From Flower Vase to Film Emperor in Hollywood

Innocent yet alluring, fragile yet strong, Winona possessed a unique blend of qualities, which was why she was hailed as a "teenage genius" in the nineties. Her presence truly lit up the silver screen.

Now, standing in the bustling show, she quietly announced her existence, not ostentatious but still radiant.

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

That slender arm stretched out straight and stubbornly, her palm fully open, her eyes sincerely looking at Anson. More than a rambling self-introduction, the concise and clear gaze and posture conveyed more information.

"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, my ears have no free time. A certain name has passed by more than once or twice, and now it finally matches up."

Anson chuckled, "Looks like I need to be more careful. If I do something bad, it'll be exposed immediately."

Winona slightly raised her chin, her slightly tired brow gently smoothing out, like sparse cirrus clouds on the horizon in the midsummer June sky, her smile lightly dancing in her eyes and at the corners of her mouth.

"Shhh." She said.

The two exchanged a look, then chuckled softly together.

"God, I'm worried she might not answer my call."

She made a small self-deprecating remark.

"But, anyway, thank you, you know…"

Huff.

She exhaled a long breath, a hint of sighing inadvertently revealed in her expression.

"Here, at Fashion Week, everyone is worried about their look when they appear in magazines and newspapers. No one pays attention to the plight of others."

"Sorry, I'm not implying anything about anyone. I'm just talking about myself. To show the best side of myself today, to prove that I'm not depressed, I just nibble on some grass with a lot of alcohol, and then, poof… my internal organs protested strongly."

"See, the clown is me."

Unconsciously, Winona's words became a little too much.

She also realized it, a hint of embarrassment and loneliness revealed in her expression, fleeting, trying to pull the corners of her mouth upwards to conceal her true emotions—

She looked a little fragile, as if it wasn't just because of a stomachache.

"Anyway, I need to thank you."

"Sincerely."

Without waiting for Anson to speak, Winona ended the conversation herself, then flashed a big smile, trying to put on a cheerful appearance.

"So, let's leave it at that for today. Hehe, trust me, you don't want to be seen with me by those paparazzi. Maybe tomorrow you'll be on the sixth page, in a messy and ugly state."

The sixth page, the sixth page of newspapers is often the entertainment section. If it is a low-quality newspaper, it is often gossip and breaking news—

Mainly focused on scandals.

Anson could sense Winona's sharpness, like a hedgehog, but those spikes were not to hurt others, but to protect herself, scaring off anyone before they got close.

Anson understood this all too well.

In his previous life, in the first two years after those things happened, he was like this. It was his only way to protect himself, hurting the world and himself, but completely forgetting that the wound was kept covered, slowly festering.

The words were already on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them back down.

She didn't need sympathy, let alone charity.

Anson smiled, "Very happy to help."

Straight to the point.

Winona was stunned, quickly glanced at Anson, a hint of surprise flashed across her face, but it was fleeting, and then she concealed it, pretending to be calm and said, "I hope we have a chance to meet again next time."

After speaking, Winona turned around and prepared to leave without giving Anson a chance to say goodbye; but Anson didn't mind, turning his head to look around, continuing to look for Edgar and Eddie, but suddenly saw the tent entrance reopen, and a figure returned.

Involuntarily, Anson was stunned.

Anson looked at Winona, Winona looked at Anson, their eyes met, and the air suddenly became quiet, a sense of awkwardness spreading.

Anson noticed the look of lingering fear in Winona's expression, and after carefully capturing it, the sound of surging shutters outside the tent and the continuous calls for Winona, combined with Winona's words just now, the answer came out—

Paparazzi.

In fact, Anson was a little surprised. Did Winona have any news recently? Why, even at Paris Fashion Week, were the paparazzi still chasing Winona?

After all, Fashion Week was full of stars, and the paparazzi had plenty of material.

But searching his memory, Anson couldn't find a corresponding answer.

Or was Anson wrong?

Anson started to walk, preparing to go outside the tent to investigate, but Winona stopped him one step ahead, "No, don't go out. There are paparazzi everywhere outside. They will devour you alive."

"How?" Anson asked.

Winona was stunned, "Huh?"

Anson, "How will they devour me alive?"

Winona blinked, actually stumped by the question.

Anson smiled, "I understand what you mean, it's just a metaphor; but I'm also serious, those paparazzi shouldn't dare to really hurt you."

Winona was a little absurd, a little angry, and a little speechless, with many expressions on her face, "The camera is their weapon. They will surround you, attack you, and then expose your most embarrassing and ugliest side."

"You haven't experienced it, you don't know it's a nightmare you don't want to wake up from. People don't know the truth at all, but they look at the most sensational and explosive scene captured by the paparazzi and judge you, despise you, attack you, slander you, destroy you. You're like a cockroach, everyone tries to despise you and kill you."

"In their lens, you will feel ugly, dirty, twisted, disgusting, you will feel that you are useless, nothing, nothing!"

Even if it was invisible to the naked eye, at this moment, one could still feel the wound deep in Winona's soul, dripping with blood, a bloody mess, already beyond recognition.

"But, we have nowhere to escape, do we?" Anson asked back.

Winona tried to refute, but opened her mouth, but denied herself again, the surging emotions stuck without warning, and she was stunned.

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 actions."

Gossip and scandals will not stop.

Those hurts and attacks will not stop because of the person's pain, because in the media—in the future network, you are 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 will not stop.

Not now, not in the future.