Actor in Hollywood

Innocent yet alluring, fragile yet strong, Winona exuded a unique charm. This was why she was hailed as a "prodigy girl" in the nineties. Her presence truly lit up the big screen.

Now, standing quietly in the bustling venue, she made her presence known—subtle yet still bright.

After a brief pause, Winona straightened up and extended her right hand toward Anson. "Winona Ryder."

Her slender arm stretched out confidently, her palm fully open. Her gaze was sincere as she looked at Anson. Rather than a long-winded introduction, her concise look and stance conveyed much more.

"Wood. Anson Wood." Anson took Winona's right hand.

Winona smiled. "Oh, so you're Anson Wood."

Anson raised an eyebrow slightly.

Winona explained, "Standing here, there's never a dull moment for your ears. Your name has come up more than once or twice. Now, I can finally put a face to it."

Anson chuckled softly, "Seems like I need to be more careful with my actions. A little slip-up, and I'd be exposed right away."

Winona gently lifted her chin, her slightly tired brow easing like sparse fish-scale clouds in a June sky. Her smile danced lightly in her eyes and at the corners of her mouth.

"Shh," she said.

They exchanged a glance and both laughed quietly.

Then, letting go of her right hand, Winona seemed to relax a bit, exhaling softly. "Thank you."

Anson, "Hmm?"

Winona pointed to the scarf on her shoulder and the handkerchief in her left hand. "I stayed behind just to say thanks. I was worried I might accidentally miss you. If that happened, I'd have to ask Anna for help."

"Oh God, I'm afraid she wouldn't pick up my call."

She made a small, self-deprecating joke.

"But anyway, thank you, you know..."

She let out a long breath, a hint of wistfulness unintentionally showing on her face.

"Here, at Fashion Week, everyone is worried about how they'll look in magazines or newspapers. Nobody really notices anyone else's embarrassing moments."

"Sorry, I'm not hinting at anyone; I'm just talking about myself. To show my best side today and prove I haven't lost my spirit, I've been nibbling on some greens and downing lots and lots of alcohol. Then, poof... my stomach threw a fit."

"See, I'm the clown here."

Before she knew it, Winona found herself saying too much.

She realized it too, a hint of embarrassed loneliness flashed across her face for a moment before she forced a smile, trying to hide her true feelings—

She looked a bit fragile, as if it wasn't just her stomach that hurt.

"Anyway, I need to thank you."

"Truly."

Before Anson could speak, Winona wrapped up the conversation herself, flashing a big smile and putting on a cheerful front.

"Well, let's leave it at that for today. Haha, believe me, you wouldn't want to be caught by those paparazzi hanging around with me. You might end up on page six tomorrow, looking all disheveled and awful."

Page six is often the entertainment section of a newspaper, and in some tabloids, it's full of gossip and scandalous news.

Anson could sense that Winona was sharp, like a hedgehog. But those spikes weren't meant to hurt others; they were there to protect herself, scaring others away before they got too close.

This, Anson understood all too well.

In his previous life, during those two years right after everything happened, this was exactly how he was. It was his only way to protect himself—hurting the world and himself in the process, completely forgetting that the wounds he kept covering up would slowly rot away.

Words were already at the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them back down.

She didn't need sympathy or pity.

Anson smiled. "I'm very glad I could help."

And that was that.

Winona was startled for a moment. She looked up and quickly glanced at Anson, showing a hint of surprise, but it vanished in an instant. She quickly masked it and said in a calm tone, "I hope we have a chance to meet again next time."

Without waiting for Anson to respond, Winona turned around and prepared to leave.

She took a turn, and Winona's figure had already exited the tent, leaving without even giving Anson a chance to say goodbye. However, Anson didn't mind. He looked around, continuing to search for Edgar and Eddie, when suddenly, he noticed the tent entrance opening again and a figure returning.

Anson couldn't help but be taken aback.

Anson looked at Winona, and Winona looked back at Anson. Their eyes met, and an awkward silence filled the air.

Anson noticed the startled expression on Winona's face. Then, listening carefully, he caught the sound of the clicking camera shutters outside the tent and the persistent calls for Winona. Considering what Winona had just said, he figured out what was going on—

The paparazzi.

Actually, Anson was a bit surprised. Did Winona have any news lately? Why were the paparazzi still hounding her, even at Paris Fashion Week?

After all, with so many stars gathering for Fashion Week, there was no shortage of material for the paparazzi.

But after searching his memory, Anson didn't find any relevant answer.

Or was it that Anson was wrong?

Anson took a step, just about to go outside the tent to investigate, when Winona stopped him in advance, "Don't. Don't go out there. The paparazzi are all outside. They'll eat you alive."

"How?" Anson asked.

Winona was taken aback. "Huh?"

Anson asked, "How will they eat me alive?"

Winona blinked, momentarily stumped by the question.

Anson smiled. "I understand what you mean. It's just a metaphor. But I'm also serious. Those paparazzi probably wouldn't dare actually hurt you."

Winona looked somewhat flustered, a bit angry, and a bit speechless. Her face displayed a range of emotions. "The camera is their weapon. They will surround you, attack you, and then expose your most embarrassing and ugly moments to the world."

"You've never experienced it, so you don't know—it's like a nightmare you never want to wake up from. People don't know the truth, but they see the most shocking, sensational moments captured by the paparazzi and start judging you, despising you, attacking you, slandering you, destroying you. You're like a cockroach; everyone's trying to spit on you, kill you."

"In their cameras, you feel ugly, filthy, twisted, disgusting. You feel like you're worthless, like you're nothing—absolutely nothing!"

Even though it wasn't visible to the naked eye, one could still feel the wound deep in Winona's soul, bleeding, torn apart, and already unrecognizable.

"But we have nowhere to run, do we?" Anson countered.

Winona tried to argue back, but as she opened her mouth, she ended up denying her own words. The overwhelming emotions unexpectedly got stuck, and she froze.

Anson continued, "What I mean is, we can't control them. We can't make them stop. The initiative is always in their hands. The only thing we can control is ourselves—our posture and our actions."

Gossip and scandals won't stop.

Those hurts and attacks won't cease because of the suffering of the person involved. In the media—and in the future, on the internet—you're just a label, a set of data, an image without flesh and blood. People can tear your soul into countless pieces without burden or guilt.

They won't stop.

Not now, not ever.