"Good morning, Mr. Cook."
The person who opened the door was none other than Noah, Anson's assistant, who was slowly settling into his role.
Edgar was about to inquire about Anson's situation when his eyes fell upon sothing odd in Noah's hair... a piece of lettuce.
No joke—this was a real, fresh, vibrant green piece of lettuce. Even if it were a prank, it wouldn't be this over-the-top. So, how exactly did such a large lettuce leaf end up in Noah's hair?
Edgar hesitated, his mind swirling with countless thoughts. In the end, he simply shook his head, giving up on asking the obvious and instead offering a reminder: "There's a leaf in your hair."
Noah blinked. "A leaf?"
He glanced upward and raised his hand to feel around.
"Oh! There it is! I've been looking for that."
Edgar: ...
He had many questions but swallowed them, especially seeing Noah's genuinely happy expression. His joy seed so heartfelt that Edgar just let it go.
"Where's Anson?" Edgar returned to the main topic.
Noah, holding the lettuce, smiled. "Mr. Wood is swimming."
Edgar glanced outside at the pool, which was empty.
Noah clarified, "In the ocean. There are no waves today, so Mr. Wood said it was perfect for swimming."
Edgar was briefly taken aback, then chuckled softly. Anson always had a way of surprising him. "I thought he was learning to surf."
Noah nodded. "That's the goal, but for now, he said he wants to get used to ocean swimming before he starts. He's made plans with Mr. Evans."
"Chris Evans?"
"Yes, Mr. Evans stayed over two nights ago."
After the brief exchange, Edgar started walking toward the backyard, but sothing by the large floor-to-ceiling window caught his eye: an easel displaying an unfinished painting. The vivid, intense colors ford an abstract structure. Even though it was just lines, the shading conveyed a deep sense of emotion, prompting Edgar to take a second look.
With so hesitation, Edgar asked, "Is this Anson's work?"
Noah glanced at it and nodded affirmatively. "Mr. Wood started painting it the night of the Golden Globes when he couldn't sleep. He said it's not finished yet; it'll take so ti."
Edgar understood, but as he was about to move forward, his feet remained planted. He found himself absorbed by the interplay of lines and colors, his thoughts slowly settling as he stood by the large window, almost able to hear the ocean waves and sunlight moving through the air.
Until—
"Captain?"
Edgar snapped out of his reverie at the sound of his na, feeling grounded again as he quickly looked up. There was Anson, drying his hair with a towel, radiating the energy of sunshine.
"That's just a quick sketch, not Van Gogh," Anson quipped.
Edgar chuckled softly but couldn't help casting another glance at the painting. "You didn't enjoy the Golden Globe ceremony?"
Anson looked puzzled. "Why would you think that?"
Edgar gestured toward the painting. "The emotions in the lines and colors are intense but not joyful or happy. There's more anxiety and agitation. It feels like sothing is about to break through."
Anson paused, giving Edgar an appraising look.
Edgar shrugged lightly. "I dabble in art occasionally."
Anson laughed, his smile brightening completely. "Thanks for calling my work art. My ego just swelled a bit."
Seeing that Anson still had the energy to joke, Edgar felt sowhat reassured, though the concern in his eyes remained: he was serious.
Anson exhaled softly. "No, it's just that everything happened so fast."
"You know, 'Catch If You Can,' the flash mob, the award ceremony, and all the reactions that followed—it felt like being thrown into an arena. I thought I was ready to face the tiger one-on-one, but it turned out to be a battle against a hundred, and it's hard not to feel overwheld."
"I just need so ti to adjust and find my voice again."
The Golden Globes had taken place four days ago.
Since then, the buzz and chatter had only intensified. That night, Anson had stolen the spotlight twice—first on the red carpet and then as a presenter—making him the talk of the event, aside from the awards themselves.
Even before the ceremony, people had been eagerly anticipating and discussing Anson, thanks to the montum built up since the premiere of Catch If You Can. The reality surpassed expectations, centing Anson as the hottest topic of the mont.
Major outlets like Vogue, Entertainnt Weekly, The New Yorker, The Hollywood Reporter, and People all rushed to cover the story, generating a whirlwind of dia attention.
Not just Anson—Edgar and Eve had been swamped as well.
It was undoubtedly a breakthrough.
Although Spider-Man had sparked so buzz, this was the true explosion, catapulting Anson to an unprecedented height.
Cheers, applause, and recognition—it was all good news. But having two life-changing monts in just six months, upending his world entirely, was a different matter.
Too much too soon.
Anyone would need ti and space to adjust.
Four days had passed, and the hype showed no signs of slowing down.
Edgar took a deep breath. "I understand."
Anson laughed lightly. "No, Captain, you don't. But I appreciate that you're trying. At least you're making an effort."
"And this is what we've been aiming for, right? After all our hard work, the plan is finally coming to fruition. So, it's sothing to celebrate. I just need a little ti to adjust."
"I didn't realize until now that being a superstar requires professionalism too. Right now, I'm still a rookie, but I'm eager to learn."
With that, Anson spread his arms wide, adopting a posture of bravely embracing the unknown.
Edgar's tension eased slightly, and he smiled again, glancing once more at the painting.
At least Anson was seeking an outlet for his feelings—through painting rather than alcohol or drugs. It was a positive sign.
Otherwise, Hollywood was filled with countless stars who lost their way after overnight fa.
Exhaling softly, Edgar regained his composure. "Anson, if you ever need a break or want to cut off all the noise completely, just let know, and I'll do everything in my power to make it happen."
Anson burst out laughing. "Deal! Captain, you said it. Noah, make a note of that."
From behind, Noah's earnest voice responded, "Got it, Mr. Wood."
Edgar was stunned to see Noah obediently pull out a pen and paper, seriously jotting down the promise, even confirming the date and ti.
Edgar: ...
Anson chuckled. "For now, though, I'm fine. They haven't driven crazy yet. I'm just curious if the paparazzi are spreading rumors about . Every ti I approach, they seem to scatter. I'm not so sort of demon king... Or is that just in my head?"
Edgar hesitated, unsure where to start. How exactly does one explain the whole "demon king" thing?
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