1011-1015

Chapter 1011: Escaping Darkness

Pain is a silent companion.

It lurks quietly in Anson's spine, like a cunning fox, ready to strike at any moment.

At first, the pain was just a vague nuisance, like a thin needle piercing the skin briefly and then retreating, more of an irritation than a torment.

A kind of restlessness.

However, over time, the pain became more frequent and persistent, evolving into a burning current that ran through his back, causing his muscles to tighten and twitch. It was a sharp, relentless pain, penetrating deeply into his body, making every breath feel like exhaling fire.

It wasn’t just a struggle, but agony.

And worse, he couldn't move.

His entire body remained stiff, leaving him to endure wave after wave of pain. Every attempt to move felt like carrying an invisible mountain, his spine groaning under the pressure—cold and merciless, a constant reminder that the pain was here to stay.

In the endless darkness, Anson sought a moment of rest, even just a brief respite to escape the ever-present torment. But the pain clung to him like a ghost, inescapable, constantly pricking at his weary nerves.

Each movement was a fierce, short-lived battle, leaving nothing but profound exhaustion and helplessness.

Though both his body and mind were worn out, he couldn’t truly rest. He drifted between wakefulness and sleep, his soul seemingly torn into countless fragments, sinking into boiling lava, disintegrating bit by bit in the endless pain.

Five minutes? Ten minutes?

Or perhaps ten hours?

Anson had lost track of time. In his daze, time seemed meaningless. He felt a breath caught in his chest, unable to swallow or spit it out. Even swallowing a mouthful of saliva seemed impossible.

Finally, it turned into a dry cough.

Anson coughed weakly, thinking it was a thunderous cough, but only a faint rasp came from his throat. Finally, his eyelids lifted, and a faint glimmer of light pierced through, slightly stinging before fading away.

Because a jolt of pain shot up from his tailbone.

“Oh... cough cough…”

His voice of pain was cut short, turning into another cough, which made Anson want to laugh at his own predicament—he couldn't even scream in pain. How absurd was that?

"…Anson."

"Anson."

A voice came from his side, soft, as if afraid of disturbing him, yet tinged with uncontrollable excitement and anticipation, calling repeatedly.

No need to see the expression; the voice itself revealed too much emotion.

Anson's lips curled slightly, his eyes half-open. "Luca, there's no need to be so cautious as if afraid of disturbing a butterfly. I think I can still cause some trouble for a few more years. They say bad people always live longer."

Lukas, full of concern, stared at Anson, a breath caught in his throat—somewhere between ridiculousness and frustration—before breaking into a faint smile.

"Awake and already joking. You must be alright."

Anson looked over, finally focusing, and saw Lukas standing properly at the foot of the hospital bed. Face calm, demeanor cool, he maintained his composure amid the chaos.

Typical Lukas.

But Anson noticed Lukas’s fingers trembling, slightly and unconsciously, as if cramping, betraying a hint of panic.

Lukas followed Anson's gaze and noticed his trembling hand, quickly balling it into a fist and shoving it into his pockets.

When he looked up again, he saw a faint smile on Anson's face.

"I'm fine."

That simple phrase almost shattered Lukas entirely.

Lukas awkwardly turned his head, avoiding Anson's gaze.

“Wait, what did the doctor say? He really said I was fine, didn’t he?”

Lukas: …

His lips twitched slightly. That was Anson—lying in bed but still not forgetting to crack a joke.

Anson noticed Lukas's expression change, but seemed a little disappointed.

“Hey, why do you look like Elsa getting ready to audition for Frozen?”

Lukas couldn't hold back anymore. “Anson Wood!”

Lukas turned, seeing Anson's grimacing face. The anger hadn't fully surfaced before it turned into concern and anxiety.

Then he noticed Anson peeking at him slyly, and couldn't help but find it both amusing and infuriating.

"Anson, this isn’t a joking matter," Lukas scolded.

Anson responded, “I know. So, should I start crying now? If I started bawling, you’d probably lose it.”

Lukas: …

Anson flashed a satisfied smile, but he couldn't laugh too much. The moment he tried, a twinge of pain ran through his lower back.

The pain was subtle, burning, and sharp.

Not intense, but always present, stiffening the muscles around his back.

Anson's brows furrowed again.

Lukas immediately noticed, and despite having been tricked before, he believed it now. “I had the doctor reduce the painkiller dosage so your body could handle it. Do you need more?”

Lukas’s words were vague, hesitant.

Anson understood immediately: Lukas knew his situation—

Anson hadn’t forgotten how he ended up here, the powder residue on the toilet seat, and the withdrawal symptoms lingering in this body. It all spoke to the chaotic history of this shell he now inhabited.

But in recent years, Anson had stayed clean—even controlling alcohol and cigarettes—his health fully recovering.

Yet Lukas was still worried.

Painkillers could also be addictive, and the rising deaths from OxyContin addiction made that abundantly clear.

Lukas didn’t say it outright, and Anson didn’t want to break the silence either.

After all, explaining why he had changed so much would be complicated.

“Let’s keep it like this. I need to get used to it,” Anson replied vaguely. “Luca, you didn’t tell Mom and Dad, did you?”

Lukas: …

Anson couldn’t believe it. “Luca, you!”

Lukas shot Anson a stern look. “Of course I did. Dad’s on his way back from Zurich, and Mom’s probably about to land at Kennedy any minute now.”

Anson groaned. “This is exactly what I was afraid of.”

Lukas sighed in frustration. “Anson Wood, shouldn’t you be worried about your health instead of Mom and Dad?”

“Because you all overreact! Something minor happens, and everyone gets involved. Nothing would’ve happened, but now Mom and Dad will probably ground me again.”

“Minor? This is minor? God, Anson, you almost—”

“But I didn’t, did I? Almost doesn’t count, and it didn’t get any worse.”

“Isn’t this bad enough already? Damn it!”

Chapter 1012: Escaping Disaster

While talking, Lucas ultimately failed to keep his emotions in check.

He had always remained calm, always steady, handling everything with composure. But deep down, Lucas was really scared, deeply fearful.

Yet, after his brief outburst, Lucas immediately regretted it.

Taking a deep breath, he said, "Anson, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have snapped at you. It's not your fault."

Anson, feeling frustrated, replied, "That's exactly why I didn't want to tell you guys. You always treat me like a kid, wanting to keep me under your wing. The slightest thing happens, and everyone rushes to my side."

"Lucas, you all have your own lives. You don't need to treat me like a baby anymore. I can handle things myself."

"It's not that I don't appreciate it, it's just..."

It's just that he's scared, he's not used to it.

In his past life, after what happened to his father, he had to shoulder the responsibility of the entire family, growing up overnight, and learning to face everything alone.

He had hit walls, failed, made mistakes, and learned many harsh lessons. Eventually, he learned to tackle every challenge head-on, with courage.

Suddenly, he felt so much love and care from the Wood family that he wasn't used to it, and he began to feel fearful—afraid that he would lose the strength and courage to face challenges on his own.

He knew they were doing nothing wrong; he was just scared that he might become weak. Then one day, if he woke from this dream and the safety net disappeared, he might never find the courage to face the storms again.

Anson closed his eyes, afraid of unintentionally revealing his vulnerability.

Lucas's voice came from beside him, "But you are my brother."

With just one sentence, Anson's tightly closed eyes were instantly filled with hot tears. He quickly changed the subject to hide his turmoil.

"So, what did the doctor say? Is everything okay?"

Lucas watched as Anson turned his head, his eyes and shoulders trembling slightly. He let the silence linger for a moment and ultimately did not expose Anson's emotions.

"The doctor says you need rest—at least three weeks, but my recommendation is six weeks."

Anson was taken aback and immediately put his emotions aside, turning to Lucas. "That long? What about the movie shoot?"

Lucas remained expressionless. "The movie? Is that what you're worried about right now? A slight mishap, and you'd be lying here for a year."

"If it wasn't for the stunt rig master catching the wire at the last moment, slowing your fall, things could have been much worse."

In the worst-case scenario, he might have been paralyzed.

After all, Anson had fallen from the height of two stories, landing flat on his back, putting immense pressure on his lower back. It was extremely dangerous.

If anything had been just a little off, things could have ended very differently—

Years ago, the first Superman actor, Christopher Reeve, landed headfirst during an equestrian event, breaking the first and second vertebrae and damaging his spinal cord, resulting in paralysis from the neck down.

Anson was just inches away from a similar fate.

Even the doctor was blunt:

He was very lucky.

As Lucas spoke, anger once again surged in him, nearly impossible to control.

Anson was stunned too, not expecting he had come so close to death. However, having experienced death once before, he remained calm.

"Lucas, it's said that surviving a disaster brings good fortune. You should be happy. It means my true luck is just beginning."

Lucas said nothing, giving Anson a cold look as if to ridicule him.

Anson wasn't afraid at all. "Are you going to keep staring at me with that face, like the evil queen jealous of Snow White? It's not good for my recovery."

Lucas nodded lightly. "Deal with it."

Anson: ...

Blinking, Anson decided to change the topic. "So, what's the deal? What did the doctor say?"

"Minor disc damage, slight misalignment, which is pressing on a nerve, causing pain, numbness, and weakness. Also, fractured ribs, and internal organs took some impact, so breathing will be painful for a while."

Minor. Minor.

In terms of the injuries, it wasn't too serious—already a blessing within the misfortune. With proper recovery, there shouldn't be any lasting damage.

But the doctor was also clear that his body needed enough time to heal. It wasn't just about medication; physical therapy was essential. Rushing it could lead to permanent injury.

It could take a few weeks or a few months, but the patient needed to take it step by step.

So Lucas wasn't exaggerating—

Three weeks was the bare minimum, and Lucas thought six weeks would be better.

As for "Spider-Man 2"? Was it important?

Not at all.

To be precise, Lucas intended to hold the crew and production company accountable. Even if they cooperated, Lucas had no plans of sitting quietly.

He laid it all out, hoping Anson would rest well. Yet, to his surprise, Anson nodded calmly.

"Alright, I got it."

Lucas was skeptical.

Anson continued, "Three weeks. Don't worry, I'll cooperate and rest well. You'll see—I bet I’ll be back on set in two weeks."

Lucas... wasn’t even surprised. "Just stay put."

Anson sighed. "Already going stale here."

After a little joke, Anson noticed a slight hesitation in Lucas's expression.

Lucas had always been hard to read, but occasionally, the differences were noticeable, meaning that the emotions were probably serious.

"What's up? What are you worried about? Shouldn't I be the one worried that Mom's going to rush over here? What's with the worried look?"

Lucas glanced at Anson, hesitating.

He didn't want to disturb Anson's rest, and he had already kept everyone from the set away, trying his best to keep from losing control. But with Nora coming over soon, and the questions their parents would ask Anson, the Wood couple might lose it.

Finally, Lucas chose his words carefully and spoke.

"Anson, this might not have been an accident."

The words were mild but carried weight.

Anson was stunned.

"To be precise, it might have been an accident, but it wasn't entirely unintentional. More than one person said that there was a flash at the scene, which blinded the stunt rigger and caused the subsequent situation."

"Apparently, flash photography was strictly forbidden on set, but someone knowingly ignored that."

"Unfortunately, the scene turned chaotic, and the director isn't exactly the type to notice small details. Everyone was focused on you, so no one saw the culprit."

"I asked around, and no one noticed anything unusual."

"Anson, did you notice anything?"

That was the point.

Though it was difficult, Lucas hoped Anson might have seen something.

Anson also tried to think back, but the pain lingering in his body made it hard to focus. "No, I didn’t notice anything at the time. I was completely focused on the shoot."

This answer was a bit disappointing, though not unexpected.

Anson had been in the middle of filming, doing a high-risk stunt, needing all his focus. It was normal not to notice anything unusual.

And because he hadn't noticed, he didn't have time to protect himself.

*Chapter 1013: Unraveling the Mystery*

Anson didn’t have any leads either.

Slightly disappointed, but not surprised.

Lucas nodded lightly, “Alright, I understand. You don’t need to overthink it. Leave this matter to me, and I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

After speaking, Lucas noticed a hint of hesitation in Anson’s expression and quickly stopped him.

“Anson, there’s no need to overanalyze. There were so many eyes in the studio. Even if no one was paying close attention, some clues must’ve been left behind.”

“I’ll…”

Before Lucas could finish, Anson interrupted, “Paparazzi.”

Lucas, confused, asked, “What?”

Anson didn’t immediately answer but froze for a moment. His memory processing was a bit slow, and the scattered, chaotic images from the shoot flooded his mind.

Nothing unusual.

Objectively speaking, Anson hadn’t noticed anything odd on set that day. But his gut reaction, like a flash of lightning, pointed to the paparazzi.

“I mean, maybe a paparazzo snuck into the crew that day to take secret photos.”

“There’s been nonstop talk about the Spider-Man suit recently. The crew’s been racking their brains to prevent leaks, even making me wear a cloak while coming and going. It’s ridiculous.”

“Maybe a paparazzo managed to break through the security, sneak into the studio, and found a chance to take pictures of the suit.”

“Why else would the flash go off when I was mid-air doing a stunt?”

“That was the best-looking move, and it showcased the suit in full detail.”

Lucas listened carefully but looked a bit puzzled. “Is that really necessary? A paparazzo could just snap a random shot and sneak out. That should satisfy any curiosity, right?”

“The price,” Anson replied. “Of course, this is just my guess. My brain’s not fully functioning right now. I could be talking nonsense.”

“But think about it. What’s worth more: a blurry, side-shot sneak photo, or a clear, front-facing one?”

“It’s like when paparazzi photographed Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston’s wedding. Sure, the blurry shots from the reeds were mysterious and created buzz, but they couldn’t compare to the official front-page photo in US Weekly.”

“If they can, they’d want to capture the clearest, most detailed shot possible. In those moments, aesthetics probably take a back seat.”

“A blurry photo of the suit might go for ten grand. A clear, full shot could fetch a hundred grand.”

Lucas rolled his eyes, “My brother is worth a hundred grand?”

Anson smirked, “I thought you were going to say ten bucks tops.”

Lucas replied, “To me, not even worth ten bucks. But risking your health for a hundred grand? Not even worth a look.”

Anson knew Lucas was serious. “And I just thought of something else. If the photos were taken during a break, someone would’ve noticed. There are eyes everywhere on set. Hitting the shutter would have to be super discreet, and they probably couldn’t even pull out a camera easily.”

“But during filming, everyone’s focused on their work. That’s the perfect cover. It would’ve been much easier to pull off.”

What had started as a flash of inspiration now seemed more and more plausible.

Lucas didn’t respond, nor did his expression change, but he agreed it was a possibility. “If it was paparazzi, do you have anyone in mind?”

Anson shook his head. “It’s like finding a needle in a haystack. You could ask Edgar for Eve’s number. She’s an expert in this. Even if she doesn’t know exactly who, she’d have some leads. Paparazzi have a way of staying in the loop.”

“If it really was paparazzi, and your investigation is too obvious, they might go underground. Then it’ll really be like searching for a needle.”

Anson suddenly remembered something.

“This same thing happened when we filmed the first movie.”

Lucas’s face darkened. “You got hurt?”

Anson sighed, “No. A paparazzo hid in a wardrobe in the trailer, curled up in a ball. I thought it was a rat...”

Lucas, clearly irritated, said, “Might as well have been a rat.”

Anson laughed, “In the end, I found him. It was pretty funny, actually.”

“To be honest, I’ve never understood the public’s obsession. It’s just a suit, right? It’s in the comics. Sure, the movie version might be a little different, but it’s mostly the same. Nothing special.”

“So, what’s the point of seeing it early?”

“People might gasp and admire it, but that’s about it. Fans will still love the movie, and those who don’t care still won’t care. I don’t see any marketing value in this.”

Lucas asked, “Do you know that paparazzo?”

“What?”

Lucas hadn’t been listening to Anson’s rant. He was still focused on the culprit, uninterested in gossip. “The paparazzo who hid in the trailer.”

“He’s in a different place now. He wouldn’t stoop to that anymore. He didn’t even like it back then. You’ve probably heard of him—Harry Pesci.”

Lucas’s eyes widened in realization, “Him? You mean the TMZ founder?”

Anson grinned, “Yeah, just a small chapter in a bigger story.”

Lucas thought for a moment. TMZ had grown into a monster in the digital age, and rumors circulated that various corporations, including the massive News Corporation, were trying to buy it. Pesci was probably more focused on selling TMZ for a hefty price rather than sneaking around as a paparazzo again.

Even if TMZ was willing to pay top dollar for Spider-Man suit photos, Pesci likely wouldn’t do the dirty work himself.

Lucas considered contacting TMZ to see if anyone had been shopping around photos from the Spider-Man 2 set. If they had, the culprit would be clear.

He mulled it over briefly before snapping back to the present, noticing Anson still deep in thought.

“I’ll handle this,” Lucas said.

Anson looked at him, “Let Edgar take care of it. You’re not a professional investigator, and you’ve got your own work. No need to waste time on this.”

Lucas didn’t respond, but his silence wasn’t agreement either. “Right now, you need to rest.”

Anson sighed, “You’re treating me like a patient now!”

Lucas, unfazed, replied, “You are a patient.”

Anson sighed deeply in resignation. “At least let me talk to Edgar or the director to figure out what to do next.”

Lucas frowned, unsure if he heard correctly.

Anson didn’t explain further, meeting Lucas’s gaze quietly.

In the end, Lucas gave in. “Five minutes.” Seeing Anson prepare to argue further, Lucas added, “You can handle everything tomorrow. It’s not that urgent. So, either five minutes or forget it.”

Grinding his teeth in frustration, Anson leaned back and stared helplessly at the ceiling.

Satisfied, Lucas turned to leave. As soon as he opened the door, those waiting outside all stood up. And there were quite a few of them.

*Chapter 1014: Sinister Thrill*

The air was heavy and tense, filled with an indescribable pressure.

Kristen, James, Alfred, and others—stuntmen, body doubles—sat in the hospital hallway without exception. No one spoke, and the silence grew suffocating in the oppressive atmosphere.

Movement came from the direction of the ward. James was the first to stand up quickly.

"Anson..." He wanted to ask something, but the words got stuck in his throat. Not knowing how to express his concern, he swallowed them silently, staring at Lucas, waiting for an answer.

He wasn't the only one.

Lucas scanned the room. "Anson is awake. His condition is better than expected. He's stable for now."

Thud.

Alfred's knees buckled, and he collapsed back into his seat, covering his face with both hands, rubbing it hard as he finally took a breath.

Kristen turned to face the wall, trying to hide her surge of emotions, but her trembling shoulders gave away her vulnerability at that moment.

James stepped forward. "When can we visit him?"

"Not now," Lucas cut him off coldly, like a grim reaper.

Ignoring James' frustration and annoyance, Lucas walked directly toward Sam, who sat nearby. On the surface, Sam seemed composed, but the worry etched on his face was slowly eating away at his sanity. Lucas had to pull Sam back from his daze.

"Sam, Anson wants to talk to you."

Sam looked up, a little confused.

"But the doctor said Anson still needs rest. He needs time for his body to recover, so you can only have five minutes."

Finally, Sam snapped out of it and nodded lightly to show he understood.

James couldn’t believe it. "Hey, I’m Anson’s best friend! Why does the director get to see him but not me? What kind of standard is that?"

"Anson's brother’s standard," Lucas replied, every word like ice.

James froze, unable to argue.

Lucas paid no attention to James and kept walking forward.

After a few steps, he paused slightly. He noticed—

Sean Graham, the wire technician.

His hands were wrapped in bandages, and despite that, the swelling in his palms was still visible. His hands looked out of proportion with his forearms—his injuries were serious, and he wouldn’t be able to work for a while.

Lucas only paused for a moment before continuing forward without stopping.

Sean hung his head, trapped in deep guilt. No matter what anyone said, he was the one who had let go of the wire. He felt responsible for the situation.

But the question was, how could he be responsible? What could he do?

The agony churned in his stomach.

He wanted to vomit but couldn’t.

Sean noticed Lucas’ footsteps in front of him but didn’t dare to look up, watching helplessly as Lucas paused, then walked away.

Sean slowly closed his eyes, enduring his torment in silence.

...

“What happened?”

That was the question on everyone's lips, whispered throughout the crowd.

But there were no answers.

After receiving the news, reporters had rushed to Mount Sinai Hospital, only to be blocked outside. The only thing they knew for certain was—

Something had gone wrong. Anson had been taken into an ambulance, and his condition was unknown.

That was all.

The information was incomplete, the situation unclear, and the production team had locked everything down, leaving room for endless speculation. Terrifying rumors swirled, but no one could confirm anything.

The atmosphere was thick with anxiety.

Among the crowd was Harry Percy, silently hiding himself.

Nervous. Anxious. Excited. Thrilled. Panicked.

It was unimaginable how so many conflicting emotions could intertwine at once, the rush of adrenaline making it feel like a party.

When the accident happened, Harry’s first instinct was to flee.

It was the only reaction he had.

He couldn’t believe it had actually happened, in such an absurd way. Fear and worry exploded in his mind, filling it with dreadful thoughts he couldn’t shake.

He kept telling himself, Anson is fine. Anson is fine. Anson is fine.

But then the bad news came—

The ambulance was dispatched.

One piece of news after another overwhelmed him, dragging Harry deeper into darkness.

Then, a realization hit him:

This was the first time—and perhaps the only time—he had the upper hand over Anson.

Standing in front of Anson always made him feel like a mouse facing a cat. He had tried to run, tried to resist, but Anson always toyed with him, leaving him humiliated, to the point where it scarred his psyche.

But now?

Anson was possibly lying helpless in a hospital bed, unable to fight back.

Harry knew the thought was evil, but the demon in him pulled him further into the darkness. The idea began to fester in his mind, and he couldn’t stop it.

Maybe Anson was injured, but not as badly as everyone thought. Perhaps this media blackout was just a show, a publicity stunt to garner attention.

It was ridiculous, but it was also very real—

In Hollywood, anything was possible. Life, death, sickness—it could all be turned into a spectacle. The "entertainment to death" mindset had long been ingrained in the culture.

If it were Anson, Harry thought, the chances of this being a ploy were even higher.

After all, this was the same man who orchestrated a "flash mob surprise" and revamped the image of the Cannes Film Festival. What couldn’t he pull off?

With that thought, Harry’s excitement and exhilaration spiraled out of control.

He needed to get to the hospital—like a serial killer returning to the scene of the crime. Fear and excitement blended together, mixed with the thrill of possibly being caught and the satisfaction of witnessing the chaos he'd caused, watching it all unfold like a god surveying his creation.

It was all like TMZ—

Exposing people’s wounds, revealing their secrets, exploiting their pain, using the camera lens as a weapon to announce the beginning of "entertainment to death." They had become an inseparable part of the dark corners of the celebrity world.

Some might call it twisted, evil, grotesque, and revolting.

But Harry knew that even those critics couldn’t control their own desires. They’d still be drawn to gossip, still be excited by scandals, still crave drama. After all, demand and curiosity are what fuel endless darkness and sin.

Harry believed that once the story broke, people would go wild. They’d curse while watching, condemn while consuming, but no one would look away.

No one.

*Chapter 1015: Garbage Disposal*

The torment of guilt and fear still lingered, not disappearing. But it was precisely this torment that triggered a surge of adrenaline, making it uncontrollable.

A little unease, a little wavering, a little panic.

Yet, Harry Percy still showed up.

Quietly and subtly, he appeared at the entrance of Mount Sinai Hospital, blending into the crowd, hiding his figure, and watching the situation unfold without blinking.

The scene was bustling—layer upon layer of people, with countless media outlets crowded at the entrance. As the city with the highest concentration of media in North America, New York’s journalists easily outnumbered those in Los Angeles. At this moment, it seemed like half of the media in New York had flocked to Mount Sinai Hospital.

And more were still on their way.

Because it was a hospital, the reporters kept their voices down, but the underlying buzz of agitation was still palpable in the air.

Yet, there were no clues.

Sony Columbia, the “Spider-Man 2” production team, and Anson's agent had all remained silent, leaving the media hanging without any official statement.

The situation seemed a bit unusual.

As the crowd grew larger and more restless, it was hard to believe that more reporters were still arriving.

Anson Wood, a mere "pretty face."

By common logic, people often mock and disdain "pretty faces." At some point, "pretty face" became a derogatory term.

But now, within just half a month, New York had twice been swept into a media frenzy because of this "pretty face," igniting waves of heated discussions.

So, was it because “Spider-Man 2” was just that exciting, or was Anson's influence far beyond expectations?

But that didn’t matter.

The only thing that mattered now was that reporters from every corner of the city had flocked to the hospital, surrounding it so tightly that not even a drop of water could seep through, all hoping to be the first to uncover what was going on with the production team.

Unfortunately, they got nothing.

As time dragged on, the journalists started to lose patience. Inevitably, their true thoughts began to leak out in conversation—

How could a mere pretty face have the audacity to make them wait?

The media's attention on Anson was solely because of his gossip-worthy drama. Yet here he was, acting like a superstar, which was simply ridiculous.

Did winning one Palme d'Or make him think he was a real big shot?

Even without an official statement, it wouldn't have mattered. They’d have found a way to get some information, picking up on any little clues in a hospital that size.

The real issue was that the production team had called in a group of security guards—men in black suits surrounding the journalists, preventing them from entering the hospital.

Their attitude was clear: get lost, journalists.

That was too much.

Two reporters tried to be sneaky, putting away their cameras and pretending to be regular patients to slip inside, but their acting wasn’t good enough, and they were quickly stopped by the guards.

One reporter tried to argue, insisting he was there for medical reasons, while the other attempted to sneak in. But both were intercepted.

The scene turned chaotic, resembling a circus.

Though the initial attempts failed, some reporters eventually succeeded.

After all, it was a hospital, and the production team couldn’t block every single person coming in and out.

However, even entering the hospital didn’t help; all the doctors and nurses kept silent—

Or rather, they didn’t know anything.

Anson’s hospital room was under tight security, and the doctors and nurses treating him had signed confidentiality agreements. Even the hospital staff knew nothing.

“We were hoping you could give us some answers,” a nurse said with a sly smile, leaving the reporters speechless.

Different attempts, different risks—all ended in failure. The reporters finally had to face a harsh reality:

They were helpless.

Other than waiting at the entrance, there was nothing they could do. And this wasn’t the age of social media, so they couldn’t vent their frustrations on personal accounts. One by one, they found themselves stuck at Mount Sinai, unable to move.

The feeling was not only frustrating but suffocating.

As whispers and grumblings exchanged hands, frustration grew, and soon the tension in the crowd reached a boiling point. Stirred up by a few instigators, the scene began to feel like a pressure cooker, with the atmosphere heating up.

Finally, a small group of people couldn’t hold back any longer. Two or three led the charge toward the black-suited security, protesting loudly.

“You can’t do this! We have a right to know.”

“We’re concerned about Anson and the production. The public has the right to be informed.”

“You’re all just Smiths. Bring out your leader; we need to talk.”

“What’s going on? Where’s the person in charge of the production or the movie company? Send out someone, anyone—a living person, not one of you robots.”

“Is Anson alive or dead? Give us a straight answer.”

“Is it that bad? Is Anson paralyzed and in a vegetative state?”

Suddenly, the air went silent. The last two sentences echoed loudly, gripping everyone’s hearts.

From behind the black-suited guards, a figure appeared—

A tall man dressed entirely in black, without a speck of color. His face was calm, expressionless. There was no anger, confusion, or hesitation, just an abyss-like calmness that exuded a faint chill, making people instinctively feel uneasy.

He looked over and found the source of the voice, silently staring at the reporter.

The reporter swallowed nervously, his throat tightening, but he still spoke up, “What? Why are you staring? You’re trying to cover up because you’re afraid Anson has turned into a vegetable, right? It’s fine for you to be guilty, but we have the right to question. The public has the right to know the truth.”

The reporter then smartly turned to the others, rallying for support.

However, the man in black remained emotionless, quietly observing the reporter as if assessing an object.

Just when everyone thought he was about to speak, the man turned to the security, “Throw him out.”

He really treated the reporter like an object.

“If anyone tries to force their way in, throw them out too. If there’s a lawsuit, don’t worry, we’ll handle it.”

His voice was calm, flat, like he was handling old furniture at home.

In an instant, the tension among the reporters deflated. The buzz died down, and all eyes turned to the man in black, who had seized their attention.

The man paused, glancing around without even acknowledging the outspoken reporter.

“If you have any questions, come to me. Lucas Wood, at your service.”

The last sound disappeared completely. It was clear that this man was related to Anson—perhaps his brother?

The reporter who had just been waving the flag of “freedom of the press” now fell silent—

They still had professional ethics. Reporters weren’t paparazzi. They knew when to hit the brakes, and none of them dared to meet Lucas’s eyes.

Without another glance, Lucas spoke again to the security team, “I said, throw out the trash.”

And with that, Lucas turned and reentered the hospital without looking back.