"Ahhh!"
A scream pierced the dark, tearing through the silence and ripping apart the night. Blazing, golden sunlight cascaded down like a waterfall, flooding into barely open eyes and filling every corner of their hazy vision. The brightness stung, forcing them to shut their eyes tightly again.
A pounding headache.
The world seed to shake.
But there was no ti to think about that, because after that heart-wrenching scream, everything went quiet. The silence, following the piercing scream, only heightened the sense of panic. Anxiety gripped their throats, and an instinctive surge of fear drove them into action.
Thud, thud, thud.
A rush of footsteps converged at the stairwell from different directions, each stopping at various points. With their eyes still closed, they tried to rely on their hearing to identify the source.
"Who's there?"
Brad shouted, his voice booming like a lion's roar. Despite his slender fra, his posture was alert and defensive, gripping a beer bottle as if ready to use it as a weapon.
Anson forced his eyes open and glanced down from the second floor. A spiral staircase led to the first floor, leaving a wide-open atrium where a cool breeze gently flowed.
What he saw below was a ss of bodies sprawled across the living room—clearly, they had also heard the scream. So had sat up or stood in response, but after a few monts without hearing anything more, they relaxed and lay back down.
The scene was like sothing straight out of *The Walking Dead*, eerily fitting the mood.
Jas, who was clutching a bottle of face wash like a baseball bat, rubbed his eyes and looked up at Anson. "That scream… was it Chris?"
Anson turned toward Chris's room—
The door was wide open.
What was going on? Could sothing have actually happened to Chris?
His mind cleared in an instant. Anson took a deep breath to regain his composure. Without hesitation, he moved forward, lowering his center of gravity, clenching his fists, and adopting a boxing stance, ready for whatever lay ahead.
But just as he took his first step, a figure ca bounding out of the room.
Leaping energetically, the person landed with both feet, arms spread wide, legs wide apart, a face full of excitent, radiating wild energy.
"Ahhh!"
Another scream.
Anson, mid-kick, had to abruptly stop his leg in midair—
It was Chris.
The human alarm clock was none other than Chris Evans.
Anson, filled with exasperation, withdrew his leg and shifted out of his attack stance. He glanced downstairs at the two friends who had also lowered their weapons and were advancing cautiously, shaking his head.
"False alarm."
Jas relaxed, took a couple more steps forward, and then looked up at Chris with an incredulous expression. "Chris, for Christ's sake, what the hell is wrong with you?"
Facing Jas, who was clearly annoyed by being woken up, Chris didn't care at all. It took all his energy to contain himself from shouting again, but the slight tremor in his voice betrayed his excitent.
"It's done."
"It's done!"
"Oh my God, it's done! Hahaha!"
Brad, who had been slowly dragging his feet, was just two steps away from reaching the second floor but decided to give up and sat down.
"What?" Brad was confused.
Chris glanced at Jas and Brad, but finally, his gaze landed on Anson. After a pause, a wide smile spread across his face.
"Anson, we made it."
"The ratings exploded."
Everyone: ...
What just happened?
Why does the whole world feel like it's spinning?
Why does it feel like there's an alien about to burst out of my stomach?
Seeing the silence, Chris beca anxious, "Friends? Last night's airing? Do you all have goldfish mories?"
"The ratings are out, Anson's debut!"
Jas made a sound of acknowledgnt, "Seems like it went well."
That's it?
Chris shook his head repeatedly, "Well? It's more than that!"
"It's a mini-peak!"
"Anson!"
"Anson, Anson, everyone is talking about you right now. My God, I strongly suspect NBC's phone lines have already blown up."
Anson looked at the overly excited Chris. "Phone lines? What era are we in, the seventies?"
A small joke.
But Chris didn't mind.
He rushed back to his room and then stord back out like a whirlwind, waving a newspaper in his hand like a newsboy.
"The Tis, today's entertainnt front page!"
"The Tis," short for sothing more.
Across North Arica, it's widely understood that this refers to The New York Tis, a testant to its authority and influence.
But in California, it's a little different—it refers to the Los Angeles Tis. The residents of the City of Angels hold their ground.
Of course, the LA Tis has earned that reputation. It ranks with The Wall Street Journal and The Washington Post, among a few others, in competing with the New York Tis. In terms of circulation, credibility, authority, and impact, they're on the sa level.
This ti, Anson was a little slow to catch on, though it wasn't because of a hangover—
How could he forget? This was the year 2000. The internet hadn't fully developed yet. Forget about future social dia becoming a part of daily life, even many well-known websites were still in their infancy.
Take Rotten Tomatoes, for example, the go-to site for public ratings. It had just been established last year and was still in its early stages of growth.
Or TMZ, the LA-based site that would eventually change the tabloid industry. Right now, it's nowhere in sight, not debuting until 2005.
The internet was still in its early days.
At this ti, if people wanted gossip or news, they didn't turn to the internet.
This was still the era of newspapers and magazines.
Print dia ruled.
If anyone wanted to know entertainnt gossip or industry news, the LA Tis, Vanity Fair, and Entertainnt Weekly were the top choices.
In the professional realm, The Hollywood Reporter and Variety reigned supre, their positions in the industry unshakable.
Ratings and box office numbers were no exception. Agents, producers, directors, actors—they all had to wait for the official newspaper reports.
Chris's face was glowing, possibly from the hangover, but also from excitent. He loudly read the headline.
"Guest star Anson Wood showcases his charm, boosting ratings to a second-highest record for season six—'Friends' is poised for a strong finish this season."
Chris ran up to Anson in a few quick steps, holding the paper out to him. "Anson, look! There's your na, right there in the headline."
The ink had dried, and its faint scent lingered beneath his nose. Black type stretched before his eyes. Individually, the letters ant nothing special, but arranged together, they ford sothing different.
That was his na.
At first, Anson hadn't thought much of it. After all, he had lived through the internet age, where seeing his na pop up on various websites was an everyday occurrence. The weight and significance of printed letters had faded in the haze of the internet.
But seeing his na, not on a virtual webpage, but in the actual entertainnt section headline of the LA Tis—it stirred a subtle feeling, like a butterfly fluttering its wings.
"…Last night's episode drew in 24 million viewers…"
What!
24 million!
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