

She turned to look at Lucas.

Lucas remained silent, avoiding a direct answer. "Anson needs to get into character."

Nora pressed on. "And you’re just letting him do this? If the character falls apart, does that mean Anson has to fall apart too?"

Lucas: …

Charles sighed. "Nora, this is what being an actor means."

Nora felt a lump in her throat. She understood the logic, but that didn’t make it any easier to accept.

During their time in Las Vegas, Anson had been acting perfectly normal. He hadn't shown any signs of unusual behavior. That eerie presence—Jack Priest—hadn’t resurfaced either. Everything pointed to the conclusion that Lucas’s concerns had been unnecessary. Anson was still the youngest son of the Wood family, completely dedicated to his work.

On one hand, they felt somewhat relieved. Things weren’t as bad as they had feared. Even though they couldn’t let their guard down completely, they trusted that Lucas wouldn’t joke about something this serious. Based on what they had seen in the past few days, there was no immediate cause for concern.

On the other hand, a new kind of worry took root. Anson was fully immersed in his role, matching Johnny Cash’s lifestyle in an uncanny way.

In the film, Johnny Cash’s drinking worsens over time. Trapped between faith, family, and fame, he spirals downward, completely losing his way.

In reality, Anson was following the same trajectory. While he hadn’t been drinking excessively, his sleep had suffered. The line between reality and fiction was becoming blurred. Nightmares bled into waking life. He was in a constant state of exhaustion, floating somewhere between worlds.

Visibly, Anson’s condition was deteriorating.

His skin looked worse, his gaze duller, his complexion paler—his whole presence dimmed, as if a filter of desaturation had been placed over him. The atmosphere on set had darkened along with him.

Nora and the others saw it all. It was impossible not to worry.

And yet, Anson was loving it. He was completely immersed, showing an unbelievable passion for his craft. This left Nora and the others torn, unsure whether to stop him or support him. Every day felt like riding a roller coaster.

Looking back, keeping their distance and giving Anson the space to explore had been the right choice. Otherwise, they would have smothered him, treating him like a child who always needed protection. He would never have had the chance to grow or become independent.

But—

Nora lifted her gaze toward Lucas, no longer hiding the concern in her eyes.

For once, Lucas’s usually unreadable expression shifted. His brows furrowed slightly, and the words he had been about to say never left his lips.

All eyes were drawn to Anson.

But as the center of attention, Anson had no time to notice.

He had to stay focused—completely and utterly focused.

To get into character, Anson had downed a glass of whiskey before arriving on set. Just one. Enough to loosen up but not enough to get truly drunk. He needed to lose control—but not completely.

But he had drunk too fast. The alcohol rushed to his head, and now his skull felt like it was splitting open.

Focus. That was the challenge.

It felt like a spinning top had lodged itself inside his brain, buzzing relentlessly, making the entire world wobble around him. He could barely stand upright.

Anson kept reminding himself—don’t slip up. Nora and the others were watching. He needed to reassure them, not let them see him struggle.

It was fitting. Just like Johnny Cash, he had to keep himself together, had to perform no matter what. He couldn’t let the show fall apart. He couldn’t embarrass himself in front of June Carter.

He needed the world to quiet down. He needed the noise in his head to disappear.

But the more he thought that, the more he turned to alcohol. The more he drank, the more he lost control. A vicious cycle.

Buzz. Buzz. The world was a blur of noise.

“Anson, we’re ready to roll…”

A voice cut through.

Anson snapped his head up, feeling like someone was speaking to him.

“Johnny, we’re ready to roll…”

Without thinking, he nodded slightly. His soul floated above him, like a helium balloon, watching his own body put on a polite smile.

“Got it. Be right there.”

Taking a deep breath, his body stood up like a puppet on strings. He hesitated for a moment, then poured himself another small glass of whiskey and downed it in one gulp.

His stomach burned, sending a shiver down his spine. But his eyes felt sharper now.

He took a step toward the stage.

His drifting soul yanked back, scrambling to keep up.

Unsteady, staggering, his footsteps traced an uneven path through the clouds.

Before him stood a grand theater—luxurious, spacious, with a magnificent stage. The auditorium, seating eight hundred people across two levels, glowed under a cascade of dazzling lights.

Just before stepping on stage, he managed to halt himself in time.

Turning slightly, he flashed a confident smile at his family, who stood among the crew at the side of the stage. With a playful salute, his lips curled into a radiant grin—blindingly bright, like the sun.

Before they could react, the director’s voice rang out from the front of the stage.

“Action!”

In an instant, every background actor and extra held their breath.

(End of Chapter)

*Chapter 1389: Ups and Downs*

Roar! Roar, roar, roar!

Cheers, applause, whistles—an electrifying wave surged through the crowd.

"Thank you! Thank you, everyone!"

June Carter had just finished her performance, beaming as she took a bow. Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced toward the side stage, expecting Johnny Cash to step up seamlessly—but he was nowhere to be seen. The crew was in complete disarray.

Without revealing her concern, June maintained her radiant smile, quickly thinking of ways to stall for time. Her lips curled into an even brighter grin.

"Thank you!"

However, the audience was growing impatient. Someone in the crowd shouted loudly:

"Where's Johnny?"

"Johnny! Johnny!"

One call sparked a chain reaction, voices rising from every corner of the venue.

June Carter remained calm. "Johnny Cash will be onstage any second now! He got held up for a moment, but in the meantime, we'll keep the show going."

"Next up, we have a beautiful song for you—"

Before she could finish, a voice suddenly rang out from backstage.

"Wait…!"

"Wait!"

It wasn’t coming from a microphone, just a raw, shouted call, weak and barely audible in the vast space. But then, a figure appeared—bursting onto the stage in the most unconventional way, shoving past curtains, dodging speakers, stumbling over props. His movements were clumsy, chaotic, almost like an impromptu silent comedy act.

"Johnny’s here!"

June Carter: ???

She looked left, then right, but couldn’t spot Johnny at all. Instead, the audience had already noticed the tumbling figure in the background—

Thud.

Johnny banged his knee against a speaker. His face twisted in pain as he clutched his knee, hopping on one foot in a full 360-degree spin, making the entire audience erupt in laughter.

"Hahaha!"

Through the peals of laughter, Johnny straightened himself, limping toward the mic, wincing but forcing a grin, waving to the crowd.

June finally spotted him. There was no time for shock or hesitation—she quickly put on a smile and jumped back into her role.

"Ladies and gentlemen, he’s here—Johnny Cash!"

"Roar! Roar! Roar!"

Applause and whistles filled the venue. Out of breath, Johnny finally made it to the microphone, taking it from June’s hand. But June didn’t even look at him. Instead, she moved back, adjusted another microphone, and got ready to harmonize.

Professional. They had to stay professional.

Johnny stood before the mic, his heart pounding like a drum. His breathing was still heavy, unable to hide his frantic sprint backstage. He tugged at his suit, trying to look less disheveled.

"Hey, folks, I’m Johnny Cash."

Forcing composure, he mustered a smile.

"How about June Carter, huh? Isn’t she a sweetheart?"

Sweat dripped down his face. His eyes were bloodshot, his legs unsteady—he could barely keep himself upright. If someone made him do a sobriety test right now, he’d fail instantly.

He wobbled slightly, lifted onto his toes as if feeling an invisible wind swirling around him.

That once-handsome face looked lost, almost manic. His eyes, usually filled with fire, were now hazy and unfocused, like a void where light had been swallowed whole. His gaze flickered around, searching for an anchor, but he was barely present, like an empty shell on stage.

"How are you all doing tonight?"

His voice was wild and jittery, barely making sense.

He swayed around the microphone stand, stumbling in circles as if playing a game of musical chairs alone. His gaze flickered toward the audience—but before they could respond, he turned away, looking toward the back of the stage instead.

June Carter paid him no attention. She stood with her back to the audience, adjusting her mic. The band members exchanged uncertain glances, trying to lock eyes with Johnny, but his vacant stare made it impossible to connect. No one knew who he was talking to.

And yet, Johnny kept repeating himself in a quick, breathless rhythm.

"How are you all doing?"

The world around him spun. He couldn’t stop moving—forward two steps, back two steps. He thought he’d found his balance, but his footing was still unsteady.

Then he saw her.

June.

His goofy grin spread wide, but she didn’t turn around. She only showed him her back, her face completely unreadable.

He swayed left, then right, tilted his head as if trying to peek at her expression.

Finally!

She turned.

But she refused to meet his gaze. Her face was unreadable, like she was wearing a mask.

Then, she got ready to perform.

Right. The performance.

It was as if Johnny suddenly snapped back to reality. His eyes darted to the drummer.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A cue.

He hoisted his guitar high, aiming it like an anti-aircraft cannon, a mischievous grin creeping across his face. His fingers flew across the strings, striking a wild, chaotic riff.

With a sudden burst of energy, he dipped into a dive-bombing motion, mimicking a jet in a nosedive as his guitar roared between the drumbeats.

Lively. Frenzied. Unrestrained. The madness poured out of him effortlessly.

Somewhere in the chaos, he smiled.

Then, with a spin, he found her again.

June Carter.

Staggering forward, he raised his guitar like a machine gun, closing the distance. The stage lights poured over his broad shoulders, casting his shadow over her.

June, who had been dodging and ignoring him all this time, finally had nowhere to run. She lifted her head, her brows knitting together in irritation.

Like a cat unsheathing its claws.

In the shadows, Johnny’s expression was unreadable. But his eyes were stubborn—unyielding, defiant. He wasn’t backing down.

June Carter: …

Under the watchful eyes of the crowd, she flushed with a mix of embarrassment and frustration.

She didn’t want to acknowledge him, but under that unrelenting gaze, she scowled fiercely at him—before turning her head away completely, ignoring him.

Johnny froze.

In the dim light, his eyes flickered with defeat and loneliness, glowing faintly beneath the stage lights.

For a fleeting second, it stole his breath away.

His persistence, his aggression, his relentless push forward—

All of it crumbled.

His lips curled into a smirk, but his emotions were unreadable:

Was it anger or sorrow? Despair or reckless abandon?

Ha.

A hollow laugh slipped from his mouth.

Without hesitation, he turned back to the audience. The spotlight hit his face, and he tilted his chin up, as if exposing an open wound. Any trace of pain or vulnerability in his gaze vanished, replaced by wild, unrestrained madness.

There was even something toxic in the air.

In the span of mere moments, Johnny had swung through a rollercoaster of emotions—plummeting and soaring in ways that defied understanding. His unpredictable energy felt like a storm brewing onstage.

Then, without warning—

A raw, piercing voice erupted into song.

More thrilling than any rollercoaster.

(End of Chapter)

Chapter 1390: Heart-Wrenching

Around 1958, Johnny Cash was already a top singer celebrated across America. However, in the dazzling and chaotic world of fame and fortune, he lost himself—

he was arrested and spent time in jail.

It was during this period that he first truly noticed the vast world beyond the spotlight of fame—the forgotten criminals hidden in the dark and decaying corners of society.

In Johnny’s faith, he believed that everyone is born a sinner, and life is a continuous process of redemption and making amends. He held that everyone deserves a chance to be forgiven, to be granted a fresh start. Making mistakes was not the real tragedy—the true test lay in having the courage to face those mistakes and the perseverance to learn from them.

Humans are not perfect. Everyone makes mistakes. The mistake itself is not what should be feared.

After his release, Johnny began to genuinely pay attention to the lives of those in prison—those who had been forgotten, abandoned, and erased.

It was against this backdrop that the song *“I Got Stripes”* was born. Johnny used “stripes” to symbolize the zebra-like pattern of prison uniforms. With an upbeat and playful blues rhythm, he concealed the bitterness and sorrow hidden within the lyrics—

One mistake. Just one mistake could define their entire lives.

Now, in Las Vegas, the city of sin, Johnny performed this song.

With an almost manic and unrestrained energy, he danced across the stage as if the floor was scorching hot. His feet tapped and swayed in rhythm, lively and carefree.

*“On Monday, I got arrested.”*

*“On Tuesday, they threw me in jail.”*

His voice was light and joyful, yet within Johnny’s deep and raspy timbre, there was an unmistakable hint of irony and sarcasm. Beneath his casual delivery, a subtle tremor lurked in the tail notes, though no one knew what it meant.

*“On Wednesday, I stood before the judge.”*

*“On Thursday, they found me guilty—the judge’s gavel fell.”*

The tempo quickened, growing more and more urgent, like a sudden storm sweeping through. By now, Johnny’s face had turned slightly red, his breath struggling to keep pace with the song’s accelerating rhythm.

With a seamless transition, he sang without a pause, his voice trembling more noticeably. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, betraying his exhaustion.

And yet, astonishingly, Johnny did not stop. Not only that—he defied every principle of proper breath control, forcing himself to sing through it all in one breath.

*“I put on the prison stripes—zebra patterns across my shoulders.”*

*“I put on the iron shackles—chains wrapped around my feet.”*

No breath, no pause—just one continuous phrase.

His face turned an even deeper shade of red, inflating like a balloon ready to burst.

Like a pufferfish on the verge of explosion.

But Johnny refused to yield. He refused to lower his head. He finished the entire line in one breath, only then taking a quick gulp of air before immediately turning to look toward the side of the stage.

*June Carter: ???*

Clearly, June Carter had not expected this moment. Halfway through the performance, Johnny suddenly acted out of character, shifting his gaze toward her with an intensity that was impossible to ignore.

Under the watchful eyes of the audience and the band members, everyone quickly realized that Johnny was staring directly—unwaveringly—at June Carter.

Even someone as seasoned as June, with her wealth of stage experience, was visibly startled by Johnny’s unexpected move. A flicker of unease crossed her face.

But Johnny didn’t care—

His gaze never wavered. He locked onto June, his eyes shadowed beneath the glow of the stage lights. The long, dark lashes cast cascading shadows, obscuring any visible emotion in his eyes. Yet his voice—passionate, breathless—laid bare the storm of feelings raging within him.

On the brink of breaking.

Teetering on the edge of collapse.

The music did not stop. His stance, his expression, everything about him made it seem as if he was singing directly to June Carter—not a love song this time, but something far more raw.

*“I put on the prison stripes—zebra patterns across my shoulders.”*

*“I put on the iron shackles—chains wrapped around my feet, dragging me down.”*

It was an accusation. A fury. A cry of anguish.

Originally, the song was meant to be Johnny’s message to the prison system—an anthem of defiance from the inmates.

But now, it had transformed into Johnny’s personal indictment of June Carter.

Heart-wrenching.

Furious beyond measure.

Pouring out every ounce of emotion with no restraint.

Years had passed since they last saw each other. June Carter had entered her second marriage, while Johnny remained trapped in his.

Johnny had heard that June’s second marriage, though stable, was far from happy. After her first divorce, she had been crushed under the weight of public scrutiny. Even though her new marriage was troubled, she was terrified of another divorce—terrified of putting her children through more pain.

To make matters worse, her career had hit a dead end.

It was in this turmoil that Johnny invited June to join his tour. At the very least, he could help her revive her music career.

June accepted.

Throughout the tour, Johnny continuously expressed his affection for her, while June maintained her distance.

But to Vivian, Johnny’s wife, none of that mattered. She refused to believe in June’s innocence. Instead, she placed all the blame on June, convinced that she was seducing Johnny, trying to destroy their family. With venomous glares and silent curses, Vivian fixated on June’s every move.

The hostility was suffocating. Devastating. It nearly shattered June’s defenses.

But June Carter had always been a bold and fearless woman. Even in the conservative atmosphere of the 1950s, she stood out as a pioneer—

If people were going to condemn her for something she hadn’t done, she might as well do it and at least have a reason to be damned.

And so, June finally broke.

She crossed the line she had fought so hard to maintain.

Years of restraint, shattered in an instant.

For a brief moment, there was happiness. Joy.

Then came the phone call that yanked June back to reality—

It was her child.

Her child called, complaining about a misbehaving sibling and the little troubles of home.

And suddenly, June remembered—

She was a mother. She had a family.

Just like Vivian.

She couldn’t even bring herself to look Johnny in the eye. His very presence made her stomach churn with guilt.

But the worst part?

Johnny didn’t understand.

He never understood June’s internal torment. He never thought of Vivian. He never thought of his children. He never realized that June was thinking of Vivian’s struggles, of her pain.

These were things only a woman could understand.

Only a mother could understand another mother.

June regretted it.

Regretted her recklessness.

Regretted throwing away years of self-control so easily.

Regretted her foolishness and selfishness.

She hated herself.

And then, she shut Johnny out once again.

But what about Johnny?

He didn’t understand. Just as June thought—he never did.

He couldn’t comprehend her back-and-forth turmoil.

How could everything be fine one moment, then fall apart the next?

Johnny was lost.

Angry.

Desperate for an answer he couldn’t find.

So he did the only thing he knew how—he turned his music into chains, into shackles, into a cry of accusation.

He sang his heart out, directing it all at June Carter.

*(End of Chapter)*