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🕑 Added 2025-05-08 22:53:26 +0000 UTC*Chapter 1391: Driven to Madness*
Johnny was frustrated, aggrieved, and furious.
Like a glass of absinthe—bitter and intense, impossible to swallow. It burned his throat, and the fire spread through his entire being, igniting his insides in an uncontrollable blaze.
*Monday, they drew closer.*
*Tuesday, they made contact.*
*Wednesday, they couldn't help themselves.*
*Thursday, she turned away, shut her heart, condemned him guilty, and refused to respond.*
He donned the prison uniform, black-and-white stripes draping over his shoulders.
He wore the shackles, cold iron clasped around his ankles.
He tried to struggle, but it was futile. He tried to run, but there was nowhere to escape. He was imprisoned in her jail without even the chance to appeal.
Suffocating!
A suffocation so intense that words could hardly describe it, ready to explode from his chest.
His mind was a chaotic mess, burning and feverish. The world was ablaze, and he couldn’t care less about the audience before him. His emotions transformed into notes and lyrics, pouring out recklessly—he had to make his voice heard.
Then, through the haze, he found her in the crowd—the one who drove him mad yet left him powerless. His eyes locked onto her, and his lyrics, sharp as accusations and pleas, surged toward June Carter like a torrential storm, setting off waves of turmoil.
June Carter looked flustered.
Johnny—damn—Cash. This damned Johnny Cash.
With countless eyes watching, Johnny’s actions would undoubtedly stir up rumors again. He might not care—he could ignore them entirely—but she would be the one to bear the consequences. And what about Vivian? What would happen to Vivian?
It was all her fault.
June Carter despised herself. She shouldn’t have been impulsive. This was all a mistake.
Frustration and guilt forced her to lower her gaze, hurriedly masking her emotions. Embarrassment and shame surfaced on her face, and she loathed herself for once again sinking into this mess.
Johnny felt disappointed—
June Carter avoided his gaze.
He couldn’t even see her eyes. His questions, his accusations, his cries—all crashed against an impenetrable wall, powerless and bitter, just like before.
He didn’t understand June Carter. He never did.
So, was he angry? Was he frustrated? Was he suffocating?
Maybe. All of it.
But he couldn’t tell. His mind, fogged like a cotton-stuffed void, spun wildly as the world whirled around him. His insides burned ferociously, yet his veins ran ice-cold. It felt like he might explode at any moment, crumbling into a useless heap.
Then, his thoughts broke free, his body out of control, and—
He began to spin.
“Lalalala, lalalala.”
Like Maria in The Sound of Music, twirling and leaping across a lush, flower-filled hillside, his tap-dancing feet pounded against the stage in an unrestrained frenzy.
The audience was stunned, their eyes wide with shock as they watched the tall, dashing figure stumble awkwardly. For a moment, it was unclear whether he was tap-dancing or performing a drunken boxing routine. His erratic steps, driven by centrifugal force, sent him teetering on the edge of the stage, nearly vanishing into the void.
Silence filled the venue.
The audience, caught in the absurd chaos, forgot to clap, forgot to cheer—frozen in shock, temporarily robbed of their ability to react.
Perhaps only Anson was an exception.
Spinning, leaping, eyes closed.
With a turn, Anson, guitar in hand, strode back onto the stage with tango-like steps, his rhythmic movements syncing with the upbeat swing of the music. He danced from one side of the stage to the other, oblivious to all eyes on him, lost in his own world.
His dazed mind burned hot. Thoughts, like stampeding horses, galloped in different directions. His head roared with a deafening hum, a wild force shattering all reason.
He rejected rules. He refused to conform. He defied restrictions. He just wanted to live freely, unshackled—or perhaps, he just wanted to be happy.
But when did happiness become so difficult?
Was he unworthy of joy?
People had already judged him—branded him with labels, bound him with shackles, denying him a voice. Before he could even defend himself, they had condemned him. They needed a scapegoat, someone to bear their anger. When they couldn’t find his father, they blindly turned their blades on him—the innocent, helpless target.
Invisible chains bound his hands and feet, as overwhelming hatred crashed over him like an inescapable tide, leaving him breathless.
But…
He was a victim, too.
Because of his father’s sins, was he, the son, unworthy of happiness? Because he betrayed his faith, because he failed his marriage, because he truly loved a woman, did that mean he didn’t deserve joy? Because his father hurt so many people, did his happiness become a sin? Because his brother died because of him, did that mean he had to carry this burden forever?
His thoughts tangled, past and present blurring together.
Sometimes he was Anson, sometimes Johnny. Sometimes it was the past, sometimes the present. Fractured memories wove into an entangled mess, dissolving the boundary between reality and illusion. Anson was Johnny, and Johnny was Anson. Emotions ignited, and from the depths of his soul, an overwhelming surge of power erupted.
It exploded outward!
Guilt. Rage. Suffocation. Regret. Suppression. Struggle. Torment. Pain.
All of it, burning wildly.
Ever since his father’s scandal, he had restrained himself, controlled himself—even smiling felt like a crime, as if his joy would pour salt into the wounds of the victims. He couldn’t repay his father’s debts. He couldn’t heal the wounds his father inflicted. The only thing he could do was punish himself.
He didn’t dare to sleep peacefully. He didn’t dare to smile. He didn’t dare to enjoy happiness. He didn’t dare to feel joy. Only by drowning himself in suffering did it seem like he was atoning for the victims’ pain.
*I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.*
When those people came knocking—the victims, the creditors, his father’s old friends—he couldn’t say anything. He couldn’t do anything. He didn’t even dare to cry, fearing that his tears would seem like self-pity.
Yes, even self-pity was a privilege he wasn’t allowed.
He held his breath, apologizing over and over again, trapped in invisible shackles, caught in an endless cycle.
But.
…Why?
Why wasn’t he even allowed to breathe? Why wasn’t he even allowed to smile? Why had his life stopped moving forward?
No. He refused.
The more pain he felt, the more he needed to sing. The deeper his agony, the wilder he needed to dance. The darker the night, the more he needed to seize every moment and live.
Struggling and burning, his mind buzzed as he broke free, flinging himself into the inferno of his own personal hell, dancing like a demon set loose.
The drums—weren’t enough—
Not enough power. Not enough rhythm.
The drummer, seemingly dumbfounded by the scene, faltered. The weakened beat stood out in the swing rhythm.
Johnny staggered forward and roared, “Hit it harder, man!”
*(End of Chapter)*
Chapter 1392: The World Spins
"Put some muscle into it, buddy!"
With a menacing glare, he roared at the drummer, venting his frustration and fury on the innocent, taking his anger out indirectly, even going so far as to kick the bass drum.
"Hit that damn thing like you mean it!"
The scent of blood—hot and scalding, thick and damp—rushed forward to meet them.
The drummer froze mid-motion. Not just him—the entire band exchanged uneasy glances. They had never seen Johnny like this before, like an ant on a hot plate, gradually losing control.
Johnny noticed—
Ha.
A smirk spread across his face. Watching the band members' panic-stricken expressions gave him a twisted sense of pleasure.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, Johnny shot a quick glance at Joan Carter, a look laced with defiance. But before she could react, he casually looked away, as if she were nothing more than an insignificant object, incapable of influencing anything.
He rejected shackles. Rejected stripes. Rejected chains.
He was a wild zebra, free and unbridled, spinning and leaping, galloping recklessly across the Serengeti.
Finally, Joan Carter lifted her gaze, watching Johnny as he flung himself around the stage, lost in dance. Her eyes flickered with concern and confusion, staring at him in uncertain alarm.
The situation was slipping further and further out of control, like a hurricane tearing through—unstoppable. And yet, she couldn't decipher Johnny.
Was he happy or in pain? Was he reveling in this or suffering through it?
Conflicting emotions wove themselves around him, pulling in opposite directions—bright one moment, dark the next, sunlit then stormy. Lost in his own frenzy, Johnny crashed through his thoughts, battered and bruised, yet he laughed maniacally—his laughter breaking free, completely unrestrained.
Spinning toward the right side of the stage, he stumbled and swayed his way back.
Just then, the band finished a four-count measure, launching into a new one. Johnny stepped forward, ready to sing again, completely unaware that the microphone was still a few steps away.
He opened his mouth—only to realize his mistake. Quickly, he lunged forward, trying to close the distance.
But his knee buckled.
Even on the flat stage, he nearly lost his footing, staggering toward the microphone. His body dipped low before he barely managed to regain his stance. As a result, his voice fluctuated wildly in volume, his breath uneven, his words garbled and slurred.
And yet, beneath the incoherence, his agony had never been clearer.
Against the upbeat rhythm and bright drum beats, Johnny’s wounds lay bare, bleeding.
"...I...am bound...marked..."
His voice faltered, broken and disjointed, gasping for breath at the wrong moments, shattering his words.
But Johnny refused to stop. He was entirely consumed by the performance, exuding a stubborn obsession. His knees trembled, but his eyes locked onto the blinding spotlight ahead, as if locked in a death match with the light itself.
The searing brightness stung his eyes, making them well up. The world blurred, shaking within the halo of light.
"On Tuesday, I was chained."
"On Wednesday, my trial..."
Wednesday. What happened on Wednesday?
His mind blanked—completely.
Shit.
Anson panicked.
The lyrics had vanished, wiped from his memory. His stomach burned, his insides seared, his brain wiped clean like a blank sheet of paper.
What now?
Forgetting his lines meant this scene was about to crash and burn!
No, no, he could remember. He knew his lyrics!
"Uh-huh, Thursday, uh-huh-huh..."
The music continued, relentless like a speeding train—no time to pause, rushing past him. He scrambled to catch up, but his empty mind couldn’t produce a single word. He could only hum along, fumbling to match the melody.
Rage! Frustration! Humiliation!
He realized just how pathetic he looked—utterly pathetic.
In front of Joan Carter.
Joan Carter saw his panic. Joan Carter saw his failure. Joan Carter would see right through his bravado, see his cowardice and fragility.
Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it!
Wait—he remembered!
"...Destroy me! I put on the prison stripes..."
The words came back.
But why the hell was the mic stand fighting him?
He was standing perfectly still—like a tree—but the mic stand tilted toward him like it was challenging him to a duel.
This damn mic stand. Wrong time, wrong place. Couldn’t it see he was trying to complete the performance? Couldn’t it see he was trying to prove he was fine? Couldn’t it see he was desperately avoiding looking like a mess in front of Joan Carter?
The mic stand—ha—so even you want to mess with me?
He kicked it. Grabbed it. Tried to snap it in half—
Tried.
But, clearly, mic stands weren’t that easy to break. Instead, pain shot up his right forearm, a sharp numb ache spreading through his bones.
He grimaced.
Screw it.
He grabbed the mic stand and chucked it.
"Ahhh!"
The front-row audience gasped. They had been enjoying the show, never expecting a mic stand to go flying. Though it crashed to the floor before reaching them, the sudden movement made them cry out in shock.
The screams shattered the atmosphere.
Annoyed and furious, he lashed out with a kick—smashing the front-row stage light.
Glass shards and sparks exploded into the air.
The front-row audience recoiled in fear, curling into themselves, trembling.
Piercing screams rang in his ears.
But his eardrums were already filled with a roaring noise. The screams didn’t seem sharp or heavy, more like ripples on a lake’s surface. He lay beneath the water, watching the chaos rain down, feeling the tremors but never quite touching them.
A grin spread across his face. He waved at the audience, leaning forward. "I'm fine. You guys okay?"
His body pitched forward—he nearly fell off the stage.
He jerked himself back just in time, stumbling onto the stage again. Behind him, the band members and Joan Carter gasped in horror.
Joan Carter?
He thought he heard a familiar cry. Spinning around, he scanned the crowd, searching for her.
Would Joan Carter actually care? Was she actually worried about him? Did that mean she was willing to worry about his safety now?
Ridiculous.
But he couldn't find her.
The world dissolved into halos of light, faces blurring into glowing orbs—no features, no expressions, not even colors.
His stomach burned. His insides churned. He turned his head, trying to reorient himself. But the moment he moved—
The world spun.
Like a carousel, everything spun in a 360-degree whirl.
"Stand still, Anson. Stand still!"
He commanded himself. Knees locked, feet planted, hands straight at his sides. Bathed in golden stage lights, the world finally stopped spinning.
And then—
Darkness.
(End of Chapter)
Chapter 1393: Hard to Tell the Truth from the Lies
Rissy was stunned.
She stood there, dumbfounded, speechless, even forgetting to show any expression. Her eyes were fixed on everything unfolding before her, but her mind and body couldn't keep up.
Anson...
Was that really Anson?
The power radiating from his eyes and expressions—this wasn’t an act.
Pain and struggle, torment and suffering, despair and helplessness—all of it tangled together in the furrow of his brows. His gaze lost focus, and it was as if she could see his very soul being torn apart. His world was crumbling, piece by piece, collapsing into ruin.
Unintentionally, their eyes met.
But this time, while she noticed him, he didn’t notice her. Even though their gazes crossed, his eyes were unfocused, unable to truly lock onto anything.
He was just a shell, an empty husk.
There was no Anson.
And no Johnny either.
Rissy froze for a moment, even losing the ability to think. Everything seemed to pause. She had no idea what was happening in front of her or why.
And then, she simply watched.
He was unraveling, breaking apart.
Amidst the spinning and leaping, his body suddenly stiffened, freezing in place. The golden stage lights poured down, outlining his tall, lean figure.
Then, without warning—he collapsed.
Boom.
Rissy gasped, her eyes widening in shock. Her mind went completely blank. For a brief moment, countless emotions—wild, intense, scorching hot—exploded within her. The entire world fell silent. Everything slowed down fivefold, tenfold. She could see, in excruciating detail, the exact moment he began to fall.
She had never felt the force of gravity so clearly before, watching it drag his body down to the ground. And yet, he seemed completely unaware, lacking even the basic reflex to protect himself. He just dropped, straight and rigid, pulling her heart down into a pit of endless darkness with him.
Oh. Oh...
A cry rose from deep within her soul, but the sound was trapped in her throat. She tried again and again, and finally, she heard her own voice.
“Oh my God, Johnny.”
Joan Carter’s heart skipped a beat. She couldn't think. She only moved on instinct, her body lunging forward.
“Johnny!”
She kept calling his name, over and over, clinging to it like a drowning person clutching onto driftwood, desperate for him to respond.
“Close the curtains! Call a doctor!”
“Johnny?”
“Johnny!”
“Pull the curtains now!”
“Johnny…”
Offstage, in the shadowed corner where the cameras and spotlights couldn’t reach, every detail of what happened on stage was laid bare.
Nora forgot to breathe. She instinctively took two steps forward.
Charles reacted immediately, grabbing her arm.
But Nora didn’t care who it was—she slapped Charles’ hand away, her heart racing uncontrollably as she watched her youngest son fall into darkness.
Charles hesitated, torn between emotions, but he refused to let go. He held onto Nora tightly, pulling her into his embrace.
Nora lifted her head to look at Charles. “Anson, Anson…”
She couldn’t even form a proper sentence, just calling his name over and over. But beneath her soft voice, the pain and struggle were undeniable:
Didn’t you see what’s happening to Anson? Didn’t you notice something was wrong? Lucas was right to be worried. It’s happening.
Damn it!
What did filming a movie matter right now?
Her son had lost consciousness. He was breaking.
Screw the movie—Anson was the only thing that mattered.
At that moment, she even forgot to breathe.
So did Joan Carter.
She was lost, helpless, calling out in vain, trying to pull this man back from the grasp of death. But then she realized—her voice was so weak, so powerless. It floated in the endless darkness, unable to break through. The despair sank in.
She wasn’t the only one.
The band members rushed forward.
But unlike Joan, they had been with Johnny for years. They were slightly calmer, as if this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened.
“Here! Look at me, Johnny!”
“Focus, Johnny! Stay with us!”
They shouted his name and lightly slapped his face, trying to bring him back.
Then—
Johnny actually stirred.
His eyes fluttered open slightly, though they remained unfocused. His gaze drifted in the darkness, lost and aimless. His body was drenched in sweat, as if he had just been pulled from a hot spring, his shirt collar soaked through.
His eyes darted around, searching, as if he were trying to find the North Star in the night sky, trying to find his way.
But after looking around for a long time, he still couldn’t find it.
A strange smile curled at Johnny’s lips, eerie and childlike.
He chuckled.
A low, soft laughter rumbled in his throat.
“Lucky for me,” he murmured, “I numbered my feathers for situations like this.”
“Heh. Heh.”
He was laughing—lighthearted, almost cheerful.
As if he was finally… free.
At that moment, Anson truly seemed liberated.
He was back to the moment of his rebirth.
Eyes shut, lost in darkness, he didn’t know what had happened. The void around him stretched infinitely, spinning at a dizzying speed. He had no idea what to do next, except to chase the faint glimmer of light in the distance. Instinctively, he ran toward it.
Faster and faster, leaving all his burdens behind—his pain, his struggles. Even though the light seemed out of reach, even though he was stuck in the dark, running in place like a hamster on a wheel—it didn’t matter.
Because at last, he was free.
And then—
At the final moment of his sprint, he crashed into the light, breathless and drenched in sweat, his blood surging wildly.
And then—
He saw a different world.
“Johnny? Johnny!”
“Doctor! Call a doctor now!”
“For God’s sake, don’t just stand there!”
“Johnny!”
Voices echoed from a distant shore. He turned toward them and saw himself—someone who looked exactly like him, standing there, waving at him.
“Hey, Anson.”
He took a step forward, about to move closer, about to get a better look—
Then, suddenly, thunder roared in his ears.
“Cut!”
The darkness retreated like a crashing tide.
The people scattered.
Light and cold air rushed in all at once, too overwhelming, too forceful—it clogged his throat, making it hard to breathe. He choked on the sudden rush of air and started coughing violently, his eardrums ringing.
And then—
“Anson… Anson!”
A voice called out to him, getting closer, dragging him back to reality. The weight of gravity, the pull on his heart, became clear again.
His heartbeat returned.
Dazed, Anson lifted his head and saw Rissy’s face, filled with worry, her brows furrowed tightly. But all he could do was laugh.
He was just about to make a joke—
But another figure stormed toward him like a tornado.
Anson’s gaze shifted from Rissy to the approaching person. Seeing that deeply emotional face, he chuckled.
“Luca, you look absolutely terrible right now.”
(End of Chapter)
Chapter 1394: A Long Day
“Luca, you really don’t look great right now.”
The moment he spoke, it was a joke—classic Anson style.
Lucas was slightly taken aback but couldn’t help secretly breathing a sigh of relief. That meant Anson was okay—
Anson was okay.
That single fact was more important than anything else. His heart, which had been suspended high in his chest, finally settled back into place.
Lucas looked at Anson and, without missing a beat, fired back, “You should take a look at yourself.”
“Haha.” Anson laughed heartily. “Everyone, please remove all mirrors from the dressing room.”
Pfft!
The tense crew members around them all chuckled, and the strained, heavy atmosphere instantly lightened. It was as if the air had started flowing again.
Standing at the back of the crowd, Nora still looked at Anson with deep concern, her brows furrowed, torn between tears and laughter. She muttered under her breath, “This kid still has the energy to joke around.”
Charles, too, found himself stuck between holding his breath and exhaling, but he gently patted Nora’s shoulder. “That’s why so many people love him. You know what kind of industry Hollywood is.”
Nora muttered, “Like I care. I just want him to keep being himself...”
Despite her words, she didn’t step forward—
A worried mother hovering at work wasn’t a good look. She might undermine the professional image Anson had worked hard to establish, alter how the crew perceived him, or even disrupt his work.
She understood that. So did Charles. After all, that understanding was a key reason why the Woods had maintained a stable family dynamic over the years. They respected each other’s professions and personal space.
That applied not just to spouses but to parents and children as well.
So, despite her worries, Nora stopped herself.
Lucas was the better person to handle this.
With Lucas’s help, Anson finally sat up straight, though his head was still spinning. He kept his hands on his knees, sitting on the floor as he regulated his breathing, trying to steady his pounding heart, quiet the ringing in his ears, and regain his balance.
Lucas noticed and gestured for the crew to step back slightly, giving Anson some space and fresh air.
Out of the corner of his eye, Lucas saw that Reese was doing the same thing. He nodded at her in appreciation.
Anson noticed this exchange. He stretched out his legs and leaned back on his hands. “Add a cocktail, and I’m ready for a sunbath.”
The crew burst into laughter, the last remnants of tension finally dissipating.
But Lucas wasn’t laughing.
He had caught something. Anson was working hard—too hard—to lighten the mood, using humor to mask his real condition. The more he joked, the more nervous he was. The livelier his tone, the more chaotic his mind must have been.
Clearly, that last scene had been anything but simple.
Anson deliberately avoided Lucas’s gaze and called out in the direction of the director. “Director, how was that last take?”
Director. Right! The director!
With all the chaos from the unexpected incident, the crew had completely forgotten the most crucial thing—how did the scene turn out?
Everyone turned toward the monitors—only to realize that the director, who should have been stationed there, was nowhere to be seen.
Where was he?
Just then, a chubby figure clumsily tried to climb onto the stage, flailing like a seal. He propped himself up with his hands, bouncing awkwardly, but his arms lacked the strength. He ended up bobbing like a child on a trampoline, his head peeking up and down over the stage edge.
“Oh! Director!”
Someone finally spotted Mangold and hurried to grab his arms, hauling the little seal up onto the stage.
Mangold’s soft belly landed on the stage with a gentle thud. He rolled over onto his back, flailed for a moment, then scrambled to his feet, wobbling as he made his way toward Anson.
But he didn’t speak. Instead, he opened his arms wide and gave Anson a huge hug.
Anson: … “Director?”
Mangold took a deep breath. “Thank you. That was incredible. Absolutely perfect.”
Anson finally let go of the breath he had been holding, exhaling deeply.
Mangold paused. “But… because it was so perfect, I just had an idea. Anson, what do you think about adding a backlit shot here, then cutting to a close-up, syncing it with the beat, and using the visuals to showcase the storm of thoughts in your mind?”
“How does that sound?”
Using the camera to convey emotions—
That was the answer. Through editing, rhythm, and composition, a truly great director didn’t need dialogue to express raw emotion.
Anson’s performance had inspired Mangold, opening up new possibilities for the scene’s presentation. That was a good thing.
But it also meant Anson had to throw himself back into character at least twice more so that Mangold could capture different angles and depths.
No wonder Mangold had personally come over and even hugged him.
Mangold understood just how difficult this scene was to perform. Once was already incredibly tough, and now it had to be repeated.
But that was filmmaking. It wasn’t just an art of acting—it was also an art of editing and audiovisual storytelling.
Anson let out a slow breath. “I knew today was going to be a long one. Looks like I’ll have to put off that sunbath and cocktail a little longer.”
As he spoke, he clapped his hands as if shaking off the remnants of his beach daydream.
Mangold grinned, completely in sync. “Just a little longer. The sunbath will come, the cocktail will come—everything will come.”
His entire face—his smile, his eyes, his cheeks—was overflowing with joy and excitement. He couldn’t hide it even if he tried.
But for Nora and Charles, this wasn’t exactly good news. The two exchanged glances, their eyes filled with concern. However, seeing Anson so eager and enthusiastic, they didn’t need to ask—they already knew.
He was loving every second of it.
So, they swallowed their words.
They were doing their job as parents.
And Anson was doing his job as an actor. He was working. Even as his parents, they needed to respect that.
So, they suppressed their anxiety and stepped aside, giving Anson and Mangold the space to discuss—
Where to position the camera, how to set up the camera movement, how Anson and the other actors would align within the frame.
Acting wasn’t just about performing. Actors had to work with the camera, collaborate with scene partners, and coordinate with the crew. Only then could their performance truly shine, giving life to the characters and making their work radiate under the spotlight.
Clearly, this wasn’t going to be easy.
*(End of Chapter)*
Chapter 1395: Completely Exhausted
Silence. Stillness. Absolute quiet.
The entire film crew was motionless, not even the sound of breathing or heartbeats could be heard. It wasn’t just tension—it was pure, undivided focus.
When concentration reaches its peak, all external distractions fade away. Completely immersed in the moment, everything else ceases to exist.
Then—
“Cut!”
Mangold’s voice was like a thunderclap, shaking the air and reverberating through the theater like ripples on a still pond.
Yet, the crew remained under a spell, barely allowing themselves to breathe again. The tension loosened slightly, but they still clung to the film’s atmosphere—
Who knew? Maybe the shot wasn’t good enough, and they’d have to do it again. No one dared to relax completely.
“Perfect. That’s a wrap for today!”
Cheers erupted!
A roar burst forth, uncontrollable and urgent. Once the dam of emotions broke, there was no stopping the surge.
“Ahhh! Ahhhhhh!”
Unrestrained, uninhibited, electrifying—clapping, shouting, cheering. Some even sprinted across the set in sheer exhilaration.
To be clear, this wasn’t the final wrap—just the conclusion of one intense scene. A scene where Johnny Cash lost himself on stage, completely consumed.
But still—finally!
From morning until night, six grueling hours of filming. One scene, at long last, was complete.
The hardships, the struggles, the torment, and the exhaustion—all came to an end in this moment.
No one could hold back anymore. Suppressed emotions, restrained excitement—everything poured out all at once, like they had lost their minds.
On the side, Mangold wanted to remind everyone: This isn’t the final wrap, it’s just one scene. Rest up, because filming resumes tomorrow. There’s no need to celebrate as if everything is over.
The words were on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them back down.
Mangold knew exactly how tough this scene had been, how demanding. And it was all because of himself. Anson’s performance was so extraordinary that Mangold’s ambition grew—he wanted more, he wanted perfection.
So, take after take.
From lighting to cinematography, props to costumes, from actors to crew—everyone endured Mangold’s relentless pursuit of excellence.
Including Mangold himself—
Completely drained.
After an entire day of intense, unrelenting work, his mind was blank. He didn’t even have the strength to lift a finger.
So, if the crew wanted to celebrate, let them.
Thinking about it, this scene truly was a turning point in the film. They had poured every ounce of energy into it, delivering a flawless performance. A short celebration and release were well deserved—if only to prepare them for the work ahead.
So—
Mangold stood up, ready to join the celebration, only to feel his knees buckle. His entire body was weak. It was only then that he realized—he had given everything. Without realizing it, he had burned himself out completely. It took him two full beats to even register the tremors running through his body.
A sensation of being utterly consumed.
Strangely enough, it didn’t feel bad.
Meanwhile, Anson, despite being pushed to his absolute limits, was becoming more energized. The catharsis of total release fueled his adrenaline, keeping his blood boiling. He was riding a high, buzzing with uncontainable energy. If they had to keep shooting, he would have no problem.
At that moment, in that state, even if Muhammad Ali himself appeared before him, Anson would be ready to challenge him with his fists up, light on his feet like a dancing butterfly.
Nora, filled with worry, stood before Anson, only to end up shaking her head in exasperation. She turned to Charles. “You’re not even trying to hide it anymore—he’s definitely your son. Look at him, he’s exactly like you.”
Charles let out a small smile. “You should say he inherited your best qualities.”
Lucas sized up Anson, taking in his vibrant energy. He was undeniably exhausted, but the light in his eyes remained piercingly sharp.
Something wasn’t right.
Lucas frowned slightly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Anson laughed outright. “No, I’m not sure.”
Lucas: …
Anson burst out laughing. “Haha, Lucas, you should see your face right now.”
Lucas sighed. “All the mirrors in the dressing room were taken down under someone’s orders, so I can’t.”
Anson doubled over with laughter.
Then, he caught sight of Nora and Charles, their faces still lined with concern. They weren’t trying to hide it. Their eyes were locked onto him, their gazes deep and unreadable.
Anson took a deep breath, straightened up, and met their eyes with sincerity. “I’m fine, really.”
“This is what it means to be an actor.”
“All this time, I approached acting with a lighthearted attitude—no pressure, no burdens. But that also meant I never truly experienced the power of performance. Now, when I become one with my character, when I step into another world, another universe, and live an entirely new life—”
“That’s the magic of acting.”
Anson was serious.
Was he tired? Absolutely.
Exhausted to the core, drained beyond words. A fatigue that went beyond physical exertion—it was something deeper, rooted in his soul. Unlike aerobic exercise, where muscles tire from movement, this exhaustion consumed both his body and mind, leaving him utterly spent. Now, he finally understood what it meant to give everything.
At this moment, he felt like he was burning. His chest, his fingertips, his mind, his veins—every corner of his body was alight with fire, flickering and flowing freely. It was as if he were wrapped in flames, yet there was no pain. Only release, only liberation, only total consumption.
More than that, there was a strange, disorienting feeling. His senses—sight, sound—were coated in an invisible film, as if he were floating in space. Certain moments blurred the line between fiction and reality, making it difficult to completely step out of character.
And yet, the exhilaration, the sheer euphoria of having burned so completely—it was real. The profound satisfaction filling his chest, the happiness seeping into his limbs—it was real.
Even the hazy, dreamlike detachment carried a strange charm, like the light buzz of a good drink, comforting and warm.
This was unlike anything he had ever experienced in any previous project.
“This is fascinating. Truly.”
Anson’s smile was radiant, infectious. Even as he stood there quietly, his words and emotions danced in the air around him.
Watching him, animated and alive, Nora and Charles found themselves at a loss for words.
Finally, Charles shook his head in mock frustration. “Anson, this is bad news. You’ve officially become one of those Hollywood lunatics your Uncle Darren always talks about. What are we going to do with you?”
(End of Chapter)
