A burst of white light poured down, and the world briefly plunged into a silvery hue. But before it could fully register, the brightness became overwhelming, forcing everything into darkness.
A vast, impenetrable darkness, where not even a hand could be seen in front of you. Only tiny flickering lights moved and danced in the void, with no clear outlines.
At the same time.
A cacophony of noise exploded against the eardrums. The sounds of camera shutters clicked away, mixed with the chaotic roar and shouts, breaking down into countless frenzied noises.
The ears couldn't process it all, the buzzing even faded, leaving an indescribable silence—a strange stillness that seemed to exist outside the overwhelming noise.
Vision, gone.
Hearing, gone.
But the sense of smell could still detect the burning scent in the air; touch could still feel the scorching heat waves dancing on the skin; and taste could still sense a faint metallic tang, like blood.
It was like a shark circling closer.
One second.
Just one short second, and it hit like a punch to the gut, causing all the internal organs to contract, making it impossible to move.
Compared to this, the chaos of Paris Fashion Week seemed like child's play. This was L.A., showing its absolute power right from the start.
Even though they had anticipated this scene, it still caught them completely off guard.
Now Edgar finally understood what Eve meant by "surrounded."
First, there was the hexagonal scandal.
Second, there was Paris Fashion Week.
Both events had caused unbelievable waves across North America, and they had converged on Anson, making him the focal point.
Then, the media went wild.
Even Anson couldn't help but feel a bit panicked and surprised by such a scene.
When he was cyberbullied in his past life, all the attacks were online. You could see and feel them, and there was a suffocating sense of being overwhelmed. But this was different—it was all so real, seeping through every pore, with the sensation of impact and tearing happening simultaneously.
A wave of panic washed over him—
Old memories surged back to the surface.
"Anson…"
"Anson!"
Edgar was calling out, shouting with all his might, but his voice couldn't break through the chaos. He could only tug on Anson's arm, trying to get them out of there.
Not far away, Eve and the airport security team had arrived and were ready to escort Anson away. No matter how they handled this later, leaving the scene was the right move. There was no need to confront this head-on.
But Anson refused.
Edgar was stunned, unable to believe it.
With verbal communication no longer possible, Anson simply patted Edgar on the shoulder, using the gesture to reassure him.
Then, with his head held high, he faced the storm of flashing lights.
Edgar was completely frozen, unable to believe what was happening before his eyes. But in that split second, Edgar made a judgment and a choice—
To trust Anson.
No matter what the difficulty, no matter what the situation, he would be Anson's support.
What about Anson?
Was he being foolish?
No, of course not.
Anson knew exactly what the media wanted. He was the fish on the chopping block, with hungry eyes watching, just waiting to slice him up.
Anson could have chosen to leave the scene and let the PR team issue a statement. But clearly, the reporters wouldn't believe it, and the paparazzi would launch into a relentless, endless pursuit, hounding him even as he joined the "Cat and Mouse" production.
In truth, Anson didn't mind this. After all, it wouldn't cause him any harm. But if he did that, the spotlight on Matt would shift, and Winona would become another victim.
Regardless of the truth, Anson believed Winona shouldn't have to endure such a nightmare.
In his previous life, during Anson's lowest, most helpless, and loneliest moments, he had desperately wished for someone to tell him that everything would be okay. Even a single sentence could have been a guiding light.
But he never found that person.
And now, he hoped to say those words to Winona: *Everything will pass.* Even though, in the moment, it might feel like an insurmountable hurdle, reality proves otherwise—it will pass, eventually.
That's why Anson made a different choice: to stay and face the media head-on.
There was no need to play cat and mouse—just face them directly.
So what if there's a storm?
Not far away, Eve was leading the security team, trying to push through the crowd. After some jostling, chaos, and tugging, they finally made it through.
However.
Eve paused, seeing the figure standing confidently under the barrage of flashing lights, and a smile slowly crept onto her face:
This guy really is something else.
There was no panic, no fluster, no anxiety. The calm and composed manner in which he faced the situation exuded a certain power, making the chaotic, crowded reporters look disorganized, ugly, and uneasy.
*Click.* *Click, click, click.*
The relentless flashing lights engulfed Anson, but gradually, the frenzy began to settle. One by one, the reporters realized something was off.
By all accounts, Anson should have been running away, fleeing in a panic. They needed to capture that moment, to seize the newsworthy shots before he escaped. But now, with Anson just standing there, their frantic clicking felt pointless, like they were wasting film for no reason.
Awkwardly, the shutters slowed; even the questions began to calm down.
The entrance to the terminal finally quieted down a bit, and it was only then that the scene became clear—about 300 reporters were crammed together. Not an overwhelming number, but still substantial, packed shoulder to shoulder.
Then—
"Why aren't you running?"
A voice rang out from the crowd. Despite its rough tone, it made sense, and the other reporters began to smile.
Anson shrugged slightly. "Because it doesn't look like there's anywhere to run. For the sake of L.A.'s traffic safety, I figured there's no need to stage *Fast & Furious*, right?"
What kind of answer was that?
But it was a little funny. What was going on?
A smile spread across Anson's face as he looked around the room. "Wait, you guys were waiting for me, right? I didn't make a mistake, did I? Tom Cruise or Brad Pitt isn't standing behind me, watching this show, are they?"
Ha, haha.
The crowd burst into laughter.
Who would have thought that Anson would remain so calm in such a situation?
In a clash of titans, it was this small fry standing at the forefront, facing the storm, steering the ship. Was this normal?
It seemed some people had forgotten Anson's first real encounter with the public after his cameo on *Friends*, when he was swarmed outside the studio.
Quietly, Anson had already taken control of the situation. "So, you all gathered here—not to congratulate me on my Oscar nomination, right?"
The room erupted in laughter, the tension completely easing.
"No, it's not that," someone in the crowd responded.
Anson spread his hands in mock disappointment. "Well, I figured my chances were slim. *The Princess Diaries* was a bit of a stretch."
Another round of laughter, and then a reporter couldn't resist dropping the bombshell.
"What's your relationship with Winona Ryder? Are you two dating?"