The torment of guilt and fear still lingered, not disappearing. But it was precisely this torment that triggered a surge of adrenaline, making it uncontrollable.
A little unease, a little wavering, a little panic.
Yet, Harry Percy still showed up.
Quietly and subtly, he appeared at the entrance of Mount Sinai Hospital, blending into the crowd, hiding his figure, and watching the situation unfold without blinking.
The scene was bustling—layer upon layer of people, with countless media outlets crowded at the entrance. As the city with the highest concentration of media in North America, New York's journalists easily outnumbered those in Los Angeles. At this moment, it seemed like half of the media in New York had flocked to Mount Sinai Hospital.
And more were still on their way.
Because it was a hospital, the reporters kept their voices down, but the underlying buzz of agitation was still palpable in the air.
Yet, there were no clues.
Sony Columbia, the "Spider-Man 2" production team, and Anson's agent had all remained silent, leaving the media hanging without any official statement.
The situation seemed a bit unusual.
As the crowd grew larger and more restless, it was hard to believe that more reporters were still arriving.
Anson Wood, a mere "pretty face."
By common logic, people often mock and disdain "pretty faces." At some point, "pretty face" became a derogatory term.
But now, within just half a month, New York had twice been swept into a media frenzy because of this "pretty face," igniting waves of heated discussions.
So, was it because "Spider-Man 2" was just that exciting, or was Anson's influence far beyond expectations?
But that didn't matter.
The only thing that mattered now was that reporters from every corner of the city had flocked to the hospital, surrounding it so tightly that not even a drop of water could seep through, all hoping to be the first to uncover what was going on with the production team.
Unfortunately, they got nothing.
As time dragged on, the journalists started to lose patience. Inevitably, their true thoughts began to leak out in conversation—
How could a mere pretty face have the audacity to make them wait?
The media's attention on Anson was solely because of his gossip-worthy drama. Yet here he was, acting like a superstar, which was simply ridiculous.
Did winning one Palme d'Or make him think he was a real big shot?
Even without an official statement, it wouldn't have mattered. They'd have found a way to get some information, picking up on any little clues in a hospital that size.
The real issue was that the production team had called in a group of security guards—men in black suits surrounding the journalists, preventing them from entering the hospital.
Their attitude was clear: get lost, journalists.
That was too much.
Two reporters tried to be sneaky, putting away their cameras and pretending to be regular patients to slip inside, but their acting wasn't good enough, and they were quickly stopped by the guards.
One reporter tried to argue, insisting he was there for medical reasons, while the other attempted to sneak in. But both were intercepted.
The scene turned chaotic, resembling a circus.
Though the initial attempts failed, some reporters eventually succeeded.
After all, it was a hospital, and the production team couldn't block every single person coming in and out.
However, even entering the hospital didn't help; all the doctors and nurses kept silent—
Or rather, they didn't know anything.
Anson's hospital room was under tight security, and the doctors and nurses treating him had signed confidentiality agreements. Even the hospital staff knew nothing.
"We were hoping you could give us some answers," a nurse said with a sly smile, leaving the reporters speechless.
Different attempts, different risks—all ended in failure. The reporters finally had to face a harsh reality:
They were helpless.
Other than waiting at the entrance, there was nothing they could do. And this wasn't the age of social media, so they couldn't vent their frustrations on personal accounts. One by one, they found themselves stuck at Mount Sinai, unable to move.
The feeling was not only frustrating but suffocating.
As whispers and grumblings exchanged hands, frustration grew, and soon the tension in the crowd reached a boiling point. Stirred up by a few instigators, the scene began to feel like a pressure cooker, with the atmosphere heating up.
Finally, a small group of people couldn't hold back any longer. Two or three led the charge toward the black-suited security, protesting loudly.
"You can't do this! We have a right to know."
"We're concerned about Anson and the production. The public has the right to be informed."
"You're all just Smiths. Bring out your leader; we need to talk."
"What's going on? Where's the person in charge of the production or the movie company? Send out someone, anyone—a living person, not one of you robots."
"Is Anson alive or dead? Give us a straight answer."
"Is it that bad? Is Anson paralyzed and in a vegetative state?"
Suddenly, the air went silent. The last two sentences echoed loudly, gripping everyone's hearts.
From behind the black-suited guards, a figure appeared—
A tall man dressed entirely in black, without a speck of color. His face was calm, expressionless. There was no anger, confusion, or hesitation, just an abyss-like calmness that exuded a faint chill, making people instinctively feel uneasy.
He looked over and found the source of the voice, silently staring at the reporter.
The reporter swallowed nervously, his throat tightening, but he still spoke up, "What? Why are you staring? You're trying to cover up because you're afraid Anson has turned into a vegetable, right? It's fine for you to be guilty, but we have the right to question. The public has the right to know the truth."
The reporter then smartly turned to the others, rallying for support.
However, the man in black remained emotionless, quietly observing the reporter as if assessing an object.
Just when everyone thought he was about to speak, the man turned to the security, "Throw him out."
He really treated the reporter like an object.
"If anyone tries to force their way in, throw them out too. If there's a lawsuit, don't worry, we'll handle it."
His voice was calm, flat, like he was handling old furniture at home.
In an instant, the tension among the reporters deflated. The buzz died down, and all eyes turned to the man in black, who had seized their attention.
The man paused, glancing around without even acknowledging the outspoken reporter.
"If you have any questions, come to me. Lucas Wood, at your service."
The last sound disappeared completely. It was clear that this man was related to Anson—perhaps his brother?
The reporter who had just been waving the flag of "freedom of the press" now fell silent—
They still had professional ethics. Reporters weren't paparazzi. They knew when to hit the brakes, and none of them dared to meet Lucas's eyes.
Without another glance, Lucas spoke again to the security team, "I said, throw out the trash."
And with that, Lucas turned and reentered the hospital without looking back.