**Chapter 62: A Sea of People**

An indigo long-sleeved shirt paired with khaki shorts, tousled golden-brown hair fluttering carelessly in the breeze, and a physique that exuded a unique Italian charm. The moment he stepped out, the sunlight and wind seemed to take on a wilder, cooler edge.

He exited the car and stood still, casually slinging a light gray jacket over his shoulder. There was an effortless ease to him, as if he had just returned from a Mediterranean vacation. Yet, in every movement, he exuded a certain elegance and sophistication, the kind of poise that could effortlessly command a room at an upscale party.

The sunglasses added a layer of mystery, concealing his eyes.

Nicolas paused, momentarily taken aback—

Instinctively, his finger pressed the shutter.

One shot was enough. He hadn't yet identified who the person was and knew he should conserve his film. But before he could stop himself, his finger kept pressing down.

Two times. Three times.

Before he even realized it, he had rapidly fired off a series of shots, trying to capture the fleeting moment when the sunlight and breeze seemed to pause on the figure's shoulders, his heart pounding with excitement.

Indeed, this was Hollywood, a place teeming with beautiful people. There was always someone younger, more attractive, whether they were a starlet or a seasoned actor, their beauty constantly saturating the senses.

But once you got used to this visual overload, you began to discern that some beauty was merely surface-level—two-dimensional, flat. Others, however, carried a certain power, a three-dimensional, vibrant allure.

The former were countless.

The latter were one in a million.

And at this moment?

*Thump. Thump, thump, thump.*

His heart raced, his temples pounded, responding to the sight before him. Capturing time on film, turning a moment into eternity.

Then—

Anson Wood.

The name surfaced in his mind.

The reporters had all seen Anson, or at least they thought they had. Even if they hadn't watched that episode of *Friends*, they must have seen photos in the *Los Angeles Times*. No one would admit they hadn't.

But—

"Seeing" and "seeing" are two different things.

There's a difference between a fleeting glance on TV or in a magazine, passing someone on the street, and actually meeting face-to-face. 

They had never truly seen Anson in person.

And with those sunglasses, half of his already small face was obscured. Without being able to see his eyes or brows, it was nearly impossible to recognize him.

Even with Anson standing right there, they couldn't be sure it was him.

Nicolas was going on instinct—a strong hunch that this might be the lamb they had been waiting for.

The thought took root and grew.

*Click.*

Realizing what he was doing, Nicolas pressed the shutter once more.

He stepped forward, positioning himself for the best shot.

And in the next moment—

*Click, click, click...*

A barrage of camera flashes erupted with unbelievable intensity, the reporters lunging at the figure like wolves descending on a helpless lamb, their hunger undeniable, their aggression overwhelming.

A wave of silver light swallowed the sunlight whole.

Film became a non-issue as the relentless click of shutters filled the air.

"Anson."

Someone called out, the recognition finally dawning on them.

"Anson! Anson, Anson, Anson!"

The cacophony of voices clashed, causing ears to ring.

And there he stood, halted in his tracks by the car door. There was no need for him to move forward; the reporters had already surrounded him completely.

Nicolas was the first to rush in, quickly positioning himself in front of Anson.

"Anson?"

With an abrupt stop, Nicolas aimed his camera at Anson, only then realizing Anson's towering height. He stood head and shoulders above the crowd of journalists, making them look like dwarfs in comparison, and Nicolas instinctively tilted his head upward to look at him.

Then, Nicolas saw Anson take off his sunglasses, using his height to scan the approaching crowd, which surged forward like a swarm of zombies. A look of surprise and delight appeared on his face.

"So many people," he said.

Nicolas was momentarily stunned. What kind of reaction is this?

But as he watched Anson's smile gently curve upward and saw the lightheartedness in his eyes, that sincere expression of awe made Nicolas smile too.

Nicolas couldn't help but turn around and, almost reflexively, responded, "Really?"

Immediately after, he heard a soft laugh beside him. "Ha, looks like I need to see a real crowd someday."

Anson had seen "real crowds" before, during the May Day celebrations and Spring Festival. Not only had he seen them, but he'd also experienced them—those were true seas of people, making anything else pale in comparison.

But the difference was that in those crowds, he was just one among many, like a drop of water; here, he was the center of attention.

Only those who have experienced it firsthand can truly understand the overwhelming rush and frenzy that come with it, prompting the words to slip out.

"So many people."

That was his genuine thought.

Nicolas couldn't help but chuckle. It was hard for him to accurately describe his feelings, but the smile on his face gently widened. After all, this kind of reaction had never occurred before, and when he thought about it, it actually made sense.

But Nicolas was experienced and didn't forget his primary job. He needed to confirm Anson's identity and then proceed with the interview, "Anson?"

Anson's face turned serious. "No, I'm not."

Nicolas: ...

Others: ...

The scene suddenly fell into a brief state of confusion. You could almost hear the collective brain freeze as question marks filled the air, nearly choking them.

The question Nicolas was about to ask got stuck in his throat, automatically silenced.

Wait, did they make a mistake? Was this young man in front of them not Anson at all?

This...

However, a voice nearby abruptly broke the brief standoff. "But you are Anson, Anson Wood."

Anson showed no embarrassment at being exposed. Instead, he flashed a polite smile. "Ah, I was so close to getting away with it."

Nicolas: ??? Is that even possible?

Anson didn't seem too disappointed. He exhaled lightly and then displayed a perfectly courteous and gentlemanly smile. "Yes, I am Wood, Anson Wood."

He was poised and straightforward, with a certain strength emanating from both his surname and given name.

The journalists in front of him realized that they had been playfully tricked by Anson. Normally, they might have felt anger, humiliation, or perhaps found it absurd and frustrating.

However, they did not.

His expression, his smile, and his words were like a breath of fresh air. Instead of those negative emotions, they felt a lightness, a joy, and a sense of humor. The harmless prank quietly dissolved the tense atmosphere.

Smiles crept onto their faces.

Even though no one laughed out loud, it was clear that the scene before them was slightly different from what they had imagined.

At that moment, Nicolas, still experienced, immediately recognized Anson's cleverness. With a small trick, Anson had quietly taken control of the situation.

But Nicolas didn't have time to dwell on how Anson's actions differed from his expectations. He was focused on regaining control of the interview. "Anson, may I ask if you've heard the rumors that Brad Pitt is trying to have you kicked off the 'Friends' cast?"