401-405

Chapter 401: A Risky Move

Confident, suave, and exuding an air of effortless charm, Frank Jr. carried himself with a graceful elegance that made him impossible to ignore. His smile was warm, his eyes bright, and in that brief moment, time seemed to pause, captivated by the brilliance of his presence. It was clear—Anson was indeed a handsome man.

In that fleeting exchange, he naturally inspired trust—after all, humans are visual creatures. Even if he were to claim the earth was flat or the sun was cold, people might just believe him. And in this case, all he did was introduce himself.

“...I’m Allen, Barry Allen, from the United States Secret Service. Your boy just tried to jump out the window, but my partner apprehended him.”

He spread his hands first, then casually slipped one into his pocket, leaning slightly against the desk with his long legs crossed, showcasing the allure of his tailored suit.

Without a sound, the power dynamic shifted into his favor.

Carl, however, wasn’t relaxing just yet.

The barrel of his gun remained fixed on Frank Jr., but subtle details gave him away. He raised his chin slightly, furrowing his brows, and the gun’s muzzle lifted an inch.

“I don’t know what kind of nonsense you’re spouting.”

Ha.

Frank Jr. smiled, a brilliant, effortless smile that spread across his face, raising his eyebrows slightly. “Do you think the FBI is the only one after him?”

“Please, come on.”

“He’s been forging government checks here. That’s how we tracked him down.”

Frank Jr. pulled out both hands and stood up, casually rifling through the desk.

His unhurried, calm demeanor finally started to convince Carl.

Frank Jr. could see from the corner of his eye that Carl’s arm was still outstretched, gun aimed, but his feet had unconsciously moved closer—advancing, raising his chin, Carl was trying to peer at the desk.

...An opportunity?

What were the chances of successfully disarming Carl and escaping right now?

The thought flickered through his mind.

But he didn’t want to take that risk.

His fingers, now steadier, found the “evidence” he was looking for on the desk. He didn’t relax; instead, his nerves were taut as ever.

As he spoke, “It’s been a few months now,” the muscles in his left arm tensed completely—not to strike, but to monitor Carl’s every move, keeping a close eye on his expressions and actions.

Closer.

Even closer.

He looked up at Carl, raising his left hand and gently but firmly gesturing for him to stop, his brows knitting together in a serious expression.

“Do you mind moving the gun away from my face?”

“Please. Really. It’s making me very nervous.”

Carl looked over and realized he had unknowingly moved right in front of Frank Jr. He quickly stepped back, creating some distance again.

However, seeing that Frank Jr. wasn’t making any sudden moves reassured Carl slightly, though he still didn’t lower his guard and kept Frank Jr. in his sights.

“Let me see your credentials.”

Carl remained vigilant, not letting the stranger in front of him out of his grasp.

Frank Jr.: Damn.

After all this groundwork, after all this effort, Carl still wasn’t distracted, and now they had reached the critical moment—the credentials.

But Frank Jr. didn’t panic. On the contrary, he flashed a composed smile. “Of course.”

With a natural turn, Frank Jr. reached into his pocket to search. He didn’t hesitate or pause—any sign of doubt could expose him. Instead, he went further, offering Carl his entire wallet.

“Take my whole wallet.”

Carl didn’t hesitate, naturally accepting the wallet.

Frank Jr.’s alarm bells went off: What to do, what to do, what to do?

Once Carl opened the wallet, the whole ruse would be exposed, and he had already missed his chance to escape.

But the more dire the situation, the calmer he needed to be.

Frank Jr. remembered his father’s trick: distract them.

Old Frank used to joke that the New York Yankees always won because their pinstripe uniforms distracted their opponents.

Step one: “Do you want my gun too? Go ahead, take my gun.”

This was both an invitation and a complaint, a protest, a plea.

But it didn’t work—

Carl remained focused, keeping his right hand on the gun aimed at Frank Jr. while trying to open the wallet with his left hand to check the credentials.

The detail was in the button on the outside of Frank Jr.’s wallet, which kept the contents from falling out. At the moment, that button was fastened.

The button wasn’t secure, but it made it difficult for Carl to open the wallet with one hand.

As Carl began to lose patience, the next step could be demanding that Frank Jr. open it himself or growing suspicious of why he handed over the whole wallet.

Step two: “Hey!”

Frank Jr. quickly scanned the room, looking for another target to divert attention. In a split second, without even a moment to think, in just a millisecond, he had to be bold and decisive.

Then, he saw it—

A risky move.

“Hey, do me a favor, look out the window.”

Frank Jr. called out again, louder this time, finally catching Carl's attention. He even took the initiative to draw back the curtains, dramatically presenting the scene outside to Carl.

“Look, my partner is putting him in the car right now.”

Carl wasn’t convinced.

He remained cautious, stepping up to the window but keeping his eyes fixed on "Barry Allen," trying to catch any trickery. His face remained expressionless, like someone determined to unravel a magician’s illusion.

"Barry" appeared entirely focused on the scene outside, seemingly oblivious to Carl’s scrutiny. “See?” he insisted.

This action finally persuaded Carl to glance outside. He looked quickly, just a momentary glance, before turning his gaze back to Barry.

Barry, with a smile, shook his head and joked lightly, “The old guy nearly wet himself when I came in. He jumped straight out of this window onto my car.”

Details—it's always the details that give a lie its power.

Carl still didn’t believe him entirely, but he needed to verify. Because, indeed, there was someone outside, escorting another person to a car. The escorted man looked shaky, unsteady on his feet, almost like he might collapse at any moment.

Wait—this seemed to make sense, but something felt off. Where was the flaw?

Carl began to ponder.

Frank Jr. noticed this shift in Carl’s expression. He knew he was halfway to success, but he also knew that lies often unravel right at this point—

Outside, there was indeed someone helping another into a car, but it wasn’t Barry Allen’s partner arresting a con artist. It was Mr. Murphy, an elderly resident from another room on the same floor, being assisted by his son, who had come to take him home.

Mr. Murphy had been living there for a while. Frank Jr. had chatted with him a few times and knew about his knee problems. The elderly man was staying in the sunlit apartment to aid his recovery. In fact, just before the FBI agents had arrived, Frank Jr. and Mr. Murphy had exchanged greetings in the stairwell.

Magic, often not as mysterious as it seems, is just a trick of the eye. The real secret lies in the magician's ability to divert attention—constantly talking, performing, and disrupting the audience’s focus.

Magic, after all, is a form of performance.

Just like now, Frank Jr. needed to put on a magic show for the FBI agent.

*Chapter 402: The Tension Builds*

Frank Jr. was fully aware that his plan was riddled with holes, completely vulnerable to scrutiny. Why wasn't Mr. Murphy handcuffed? Why was he sitting in the front passenger seat? Why was he wearing sunglasses and using a cane?

These were just a few of the inconsistencies. There could be even more if examined from a professional perspective, or from the viewpoint of someone who knows better. A moment of reflection would reveal the truth, unraveling the entire deception.

However, a skilled magician has the ability to turn something flawed into something extraordinary. From the moment Frank Jr. glimpsed Mr. Murphy and his son outside the window and decided to use them to bolster his lie, his brain kicked into high gear.

Some real scenes, some additional details—yet none of it truly convinced Karl, at least not completely. The FBI agent kept observing, scrutinizing, and spotting the gaping flaws was only a matter of time.

Decisive action!

Frank Jr. moved around Karl, walked to the other side, and briskly opened the window.

First, to disrupt the FBI agent's focus.

Second, to interrupt the agent's train of thought.

And third—

To seize the initiative.

"Hey, Murphy!"

Frank Jr. called out loudly.

Murphy, who was walking towards the driver's seat, looked up and waved in response, even though Frank Jr. didn’t actually know his name. Using a last name was a safe bet.

Frank Jr. continued to shout, with a hint of complaint in his tone.

"Call the LAPD again, I don't want anyone entering my crime scene."

After speaking, Frank Jr. drew the curtain, blocking out Murphy's response, and turned back into the room, striding away from the window.

If Murphy responded loudly, the whole scheme would fall apart.

But Frank Jr. was betting—

He was betting that Murphy would be clueless, and that the FBI agent, still on high alert and watching his every move, would interpret his actions as a potential escape attempt. Naturally, this would divert the agent's attention away from the window, preventing any further focus on Murphy's reaction.

On a knife's edge.

As Frank Jr. turned around, he could feel the stiffness in his shoulder and arm muscles, and his walking posture showed a slight awkwardness. The calm and composed expression he had maintained finally betrayed a hint of panic when he turned his back on the FBI agent.

Cough, cough!

Frank Jr. coughed twice, clearing his throat as he walked towards the camera, but this time, his gaze didn’t directly meet the lens; instead, it slightly averted.

This was a deliberate misalignment.

From the surveillance footage, it appeared that Anson was walking straight towards the camera, from a mid-range shot to a close-up, almost a full-face view. However, in reality, his path was slightly inwardly offset. Yet, the camera still captured his face coming into focus, growing larger as he approached.

No panic, no fear, but this time, the lines on his face were noticeably tense—

And then, the eyes.

Anson glanced at the door.

Steven noticed it. Anson was walking straight towards the camera, with every detail of his gaze played out on screen. Missing that would be odd.

It was just a glance, paired with the cough, the tense muscle lines, and other details—his entire state was now clearly communicated through the screen.

He was considering an escape.

If this entire set of actions still didn’t fool the FBI agent, he was ready to bolt. The exit was right there, a step away from freedom.

Yet, he didn’t.

Only a moment later did Steven realize the significance of that cough.

Of course, he was tense—anyone would be in such a situation. That scene was incredibly nerve-wracking, and the cough could reasonably be attributed to covering up his tension. But what if Frank Jr.'s cough was meant to mask Murphy's potential response, to disrupt Karl's hearing and avoid a last-minute failure?

Wow.

Steven's mind was racing—

Suddenly, Steven recalled the beginning of this scene—the sound of the toilet flushing in the bathroom. That was an action Frank Jr. had intentionally allowed Karl to notice, and it was also a detail they had discussed in advance.

But the next detail wasn’t part of the plan.

The slow, deliberate sound of the faucet running after flushing, indicating that Frank Jr. was washing his hands. This added detail further confirmed the act of flushing the toilet, reinforcing the idea that he had just used the bathroom and wasn’t some criminal suspect hiding inside.

See, that’s how it works. Without these details, others wouldn’t immediately notice anything amiss; they’d need time to calm down and think it through. But with these details, it all helps to form a cohesive and believable picture in their minds, making them more likely to trust it.

Step by step, from detail to detail—that's how Frank Jr. managed to deceive the FBI agent so convincingly, without breaking a sweat.

Steven made a decisive decision: after shooting this group of scenes, he would add an audio track of Murphy calling out and asking for information, overlapping it with Little Frank’s coughing.

Perhaps in a movie theater, the audience wouldn't notice such details, but whether they exist or not can create different audio-visual experiences that evoke varied feelings.

Earlier, there were some noises, a glance.

Now, a cough, a glance.

These kinds of subtle details in the performances are everywhere, and they make the scene before us reasonable and compelling.

Waves were surging in Steven's mind, but the moment on screen was just a fleeting instant.

Little Frank glanced at the door.

But it was just a glance; his steps still headed towards the dining table. He didn’t face the door directly, refusing to easily reveal his true intentions until the last moment.

It was in this fleeting instant that the tension in the entire room reached its peak—

Ready to explode.

The carefully crafted identity and atmosphere were on the verge of crumbling, and the camera clearly showed Little Frank holding his breath.

It was, in fact, just a fleeting moment, yet it felt like that instant before the start of a 100-meter Olympic final—air solidifying, hearts stopping, tension reaching its zenith.

Then.

A pause, and Little Frank was already at the fork in the road.

From behind came Carl's voice.

"I didn't expect the Bureau to get involved."

He believed it.

Finally.

Little Frank's steps paused imperceptibly for a moment. At the fork in the road, choosing whether to go left or right, he eventually chose left, heading towards the dining table.

Even though the escape route was close at hand, he ultimately didn’t use it.

With a single step, Little Frank reached the table, picked up a glass, poured water, and gulped it down. But he had to restrain himself from appearing too eager or desperate. The taut string in his mind loosened slightly but didn't dare to completely relax.

"Don't worry."

This was an attempt to forgive the other party's caution and vigilance, then carefully start a counterattack.

"What's your name?"

The FBI agent had completely let down his guard, even putting away his gun.

"Hanratty, Carl Hanratty."

The nerves finally relaxed, so, what’s the next move?

The cold water trickled down his throat, soothing his lungs, cooling his fevered brain. Even though he wanted to leave now, impatience and anxiety were his worst enemies.

So, he put down the glass, straightened his back slightly, turned to Carl, tilted his head, and his eyes lightly landed on Carl, roughly sizing him up.

"Sorry, may I see your badge?"

The tables have turned; the situation is reversed.

*Chapter 403: The God of Cinema*

Thump. Thump, thump, thump.

His heart pounded uncontrollably.

Little Frank's fingertips, holding the glass of water, tightened almost imperceptibly. His knuckles turned slightly white, and ripples appeared in the clear water, revealing the tension and excitement that balanced on a knife's edge.

Every cell in Little Frank's body was screaming to flee the scene, to get away from this FBI agent. He could never be sure when his cover might be blown or when the agent would detect something off. Every additional second he stayed here increased the danger.

Still, he restrained himself—

Haste makes waste.

No one wants to fall right before the finish line, but countless criminals do just that, tripping up right at the exit.

Drink water. Stay calm. Keep composed.

Little Frank’s eyebrows relaxed again. His expression didn't change much, but his gaze deepened slightly, showing a thoughtful demeanor.

Turning around, he carefully examined the FBI agent. If the agent could suspect his identity, he could equally suspect the agent's identity. That’s only fair, right?

"Sorry, may I see your badge?"

Carl didn't hesitate, "Of course."

With a straightforward and upright manner, Carl pulled out his badge from his coat pocket and handed it over—

FBI.

Clearly, Carl wasn’t lying.

Carl Hanratty.

He remembered that name.

Little Frank studied the badge carefully, silently memorizing the details. If an FBI agent had him in his sights, it meant his movements were exposed. He would need to stay alert from now on.

"Better safe than sorry." Little Frank quickly scanned the information but didn’t linger too long to avoid revealing his ignorance of authentic law enforcement credentials. He promptly returned the badge to Carl.

"Tough luck, Carl. If you’d been here five minutes earlier, you would’ve caught him red-handed."

Little Frank turned back to his desk. Under the guise of organizing evidence, he packed up his key tools of crime, right under the FBI agent's nose.

Carl wasn’t suspicious; he even joked with "Barry Allen" in front of him, "No worries, ten seconds later, and you’d have been shot dead."

Ha-ha.

Carl smirked, seemingly pleased with his little joke. But ultimately, humor wasn’t his strong suit. His smile quietly faded away, and he awkwardly adjusted his expression, changing the topic before "Barry" could respond.

"Do you mind if I go with you guys? I have to see this guy."

Little Frank quickly finished packing up, trying to remain calm. "No problem at all."

But—

"Do me a favor, wait here for a moment. I need to go downstairs and get some evidence. I don't want the maid coming in to make the bed."

Reasonable.

In that split second, he came up with an appropriate excuse. Though not perfect, it could at least buy him some time.

Sure enough, Carl didn’t suspect anything.

Little Frank's steps were steady and firm as he headed towards the door. But, he couldn’t hurry—he couldn’t rush.

"The LAPD should be back any moment now..."

Little Frank tried to sound casual while his steps maintained a consistent rhythm towards the door. The exit was getting closer and closer. His heart pounded wildly, hammering against his chest. He had to summon all his strength to remain calm and steady, not giving away any signs—

"Wait."

Carl's voice called from behind.

The finish line was within reach, but was everything about to fall apart now?

At the core, Little Frank was still a nervous wreck. His first thought was, "I’ve been exposed."

Damn it!

Oh no!

Damn!

Little Frank finally couldn't hold back. His eyebrows knitted together, his teeth gritted, revealing a grimace of frustration and pain, filled with annoyance, exasperation, and irritation.

The camera captured it.

Throughout the entire scene, he had been calm and elegant, expressing emotions and thoughts through subtle details, using fleeting nuances to sketch out the character's edges.

Until now.

Finally, finally, we see an "exaggerated" expression. It is this stark contrast that instantly makes Little Frank's character vivid and three-dimensional—

Even if he acts calm, even if he is brazen, even if he is smart and clever, he is ultimately just a kid—a minor. The annoyed expression shows a hint of immaturity and youthfulness, like a green lime, sour yet refreshing. His handsome and dashing face also gains a touch of a unique aura.

Beautiful!

However, the more it is like this, the more he needs to stay calm; the more he needs to be fully immersed. The entire set quieted down, and all eyes were focused.

In the frame, Little Frank was torn in that split second.

What should he do?

The door was just one step away. He could run. He could drop all his tools and make a break for it, hoping his speed would be enough to lose this FBI agent, who seemed to lack practical experience. But he couldn't take that risk.

He didn't know if the FBI agent had any colleagues waiting at the ground floor exit or if the agent could draw his gun in time to shoot.

He wasn’t willing to gamble on those odds.

In an instant, with his heart caught in a tug-of-war, he turned left again—

He stopped, steadied his expression, and turned to face Carl.

He couldn’t let it all fall apart now!

This was the third time he abandoned an easy escape route, but it was also the most crucial. He needed every ounce of strength and courage he had to stay calm.

The third time.

His eyes showed a hint of determination. The irritation and regret were quietly hidden away, and he didn’t force a smile. Instead, he responded as calmly as possible, with the demeanor of someone handling official business.

A smooth turn, calm and composed, moving steadily and quietly, he met Carl's gaze, as if everything were perfectly normal.

The natural light created a strange and wonderful hazy atmosphere in that moment.

Carl stood at the foot of the bed, near the window, backlit, looking toward the door.

Little Frank stood at the doorway, facing the window, bathed in the golden sunlight streaming through the curtains.

A reversal.

Carl, representing justice, was hidden in shadow, his face and expression invisible, silently obscured.

Little Frank, representing crime, was exposed in the sunlight, calmly and openly embracing all scrutiny and examination.

The focus should have been on Carl because he broke the silence, holding the initiative and suspense. But, unexpectedly, Carl's face was completely obscured by the backlight, shifting all attention to Little Frank. The gaze rested on his face.

Serenity, composure.

Those deep blue eyes, like the Aegean Sea, shimmered with ripples, and the undercurrents quietly disappeared. All that remained were white sails and seabirds leisurely drifting.

In a daze, crime seemed to transform into justice, boldly exposed under the golden sunlight without disintegrating, displayed openly before the world. This frankness and sincerity silently pulled every viewer into his camp, willing to follow him even if it meant falling into the depths of hell.

And then, unconsciously, they stood on Little Frank's side.

They should have hoped for Carl to arrest Little Frank and uphold justice, but at that moment, a thought quietly emerged—a hope that Little Frank could successfully escape.

They knew it was wrong, knew it was criminal, yet they couldn’t help but feel that way. That illicit thrill left their mouths dry and their hearts racing.

A beam of sunlight, a single look, a perfect reversal.

In that moment, an unparalleled atmosphere was created. The god of cinema had descended. This was a cinematic moment. The entire audience fell silent.

*Chapter 404: Screen Presence*

This is a true cinematic moment—

Steven had always believed that making a film is a collaborative effort, a meticulously planned team project. But they also needed to embrace the unexpected that could happen on set.

Maybe it’s an actor’s moment of brilliance, maybe it’s a cinematographer capturing the perfect composition, or perhaps, like what was happening now, a miracle of nature that could never be planned—an unexpected touch that adds a sublime texture to the film.

This is also one of the reasons Steven greatly admired Martin Scorsese. Among the four great directors of the 1980s, the other three had their own frameworks, habits, and formulas that they seldom deviated from. George Lucas never managed to recapture the charm of "American Graffiti," and Francis Ford Coppola never attempted another film with the filming style of "Rumble Fish." But Martin was the exception.

In Martin’s films, you often saw those moments when the god of cinema seemed to descend.

And Steven?

He never considered himself one of those rare, chosen ones. He simply loved cinema and cherished the chance to use film to open the door to an imaginary world. That was all.

But at this moment, Steven truly felt the presence of the god of cinema—

From passive to active to a deadlock, the confrontation between Little Frank and Carl was like “Tom and Jerry,” showing a magical, misplaced chemistry that filled the screen with explosive tension.

It wasn't just the story, the camera work, or the acting—it was an extraordinary, transcendental experience that sent chills and tremors through your entire body, a visual, auditory, and spiritual baptism. A feeling beyond language, delivering an unparalleled and irreplaceable sensation.

So, what are people really talking about when they talk about “cinema”?

It's the story, the characters, the visuals, the cinematography, but it’s more than that. It’s an immersive experience that pulls the audience into a new world through sight and sound, making them live those moments and feel that time, exploring more beyond their own lives.

If a film is reduced to just visual spectacle, then it’s no different from a TV series, slideshow, or photography exhibition.

Occasionally, very occasionally, you really feel the presence of the god of cinema during the filmmaking process. Those are the moments you dream of.

Just like now.

It was unexpected that what added that special spark to this scene were Anson's two looks.

And even more unexpected was that what elevated the scene to a whole new level was a gift from nature—something that could vanish in a blink of an eye.

Unconsciously, Steven held his breath.

Steven knew what was supposed to happen next in the story, but at this moment, he threw the script out the window, his eyes glued to the monitor, unable to contain his curiosity about what would happen next—

The undercurrent beneath Little Frank’s calm surface.

The mystery behind Carl's call.

A single turn, a single gaze—the tension filled the space, exploding in the interplay of light and shadow, so intense that everyone on the first and second floors held their breath, fearing they might wet their pants if they relaxed even a bit.

In that brief moment, the air solidified, and time seemed to slip into a crack, stopping momentarily.

The entire set held its breath.

Not just Steven, Tom Hanks felt it too.

One turn, and the sunlight fell gently on Anson's cheek, casting a warm and bright golden halo that rippled in his clear, deep blue eyes. Even though the atmosphere was tense and on the verge of breaking, there was a sense of tranquility in that ocean-like gaze—broad and vast, encompassing all storms. The tension dissipated silently.

Quiet yet bright.

He showed no signs of anything being amiss.

Even Tom Hanks, who knew the script and the truth, found himself unable to read anything from Little Frank's eyes. Involuntarily, he wanted to believe him—there was a natural kindness and warmth that subtly blurred the line between the story and reality.

His heart skipped a beat.

Then, Tom spoke—

“Your wallet.”

Huh.

The whole set's breath was cut off.

It was the wallet, just the wallet—of course, it was the wallet.

Little Frank hadn’t exposed any flaw, and Carl hadn’t detected anything unusual. Everything was normal, no deviation—just... a wallet.

Yet, the heart still didn’t relax. It was stuck in the throat—

How should Little Frank respond?

What if this was a trap? What if Carl had already seen through Little Frank, and the wallet was the final test? Was there a right answer to this?

Tom was also waiting.

It should have been Carl speaking, but at this moment, Tom felt a strange sensation, as if it were him speaking. The line between reality and fiction blurred seamlessly. He was Tom and Carl; he was acting and investigating. The lines subtly transformed into an instinct in his mind as he looked at the “Barry” before him.

A breeze blew through, and the curtains swayed. The golden sunlight shimmered like waves on Little Frank’s refined face.

Little Frank could choose to take the wallet, avoiding the risk of leaving evidence. If he could leave with the wallet, maybe Carl wouldn’t see through him?

No, that's not it.

Even if he took the wallet, Carl would still want to go to the agency to interrogate “Murphy.” If Little Frank chose to flee now, it would only take Carl three to five minutes to uncover the deception. It was a situation destined to be exposed; there was no room for luck here—he needed to buy time.

Then, a faint smile crept onto Little Frank's lips. He tilted his head slightly, "You hold onto it for a while. I trust you."

The subtext was clear:

I’ll be back. Don’t worry, I’m not planning to run away. I’m just heading downstairs to grab the evidence. We’ll meet again soon, no need to rush.

With a subtle raise of his eyebrow, Little Frank exuded a natural charisma with every gesture, and the sunlight flooding the room only added to his carefree, dashing aura.

It was this moment—a brief, fleeting instant—when the light and shadow of the film seemed to pause upon his brow, making one believe he was meant for the big screen. He was born for cinema, his every move, his every smile blossoming with allure on celluloid, captivating all who watched.

At that moment, in Steven's mind, the images of Anson and Little Frank merged perfectly, completely overshadowing any recollection of Leonardo's presence. It was even more impactful than the scenes shot in New York—

New York had been a showcase of acting skills, but to be honest, Steven always took acting with a grain of salt. He believed it was a matter of personal perception. The same performance could elicit different reactions from different viewers—some might think it was a masterclass, while others might see it as overacting. There was no contradiction between the two.

Right now, this was a cinematic moment where an actor's personal charm collided perfectly with the unique essence of a character, destined to become an iconic screen image—like Marilyn Monroe or Marlon Brando.

As time passes, people might gradually forget the acting skills of those actors, but they will always remember those magnetic screen personas.

Eternal and enduring.

*Chapter 405: An Impression*

Initially, even Steven himself believed that Anson was just a pretty face, a model, a vessel to showcase the various personas of Little Frank Abagnale and use his male charm to attract audiences. Anson's ability to embody different styles with unique charisma was the main reason Steven decided to cast him.

But now?

How much of that initial intention still remained?

From acting to charisma, from subtle details to overall presence, Anson had brought surprise after surprise. The film was still in its first half of shooting, and yet, he had already created a dazzling screen presence, to the point that even Tom Hanks seemed to pale in comparison.

As a director, what more could he ask for?

There was a faint anticipation in Steven’s heart for “Spider-Man”—

Yes, not for “Catch Me If You Can,” but for “Spider-Man.”

Steven was extremely curious about what kind of screen charm Anson's Spider-Man could present. Undoubtedly, it would be a surprising unboxing experience.

This young actor was about to shine on the big screen with an explosive debut, and Steven was 100% confident and couldn't wait to witness it.

In a flash, just a brief moment, thoughts surged in his mind, but in reality, the eye contact between Anson and Tom on the screen lasted only an instant.

Then.

With a turn, Little Frank, carrying his typewriter, resumed his steps.

One step.

Out the door.

Finally, Little Frank left the room, escaping by the skin of his teeth.

And Carl?

Now, with the room finally empty except for Carl, this white-collar criminal investigator, who spent his days in the office, also began to relax.

Huff, huff.

Finally, he could catch his breath.

The entire process was tense, filled with danger; everything had happened so quickly that he had even forgotten to breathe. It wasn’t until now that he felt the lactic acid buildup in his muscles, causing his knees to tremble slightly, almost making him lose his balance.

He bent over, resting his hands on his knees. His calves went weak, and he took a small step back, nearly falling but quickly grabbing the bed to steady himself.

Taking the opportunity, he sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled off his hat. Sweat covered his forehead in a thin layer as he let out a long sigh of relief, finally calming down a bit.

"Heh, heh."

Thinking back on the whole ordeal, it was absurd yet fortunate. Then, considering the suspect had been captured, the usually stern-faced Carl let out a chuckle, a bit sheepish.

"Heh, heh."

Reflecting on it more carefully, a look of satisfaction appeared on his face.

But there was still a sense of disbelief.

"Agency?"

Wait... wait a second.

Something seemed a bit off, but he couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was. Was he just being paranoid?

After all, the field was different from the office. With adrenaline coursing through his veins, his brain couldn’t function normally, and baseless suspicion was normal.

However...

Wait.

He froze, his gaze dropping to the wallet in his left hand.

His brain was still muddled from lack of oxygen, unable to think clearly. It was a gut feeling, almost like an invisible force compelling him to unbutton the clasp.

Pop.

This time, using both hands, it became much easier, and the wallet opened smoothly.

The ease of it made him pause slightly, as if he were opening Pandora's box, a mixture of nervousness and anticipation. Then he quickened his movements.

He opened the wallet.

—What?

Ads. Laminated sheets. Newspapers. Coupons.

Inside, it was all junk. All of it.

No IDs, no driver’s license, no credit cards.

Carl panicked.

His fingers moved frantically, pulling out layer after layer, emptying the wallet completely but finding nothing. He suddenly looked up and scanned the room, finally realizing what was wrong—

Labels.

On the dining table, there were dishes from the hotel room service. However, the labels on the ketchup, Coca-Cola, juice, champagne, peanut butter, and other bottles were all torn off.

He’d been puzzled before, feeling something was off, and now the answer was clear: those torn-off labels were neatly folded and stuffed into the wallet.

Damn it.

Damn it!

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

Carl emptied the entire wallet, his heart sinking heavily. He finally felt the impact of a freefall. Scanning the room:

Damn.

Immediately, Carl leapt up and rushed to the window, trying to locate the vehicle where they had detained the suspect. But when he yanked open the curtains, he saw him.

Barry Allen.

"Barry" was jogging along, glancing back at the window. When he spotted Carl’s figure, he sped up without hesitation, running towards a car parked by the roadside, yanking the door open, and getting in.

Carl: Stunned!

“Hey!”

Carl shouted, but Barry didn’t even look back. With swift movements, he got in, started the engine, and sped away.

Reflexively, Carl prepared to jump out of the window. But as he propped his hands on the windowsill, he realized his clumsy actions couldn’t get him through. Even though it was just the second floor, it was still too challenging for him.

Realizing this, Carl went mad—completely mad.

He watched helplessly as "Barry's" car disappeared from his sight.

“Oh, damn it!”

The string of rationality snapped. Carl furiously threw the wallet aside, exasperated.

“Cut!”

It was over. Finally, it was over.

This time, even before Steven gave further instructions, the set couldn’t contain its excitement. One by one, people raised their hands:

Shouts, cheers, and even some whistles. It was like a party, with the whole motel buzzing. The celebration spread from the first floor to the second and then back down to the first.

Noise and revelry.

More than any words could convey, such a reaction was the most genuine and direct.

It filled the entire place.

Steven stood up from behind the monitor, just about to speak, but he was engulfed by the boiling excitement of the set. His words were swallowed, and he stood there, somewhat helpless. His expression revealed a hint of resignation—

Liking it was one thing; having the shooting schedule interrupted and the set losing control was another.

But this time, Steven didn’t stop them. His smile widened slightly as he walked directly towards Anson on the first floor.

This scene was indeed quite special.

Anson was more restrained than usual, while Tom was more exaggerated than usual. Both actors were adjusting and finding their rhythm. This was also the reason for the numerous retakes earlier. They were trying to find the right state in their performance with each other, constantly adjusting based on their partner’s rhythm, attempting to achieve harmony.

This is the right way to handle a scene with two actors. It’s not just about one side adjusting or changing. Only when both actors find a harmonious rhythm through mutual adjustment can they create sparks, allowing the performance to explode with chemistry, where the result is greater than the sum of its parts.

Such adjustment isn’t easy.

Not just for Anson—even a seasoned actor like Tom needed repeated attempts.

As a result, the two characters that appeared on screen didn’t seem like Anson or Tom. The misaligned performance rhythms created an unexpected comedic effect—

Perfectly on target.

From the beginning, Steven wanted to make this film a colorful piece of entertainment. There was no need for excessive seriousness or a bleak, dark tone.

Now, they were on the right path.

However, the crew and actors on set weren’t entirely sure about this, and all eyes fell on Steven.

They kept watching Steven as he stopped in front of Anson.

"Thumbs up."

"Steven gave Anson a thumbs-up, and it wasn't just one—it was both thumbs up."

Boom!

The set erupted into applause.