386-390

Chapter 386: Fleeing in Panic

Clap, clap, clap.

Thunderous applause filled the room. It was just an ordinary afternoon for the film crew, but the narrow apartment space was alive with the joy of creation and the surge of inspiration.

Yet, Anson felt suffocated.

It was like drowning, slowly and tangibly sinking, forgetting to resist until the deep blue of the lake surrounded him, cold and piercing. The eerie blue was turning to inky black, and as the colors of the world gradually faded, his survival instincts finally kicked in, struggling to break free.

Run.

“Run, Junior, run.”

He froze.

“Run, Anson, run!”

Before his mind could process, his body had already reacted.

Amidst the applause and the rising emotions, he fled in panic, rushing out.

The applause continued, and the crew hadn’t realized what had happened. They thought Anson was heading to the bathroom or going to hug Steven. One by one, they watched him dart out the apartment door, and before they could grasp it, he had vanished completely.

Clap, clap, clap.

The crew exchanged glances while clapping, completely unaware of what had just occurred.

On set: ????

Wait, what’s going on? Can someone explain what just happened?

Huh?

Surprisingly, it was Steven who reacted first, a thought flashing through his mind:

Too deep into character.

Steven didn’t know what Anson had gone through, but in that instant, he, Anson, and Junior Frank, their mental worlds broke free from the constraints of time and space and resonated, recognizing this connection in each other.

In the script, the next scene was of Junior Frank running away.

Steven had been worried that this scene might be too dramatic, perhaps even melodramatic, thinking that real life seldom carries such tension.

But clearly, he was overthinking it.

Junior Frank just wanted to escape, to get far away from here. He didn’t want to choose between his father and mother, nor did he want to face reality. Running away was both an exit and a pause, the only thing he could do.

Steven, too, felt a deep fatigue, an overwhelming weariness.

He also wanted to run, not physically, but mentally, to escape those memories, the ones that had sunk into time and could no longer hurt him. He didn’t want to be tied down by them any longer.

But Steven restrained himself and quickly shouted, “Go after him! Don’t lose the actor! What are you standing around for? Go!”

Finally, the crew snapped out of it, realizing something had gone wrong.

They looked at each other, clueless about what to do, before rushing out in confusion, their minds filled with scattered questions.

...

Run.

That was the only thought in Anson’s mind. No direction, no purpose—he just wanted to get away from there, to breathe fresh air. It was the only way to extinguish the fire burning in his chest.

He ran wildly, losing himself in the motion, like Forrest Gump.

February in New York was still freezing. The cold wind, mixed with biting moisture, slapped his face like a blade, the fine edges piercing his pores and sinking into his veins. When they met the boiling blood, they turned into steaming mist, seeping out again. He could no longer control himself, nor did he need to. He just ran faster and faster, his mind blank.

As he ran, he could leave all his troubles behind and completely clear his mind, no longer needing to think about the mess. All he needed to do was feel the surge of power pushing his body forward, the only thought being to keep going.

Everything became simpler.

Now, Anson finally understood how Forrest Gump felt—

There was nothing to it, just running.

Whether he was Junior Frank or Anson, it no longer mattered because they were both running, escaping, getting far away until those "truths" could no longer hurt them.

It felt like childhood again.

Those innocent years when happiness and joy were so simple, when they didn’t even need toys or games, just running. As long as they ran, they could feel the adrenaline, the dopamine, a primal instinct, a habit, releasing their nature and embracing freedom.

He didn’t know when that simple happiness became so elusive.

They began searching—money, fame, love, power, and achievements—chasing after them but finding that the more they pursued, the further they drifted from the past. The black hole inside grew, greedily and cruelly swallowing all the joy. Even though they had everything, it could never fill that void.

And then, they started running again.

No goal, no mission, no finish line, just running, not to chase anything, not even happiness, just to run. Let everything return to simplicity, back to childhood, until one moment they no longer wanted to run, and just stopped.

If—just hypothetically—he could run like this all the way, chasing time, back to before he turned eighteen in his past life, could he change everything, stop the tragedy before it happened, and save his family’s happiness?

“Run!”

A heart-wrenching scream exploded in Anson's ears, filled with sorrow and despair, twisted by pain and anguish.

Following the sound, Anson’s heart sank sharply—

It was a woman, her hair disheveled, face covered in blood, clutching desperately to the thick leg of a burly man. She was using all her strength to hold him back, screaming in utter hopelessness.

The burly man’s face was flushed, his eyes glazed over. Even from a distance, the stench of alcohol was overpowering. In his hand, he held a folded leather belt, drool dribbling down onto his round, beer-bellied gut. He kept dragging the woman along as he moved forward, roaring at a figure ahead of him.

“You bastard, I’m going to kill you! Damn it!”

Up ahead, a small, frail figure was running for his life. He was barefoot, his feet covered in wounds and dripping with blood. His whole body was smeared with dirt and blood as he stumbled and staggered, trying to escape. But in the end, he couldn’t bear to leave. He stopped, turned around, and witnessed the scene that was now in Anson’s view.

“Mom!” The teenage boy, about fifteen or sixteen, cried out in agony.

The woman clung tightly to the man’s right leg. “Run, Jack, run! Just run! He won’t dare hurt me. Run, as far as you can, don’t come back, Jack, don’t come back.”

The boy took a few steps back but couldn’t convince himself to leave, stopping again in his tracks.

Anson quickly glanced around. There were no bystanders or nosy neighbors peeking out, and though a few cars passed by, it seemed no one noticed what was happening here.

Or perhaps, even if they did notice, no one wanted to stop.

Anson quickly searched his pockets but couldn’t find his phone. Only then did he remember he hadn’t brought it with him—after all, the movie was set thirty years ago, in a time when even telegrams were still in use.

What should he do?

The man suddenly let out a vicious roar, “If you dare run, I’ll kill her!”

Before the boy could react, the man grabbed the woman by the hair, raising his massive hand and slapping her brutally across the face, nearly knocking her unconscious. But it didn’t end there; the man then started kicking the woman in the stomach, as if he were kicking a burlap sack.

“Run, Jack…run,” the woman called out weakly, her voice barely holding on.

Chapter 387: Heart-Wrenching Pain

Before him lay a desolate and ruined landscape. Although it was still part of New York, Manhattan and Queens seemed like two completely different worlds.

It was as if he had fallen from heaven into hell.

Dilapidated houses, broken brick walls, overgrown weeds, needles, and garbage strewn everywhere. Wastewater that hadn’t been dealt with for a long time had pooled into a small puddle, and the dirty soil was already covered in moss. The abandoned houses had no windows, yet there were still a few homeless people trying to make this place their home.

It wasn’t hell, but it wasn’t far off.

A woman curled up in a ball, helpless and in pain, but still refusing to let go. Clinging to the man’s leg with all her might, she was on the verge of losing consciousness, yet she kept biting down and screaming, again and again.

“Run, Jack… run.”

“Don’t come back… don’t…”

“Jack…”

She kept calling out. The man, as if provoked, became even more brutal and violent. His fists, the size of bowls, rained down on the woman’s back like a storm, causing her cries to become fragmented and broken. Her pain was evident just from the sound of her voice.

The young boy was engulfed in despair, his feet rooted to the spot, fists clenched tightly in the pockets of his jacket.

He just kept yelling, tears streaming down his face, “Stop. Please, stop!”

Anson froze, stiff and unable to move—

He saw himself.

Those victims had come to their door, unable to find his father, they found him and his mother instead. They believed he was hiding his father, forcing him to reveal his whereabouts.

But he didn’t know, he truly didn’t know.

So they went mad, losing all reason, first shoving him, then using their fists.

Instinctively, he wanted to resist.

However, thinking of the harm his father had caused them, his clenched fists eventually relaxed. If beating him up could help them vent their anger, if it could redeem even a tiny bit, then he would take it.

In the chaos, he didn’t know who had pushed him down, but punches and kicks rained down on him like a storm.

He could only curl up into a ball, holding his head tightly, gritting his teeth, and silently enduring.

And then, he saw his mother returning with a block of tofu and some green vegetables.

“Run, Mom, run.”

That was the only thought in his mind.

His mother seemed stunned, standing there in disbelief at what was happening. She tried to call for help, but all she saw were unfamiliar, indifferent faces, coldly watching the scene unfold.

Finally, the tofu and vegetables fell to the ground, shattering into pieces.

His mother picked up a stone from the roadside, screaming in anguish, “I’ll fight you all!”

She seemed to go mad, charging into the crowd, swinging her arms wildly, losing all reason as she drove them away, striking anyone in her path. After a frenzied assault, she managed to clear some space and held him tightly, so tightly, yet she couldn’t even cry, only muttering over and over.

“We don’t know, we really don’t know.”

However.

The crowd wasn’t satisfied and started beating her too. Punches and kicks fell like a torrential downpour.

They couldn’t fight back.

He tried to protect his mother, but he couldn’t even stand up. His mother just held him like that, using all her strength to hold him.

The bloodstained face before his eyes silently overlapped with the memory, holding Anson in place, paralyzing him with fear.

A bone-chilling cold crept up from his feet to his head, leaving him numb.

“Jack, run, get out of here.”

However, the boy couldn’t do it—

The man seemed further provoked, beating the woman with terrifying ferocity, his eyes gleaming with a murderous intent. His punches and kicks grew more and more frenzied.

Finally, the boy couldn’t control himself any longer.

A sense of dread gripped Anson’s heart: Don’t.

Anson noticed the boy’s fists trembling slightly in his pockets, a glint of determination flashing in his eyes—there was no despair, no anger, only a resolute will to move forward.

He recognized that look, the look of someone ready to go down together.

Anson screamed, “Don’t!”

The next second, the boy pulled a gun out of his pocket and aimed it at the man.

Anson dashed forward, stepping in front of the boy just before he could raise the gun. His heart clenched tightly, "Don't, Jack, don't."

The boy shook his head repeatedly, not even seeing Anson, his eyes fixed intently on the man. "Let’s end this, let’s just end it all. We’ll all die, clean and clear, with no more worries. In the next life, let’s not meet again."

It wasn’t worth it.

Anson shook his head.

He had a bright future ahead of him; it wasn’t worth throwing his life away for someone like this. Revenge shouldn’t come at such a cost.

Anson had once wondered if it would be easier to end everything. If he ever saw his father again, what would he feel? Would hatred outweigh longing? Did he want to hurt his father?

But he didn’t have an answer.

Because he had never seen his father again, the memories had faded, and he could no longer distinguish whether they were rooted in hatred or longing.

He had chosen to live, like a cockroach, surviving in the sewers.

“Jack, look at me.”

“Hey, Jack!”

“Wake up, look at me, Jack, snap out of it. Don’t throw your life away for garbage like him. He’s not worth it.”

“Did you hear me? He’s not worth it.”

Over and over again.

At this moment, the man noticed what was happening and burst into contemptuous laughter. “Jack, shoot, pull the trigger. I bet you don’t have the guts, you coward.”

“Haha, so, did you steal that gun from my drawer?”

“You’ve got the guts to steal but not to use it.”

“How many months has it been? Three? Four? You’ve had that gun for so long, every night, I was lying right in front of you, and you still didn’t have the courage to pull the trigger. How many chances did you miss? Huh? You coward!”

“Shoot! I’ll take you down with me! I promise I’ll drag you to hell with me! You better shoot fast, or I’ll just beat this piece of trash to death right now. You and your mom belong in the garbage, you shouldn’t even be here.”

“What’s wrong? Too scared? I knew it, you little—”

Taunting, insults, attacks, scorn, and disdain rained down like a storm.

Seeing the boy’s hesitation, the man didn’t hold back but grew even more arrogant, as if witnessing the funniest thing in the world.

This pushed the boy into despair. He stared blankly at Anson, tears welling up in his eyes, struggling, torn, as a faint smile curled at the corners of his lips.

The boy smiled.

It was a smile born of absurdity and pain, a smile so tragic and resolute, as if mocking the cruelty of fate and his own foolishness.

The smile bloomed like a night-blooming flower, brilliant but fleeting, expending all its energy only to wither in an instant.

That smile gripped Anson’s heart because it meant the boy had nothing left to lose. He had made his decision.

In that moment, memories flooded Anson’s mind like a tidal wave, dragging him into darkness. All reason collapsed, leaving him with only one thought.

“No.”

*Chapter 388: Saving Yourself*

“No!”

Anson couldn't bear to see another young, fragile soul fall into the same abyss he once did.

"Jack, wake up."

Anson called out, but Jack didn’t respond. He just kept smiling, that tragic smile, watching Anson struggle as if he had already accepted the inevitable outcome:

It was all in vain.

In a sudden move, Anson found himself unable to breathe, and without thinking, he slapped the boy hard across the face.

Anson knew he had lost control. He knew they were strangers, just crossing paths by chance. He knew he didn’t have to get involved, and that this had nothing to do with him. But he couldn’t stand by and watch another soul wither away.

He couldn't, and he wouldn't.

Because he had once stood at the edge of darkness, calling out again and again, with no response.

Now, looking at the boy before him, he wanted to be that response, even if Jack hadn’t asked for it—Anson knew the boy was crying out for help.

Slap.

The sound echoed, sharp and loud.

“Wake up!”

Finally, the slap shattered Jack’s smile and broke through his resolve. The determined stance began to waver.

A flicker of struggle appeared in his eyes.

Emotions spilled over.

The boy screamed, “Why? Why won’t he just leave me alone? I just want to go to school! I want to be like the other kids. I want to complain about too much homework, worry about asking a girl to the dance—I just want a normal life. But why? Why can’t I have that?”

“Why!”

Jack stared at Anson, unable to say more, his mouth open in a silent scream of despair.

“Ahh!”

It was anger, despair, and pain.

But it was also a cry for help.

“Ahhhh!”

“Ahhh!”

The gut-wrenching screams of agony were too much, pulling Anson deeper into his own despair. He needed to stay calm, to hold on to the reins of his sanity. “No, you can, Jack, you still can.”

“Don’t let him ruin your life before it’s too late.”

“You can. Believe me, you can.”

He repeated it over and over, trying to pull Jack back from the edge.

Finally, Anson saw a bit of reason return to the boy’s eyes, but the murderous intent was still there, his teeth clenched tightly.

“I want to kill him. If he’s dead, it’ll all be over. It’s that simple.”

Anson shook his head repeatedly. “And what about you?”

Jack shook his head in despair, stepping back. “I’ll go with him. I’ll kill him, then kill myself. That way, we’ll both be free.”

Anson tried to stop him.

But Jack didn’t give him a chance, shouting in desperation, “I don’t need your help! I don’t want to be someone important. I don’t need your saving.”

“Don’t play the savior in front of me. You’re not a superhero, and you’re not Jesus Christ.”

“Let me go, please, just let me go.”

Anson understood. He completely understood the despair and pain. He had once thought that the endless darkness would never end, that there was no light at the end, just endless suffering swallowing him up bit by bit. How he wished someone had told him:

No, it’s not like that.

“Jack, look at me, look at me!”

“No, it’s not like that.”

“No one can save you. I’m not here to save you, because I can’t. You’re the only one who can save yourself.”

“You can do it, believe me. You still have the right to a future, to a life. You don’t have to be someone great. Being ordinary is just fine.”

“You don’t have to destroy yourself because of him.”

“He’s not worth it.”

Jack looked at Anson, stunned, his eyes brimming with tears, and finally broke down in helpless, terrified sobs.

He whispered, “I can’t…,” his voice filled with pain, “I really can’t…”

Anson knew how hard this was. Even imagining it was difficult, and reality was often even harder. But they couldn’t think too far ahead; they had to take it one step at a time, starting with the here and now.

There was no time left for hesitation.

Anson quickly glanced back, then grabbed Jack by the shoulders, looking firmly into his eyes, speaking clearly.

“Just—”

“Run.”

“Jack, just run. It’s that simple.”

“Take your mom and run, okay? Take your mom and don’t look back.”

“Things can still change. You can start over. You can have a future. This isn’t the end.”

“Jack, do you understand?”

As Jack nodded through his tears, Anson gave him a firm pat on the shoulder. There was no time to waste. Anson turned sharply and sprinted back toward the man and the woman.

The brute was panting heavily, seemingly tired but not stopping, repeatedly stomping down as if trying to crush a cockroach.

The sight was too much for Anson to bear.

With a swift right hook, he struck the man hard and square in the face, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Anson didn’t bother to check on the scumbag. He immediately helped the woman to her feet, shouting again, "Jack, run! Hurry, and never come back."

Jack, trembling, tried to help his mother escape, but she was too weak to stand. She collapsed almost as soon as she got up, and Jack’s frail body couldn’t support her weight.

Just as Anson was about to assist, he sensed a force coming from behind him, accompanied by the stench of blood and sweat. He instinctively dodged to the side, using the momentum to throw the brute off balance.

But this time, Anson wasn’t going to let the man off.

“Jack, run! Get your mom out of here!”

With that, Anson charged at the brute again. While the man was still disoriented from the fall, Anson’s fists came down like a storm, relentless and fierce.

“Scum!”

“Scum! Why don’t you pick on someone your own size? Picking on women and kids? That just proves your cowardice and incompetence!”

“Trash!”

One punch after another, Anson poured all his energy and fury into each blow, striking the brute with all his might, the world around him a blur of noise and chaos.

Glancing back, Anson saw Jack struggling to support his mother, their steps slow and unsteady. The woman, covered in blood, seemed almost unconscious, leaning heavily on Jack’s thin shoulders. Jack’s legs were covered in wounds, the flesh torn and bleeding, but he didn’t seem to feel the pain. He stubbornly pressed on, holding his mother upright.

Their pace was agonizingly slow, and despite their efforts, they kept looking back, Jack’s eyes filled with fear and concern for Anson.

Anson shook his head firmly, locking eyes with Jack.

“Run, Jack, run! Don’t look back!”

It was as if he were shouting to his past self, calling out to his mother in another life. This time, Anson wanted Jack to keep running and never return.

But in that split second of distraction, a powerful force slammed into his chest, sending him crashing to the ground.

*Chapter 389: Rationality Derails*

Bang!

In that brief moment of distraction, Anson felt a tremendous force slam into his chest. The brute, like a charging rhinoceros, had rammed his head into Anson's chest, taking advantage of Anson's unguarded moment and knocking him to the ground.

Damn!

Ignoring the pain, Anson had only one thought in his mind: the fear that the brute would catch up to the boy and his mother.

"Jack, don't look back."

Whatever you do, don’t look back—just run as far and as fast as you can.

Anson quickly scrambled to his feet, relieved to see that the brute wasn’t pursuing them. But he remained on high alert, his eyes locked on the brute before him. The metallic taste of blood lingered on his tongue, and his chest heaved like a bellows, but paradoxically, he felt a calmness settle over him.

“So, are you ready? Now you’ve found a worthy opponent.”

The brute snapped, charging at Anson with a feral scream, mouth wide open.

Like a raging bull.

But Anson, nimble as a matador, sidestepped easily, grabbing the brute's shoulder and arm and using the man's momentum to shove him forward.

The brute lost his balance, stumbling awkwardly before being pulled down by gravity, crashing heavily to the ground.

A mess.

In contrast, Anson moved with light, confident steps, having regained his composure. His half-year of grueling training for "Spider-Man" had paid off, and while he wasn’t a martial arts master, dealing with a brute who relied solely on raw power was a walk in the park.

The brute, feeling insulted, scrambled to his feet like a wild animal, hands and feet flailing.

“Aaaargh!”

He roared again, adopting a boxer's stance like Rocky, guarding his head with his fists, ready to strike.

But he never imagined that to Anson, this display was no threat at all.

Dodge, dodge again—Anson easily evaded the brute's punches, and after the brute had swung and missed repeatedly, he was nearly off balance. This gave Anson his opening. Lowering his center of gravity, Anson aimed for the brute's abdomen, delivering a rapid series of punches.

Bang!

Bang, bang, bang!

Like pounding a heavy bag, the brute staggered back, unable to stand firm, until he was sent reeling, finally tumbling backward and rolling away.

But Anson wasn’t about to let up. He took a stance, ready to advance.

The brute, now thoroughly shaken, scrambled backward like a spider, eyes wide with fear as he stared at Anson. After a moment of tense standoff, he panicked, turning tail and fleeing in the opposite direction from where the boy and his mother had gone.

Anson didn’t let him off easily.

“Run!”

“Run with everything you’ve got, or I’ll beat you every time I see you.”

Anger burned fiercely in his chest.

Only when the brute’s stumbling figure vanished from sight did Anson turn away, heading in the direction the boy and his mother had fled.

Incidents like this couldn't be resolved with a one-off intervention; the root of the problem required legal and official help. If he could find the boy, Anson would urge them to get a medical assessment and report the incident to the police, to make sure there was a record.

Otherwise, that man wouldn’t stay quiet for long.

However, as he hurried on, scanning every corner, he found himself in a bustling area. Cars and people surged around him, but there was no sign of the boy or his mother. He pushed on for another two streets, checking every nook and cranny, but saw no familiar faces.

Panting heavily, Anson stood on the street, hands on his knees, gulping air as his lungs burned and his muscles throbbed. The sudden emptiness after the adrenaline rush was a stark reminder of reality, and he felt the ground solid beneath his feet once more.

Gravity weighed on his ankles, his knees trembling slightly.

It was heavy, and it was exhausting, but it was real.

Maybe they had hidden away; maybe they had truly escaped.

That was good. At least for today, they wouldn’t be found.

Honk!

“Damn it!”

“Can’t you see the green light? Are you trying to get yourself killed? If you want to die, no one’s stopping you—cut down on the carbon emissions. But do it somewhere else and stop ruining my day!”

A torrent of angry words rained down like a storm.

Anson snapped back to reality, his mind and soul reeling back into his body, and instinctively scanned the area, thinking he was in the middle of the road blocking traffic—

But he wasn’t.

He was standing safely on the sidewalk, not obstructing any drivers.

So then...

He saw an elderly woman, her hair white as snow, fumbling into the road. She was holding a deep brown grocery bag from which apples and oranges had spilled, rolling onto the street. In her reflex to retrieve them, she had stepped into the road, startling the oncoming cars.

Anson’s heart settled back into his chest, and he momentarily set aside his own turmoil. At the end of this series of harrowing events, he didn’t have time to gather his thoughts. He quickly stepped forward to help the old lady, who was apologizing repeatedly but was clearly flustered, while the driver, leaning out of his car, continued his angry rant.

“Sorry, really sorry.”

Taking a deep breath, Anson tried to calm his racing heart, then swiftly began picking up the apples and oranges scattered on the ground.

But the driver wouldn’t let it go. “Damn it, if old people lose their minds, they should stay home and die—what’s the point of coming out and causing trouble…”

On and on he went, his words growing harsher, until Anson couldn’t take it anymore.

“Shut up!”

With a swift turn, Anson barked back.

"Enough! Don’t act like you’re never going to grow old. Otherwise, it won’t be long before someone’s shouting at you the same way, you worthless jerk.”

His sharp retort hit the driver head-on.

Seeing the driver’s face flush with anger, he rolled up his sleeves, clearly ready to throw a punch. But Anson wasn’t intimidated. He followed suit, rolling up his sleeves and walking straight toward him.

“What? You want to fight?”

“Fine by me. Let’s go.”

His rationality was still derailed, and he needed an outlet. It didn’t matter if it wasn’t the brute from before—anyone would do. He just wanted to release the pent-up frustration and anger inside him. Now that someone had presented themselves as a target, why would he hold back?

Anson didn’t hesitate. He strode forward with purpose, his menacing demeanor causing the driver to freeze. Goosebumps erupted all over the man’s skin as he quickly shut the car door, hastily rolling up the window. He muttered to himself, but his voice never rose above a whisper.

The driver glanced at Anson, only to see the murderous intent in his eyes, and immediately chickened out. He quietly closed his mouth, swallowing his complaints, and pretended nothing had happened, whistling nonchalantly as he looked up at the sky.

The noise, gone.

With that brief moment of release, Anson’s reason slowly returned, the torrent of emotions gradually settling down.

Even so, Anson didn’t leave right away. He stood his ground, silently staring at the driver, his gaze conveying his message:

So, are you sure you don’t want to fight?

### Chapter 390: Body and Mind Baptism

The atmosphere was slightly tense.

The driver sneaked a glance and noticed that Anson was still standing there. He quickly averted his gaze, trying his best to make himself invisible, and finally, his last bit of defiance faded away.

At this moment, Anson didn’t continue pressing the issue. He glared at the driver one last time before turning back to the elderly lady. He quickly gathered the scattered items, placed them into a brown paper bag, and handed it to her.

The car sped off from the scene, its tail lights betraying the driver’s anxiety.

The brief traffic jam behind them finally cleared up. Anson stood by the roadside, raising his voice to apologize to the drivers stuck behind.

After a moment, Anson turned his attention back to the elderly lady.

Her movements were still slow and unsteady, and even holding the brown paper bag seemed difficult. Seeing it was about to slip again, Anson quickly stepped forward to help her secure it.

The elderly lady looked at Anson.

“Thank you, I’m sorry, I mean, thank you, really.”

Flustered, the elderly lady didn’t know whether she should apologize or express her gratitude, her shaky voice full of guilt and unease.

Anson waved it off, “It’s nothing.”

“Everyone makes mistakes sometimes, and everyone needs help now and then. It’s normal. There’s no need to feel guilty over something so small.”

The elderly lady nodded gently and took two oranges from the brown paper bag, offering them to him.

Anson was momentarily surprised but accepted them politely. “Thank you, I won’t refuse then.” He looked around. “Would you like me to find a cab for you?”

The elderly lady shook her head repeatedly. “My house is just around the corner…”

Before she could finish, a voice was carried by the wind.

“Anson…”

“Jesus Christ, Anson!”

One by one, four crew members came running, out of breath, scattering around as they arrived. Their pale faces were drenched in sweat, as if they had just endured some harsh ordeal, their lips still trembling.

The sight was somewhat amusing.

Reason finally returned to his body—

He was Anson, Anson Wood, living his second life. There was no need to deny those memories, nor to be hurt by them again, because those scars and setbacks were what made him who he was today.

Just like today.

Because of those past experiences, he was able to appreciate the beauty and allure of method acting for the first time, and once again experience the joy of being an actor.

Indescribably wonderful.

He shouldn’t and didn’t need to avoid it, nor should he be afraid or hurt. Instead, he should face it bravely and embrace the darkness of the past.

Whether it’s filming or youth, they are all new stories, and the past won’t repeat itself.

Even if, in the worst case, it did happen again, he wasn’t a novice anymore, was he?

Without realizing it, Anson looked around, trying to find the young man and woman, but all he saw was the busy street.

Perhaps they would never meet again, but Anson just wanted to tell that young man: This isn’t the end, and it shouldn’t be the end.

He let out a soft breath, finally regaining his composure.

Then, Anson realized that he had run out so suddenly that he probably scared the entire crew. Who knows what the director would say?

For once, even Anson scratched his head in embarrassment.

He instructed one of the crew members to personally escort the elderly lady to her home at the street corner. After a quick goodbye, he hurried back with the others.

“Slow down, Anson, take it easy.”

“I’ll let the director know we found you, no need to rush.”

Seeing Anson start running again, the crew members were so startled that their legs nearly gave out.

The last crew member, who had stayed behind, let out a long sigh of relief, feeling fortunate. Initially, he thought staying back was a tough job, but now it seemed he was the lucky one.

“Young man, who is he? He seems to be very busy.”

“Oh, Anson? He’s an actor. We’re working on a film.”

“Anson?”

“Wood. Anson Wood.”

Though he didn’t run the whole way, Anson still returned to the set as quickly as possible.

As soon as he walked in, Anson began apologizing repeatedly, which left the crew on set stunned. This afternoon’s brief ten minutes had been quite an experience.

First, Anson’s “let’s do it again” caused the entire crew to be upset, but later, his outstanding performance won everyone over. Then, another spontaneous action from Anson threw the crew into chaos once again.

What now?

Someone couldn’t help but quip, “Which part are we mad about?”

The words were sharp, but there wasn’t really any tension behind them.

Anson looked toward the voice and responded, "First round after work is on me tonight."

A perfect answer.

For the crew, going home isn’t the first choice after work; the bar is. No one can refuse a beer after a long day.

Cheers erupted immediately.

Anson added, “Tomorrow's afternoon tea is also on me, order anything you want.”

More cheers followed.

The atmosphere instantly flipped, and the whole crew burst into laughter, the mood becoming lively and light-hearted.

Without stopping, Anson made his way to the director, Steven, by the monitors.

Steven never intended to reprimand Anson; there was no need. He was too busy thinking of ways to praise him. Steven had planned to take the blame himself, treat the crew, and do Anson a favor. Though Steven didn’t need to worry about the crew’s grumbling, Anson was in a different position.

But then, seeing the scene unfold, Steven smiled and decided to join in on the fun, crossing his arms and putting on a mock-serious face.

“So, what about me?”

Anson flashed a smile at Steven, “Director, please forgive me.”

As he spoke, he extended his right hand.

Steven: ?

Steven held out his right hand, and Anson placed something in it.

A tangerine.

Steven was confused, “What’s this now?”

Anson held up another tangerine in his hand. “An unexpected reward from the heavens. Thanks for your hard work, director.”

Steven was completely lost, unsure of what Anson was going on about. But seeing the lone tangerine in his hand, and knowing only he and Anson had one, it felt special in a ridiculous, funny way. A smile crept up on his face.

Then.

Anson leaned toward Steven, “Director, do we need to shoot that scene again?”

He was asking about the take they just shot.

To be honest, Anson had been so deeply immersed in his character that he wasn’t sure how it had gone. He needed confirmation from the director.

The roles were now reversed.

Anson felt he had given everything, leaving nothing behind. But if the director thought it wasn’t quite there, or if an earlier version was better…

After all, directors and actors have very different perspectives, and ultimately, the director's vision is what matters.

Steven glanced at Anson, noticing a rare hint of uncertainty in the young actor. He had been planning to tease Anson, but before he realized it, his own smile widened, and his tone softened.

“It was great. Keep it up. We should prepare for the next shot.”

Even Steven didn’t realize that he was starting to look forward to what Anson would bring next.

Anson’s grin grew wider, and he turned to face the crowded, bustling apartment set, spreading his arms wide like he was making a grand declaration.

“Alright, did you all hear that? Get ready for the next shot and let’s work toward clocking out!”

The place erupted again with laughter, applause, and whistles, the energy in the room buzzing.