Madness—an unbelievable madness—an overwhelming energy coursed through every pore of the skin, clearly felt as it swept over.
The entire scene descended into chaos.
Immediately, Anson noticed Winona's panic and tension.
No wonder celebrities want to run away.
At that moment, Anson was startled as well. Instinctively, he took a misstep, placing himself in front of Winona, blocking the paparazzi's cameras entirely.
Winona huddled behind Anson, reflexively gripping his forearm tightly, trembling uncontrollably. Those terrible dark memories flooded her mind, becoming almost a natural response—
One moment, they thought they had escaped; the next, they were surrounded by a sea of flashing lights.
Winona tried to call for help, but the words got stuck in her throat. She couldn't make a sound as she was slowly engulfed by darkness. The helplessness and fear weighed on her chest, making it hard to breathe.
There was nowhere to run.
Physically and mentally.
But Anson remained calm.
He didn't rush to speak, patiently waiting for the first wave of the paparazzi's assault to subside. After enduring the onslaught with his face and body, he finally spoke when it seemed the questioning and blocking would never end, "Tell me, what do you want? If it's an analysis of my skin condition, you could have just asked."
Paparazzi: …
Where was the panic? The emotional breakdown? The rage?
In that brief moment, the pursuit and blockade paused slightly as the paparazzi tried to process the situation and clear their thoughts; but this time, Anson didn't give them a chance.
The next second, Anson started making faces—literally.
Anson didn't hold back, using all the silly faces he had learned from Anne, making them as ugly as possible. "If you want pictures of my funny faces, just say so. I'm willing to cooperate, but there's no need to be so close. Jesus Christ, the flash is blinding me. So, have you got the ugliest photo of the year yet?"
The air grew quiet.
The paparazzi were stunned. This was not what they had expected.
Seeing Anson standing there so calmly, one by one, the paparazzi awkwardly pulled their camera lenses back a bit. But then, nervously, they extended them again, fearing this might be a trick to let Anson and Winona escape.
However, they didn't move.
Anson remained relaxed, standing in place, even making another face at the cameras, startling one of the paparazzi who had suddenly lunged forward. Yet, his body stayed firm, protecting Winona behind him, making the paparazzi's actions look especially foolish.
Clearly, the usual tactics the paparazzi were familiar with didn't work on Anson.
Heh.
Finally, someone couldn't help but let a smile slip from the corner of their mouth—
The scene was just too funny.
But the paparazzi knew they were in the middle of capturing a story, so they tried to stay serious. One by one, they controlled themselves, avoiding any sound of laughter but still glancing away—either looking at the sky or the ground.
So, what happens next?
The paparazzi didn't continue attacking Anson, but they also refused to back off. Both sides remained in a standoff. It was a deadlock.
Paparazzi are relentless; they don't stop until they get what they want.
No one expected Anson to be the one to break the deadlock again.
"What now?" Anson asked straightforwardly.
"Let me be clear: you can take photos, you can follow us, but Ms. Reed will not be answering any questions. Neither will I, of course."
—Stalemate.
"How about this—I'll tell you what's next. We're going to walk along this road toward the Seine, then stroll by the river, enjoying the autumn in Paris."
"We're not going to run away. You're welcome to follow, but there's no need for all this drama. You don't want to hurt us, and we feel the same."
Anson's face was calm.
The paparazzi exchanged puzzled glances. No one understood what Anson was up to. The air grew quiet; no one continued the offensive, but no one loosened the encirclement either.
Then, one paparazzo, unhappy with Anson controlling the situation, broke the silence.
"Hah."
"And what if we don't want to?"
A burst of laughter erupted—
No one bargains with the paparazzi. No one!
Looking at Anson's young, handsome face, it was clear he hadn't been weathered by the harshness of life or worn down by the entertainment industry. So naive.
Just look at Winona.
Winona tugged at Anson's arm and whispered softly, her voice barely audible, "Anson, I-I can handle it. You should go now."
Her voice trembled slightly, but Winona sincerely didn't want to drag Anson down with her. He had already done enough today; she couldn't let him get involved any further.
Anson chuckled lightly, "Heh heh."
But he didn't respond to Winona. Instead, he turned toward the direction of the voice. "May I ask your name?"
Paparazzo: ?
They didn't understand the direction of the conversation, but the paparazzo wasn't scared. He was about to respond, ready to confront Anson.
So what if Anson knew his name? Was he going to send him a legal notice?
Every paparazzo has some lawsuits or restraining orders. They thrive on breaking the rules; they couldn't possibly be afraid.
But unexpectedly, Anson didn't wait for an answer. He cut him off, saying, "Jerry. You must be Jerry. Jerry Lewis, right?"
Jerry Lewis, the legendary American comedian, might not be well-known to the younger generation, but his influence on American comedy is immense—he's a true master.
And Jerry's most famous work was his partnership with Dean Martin, mixing humor and sophistication, creating comedy through self-deprecation and clowning around.
"So, the person next to you must be the legendary Dean Martin, right?"
"Jerry does the jokes, Dean does the dancing—just like a clown with a performing monkey."
The atmosphere grew a bit strange.
No one expected Anson's reaction, causing the situation to veer off course. The paparazzo who had spoken was visibly confused.
"Let's imagine what happens next."
"You need photos, responses, interaction. Otherwise, no magazines will buy your story. That's how it works, right?"
"So, we refuse to cooperate, and you refuse to leave. We're stuck here until nightfall. It's a deadlock."
"Oh, no, it's not. My agent is probably looking for me right now. When other media outlets see what's happening, they'll be curious too."
"Let's predict how the story unfolds."
"We'll cooperate with the interview but refuse to give in to the paparazzi. We'll stand our ground until the Paris police arrive. But we won't press charges—we'll stage a peaceful protest, like John Lennon and Yoko Ono's Bed-In, and let the public decide."
"Hey, guys, who do you think the other media and the general public will side with?"
A smile bloomed on Anson's face, the light in his eyes shining through the autumn air of Paris.