"Good afternoon."
"Good afternoon."
The crew was busy at work. They had rented an entire motel for filming, and everyone present on set was part of the crew—
Including the extras.
In Hollywood, being an extra is also a professional job. Although they don't have agents, they maintain steady connections with casting companies and can continuously find work, making them semi-professional.
So, even when top stars like Steven Spielberg and Tom Hanks are around, they remain calm—no cheering, no crowding, and definitely no requests for photos or autographs. They stay composed.
Of course, that doesn't stop them from talking.
When they saw Anson, the recent headline of negative news, they exchanged glances, and the atmosphere subtly shifted.
But Anson appeared particularly confident and relaxed—
All thanks to young Frank.
At this point in time, young Frank was in his prime, successfully forging checks and smoothly navigating relationships with various women, as if he were at the peak of his life, completely unaware that his "small-time" antics had caught the attention of the FBI.
Because of this, young Frank was confident—walking with his head held high, striding with purpose, as if he could embrace the whole world with open arms.
Anson was familiar with this. Before he turned twenty-five in his previous life, he had the same belief—that the future belonged to him, that he was invincible, and that with a long enough lever, he could move the earth.
Now, Anson was trying to get into that mindset.
He knew that when it came to acting, he was still a novice. Everything was new and unfamiliar, and he often couldn't accurately grasp the nuances and feelings. It would take time to adjust and practice.
So, he'd been subtly fine-tuning his state of mind from the start—
Like the saying goes, "The early bird catches the worm."
Even as the crew's gazes quietly assessed him from all directions, Anson "filtered out" the negative emotions and bathed in their attention as if it were sunlight. He naturally assumed that the focus and attention were his due, and that being a little high-profile was only reasonable.
His steps were light and confident, even a bit longer than usual, giving his stride a youthful vigor.
—Slightly impatient.
Then, he saw Tom Hanks.
"Good afternoon, Tom," he greeted first.
Unlike Anson, Tom seemed completely relaxed, as if he were just strolling in a garden. A toothpick dangled from his mouth, as if he had just eaten, and he was wearing a deep brown suit with the shirt and jacket unbuttoned. His laid-back, slightly disheveled demeanor perfectly matched the lazy California afternoon sun, making you want to lie down and take it all in.
This was far from the stern, proper, and serious Tom that Anson had imagined.
Or maybe it was just Tom being down-to-earth?
Tom was chatting with a crew member when he saw Anson, his expression brightened. "Hey, golden boy, finally, the day has come."
He opened with a small joke.
Anson was about to respond, but Tom exaggeratedly blinked.
"Oh God, you better not throw up later. I really can't handle that again. Please, think of my poor heart."
Wait, what? The subtext was clearly that Anson might get so nervous he'd throw up. Obviously, Tom wasn't planning to clean up after him.
Tom Hanks? The public's image of the nice guy is actually a scene-stealer?
This...
Could it be?
If Anson had been nervous before, he might have really thrown up by now.
But—
Anson didn't flinch. Instead, he looked thoughtful. "If this isn't the first time, then before... was it Matt?"
Tom joked that Anson shouldn't throw up from nerves, and Anson retorted by asking if Matt Damon had thrown up when they worked together on *Saving Private Ryan*.
One shot, one return.
Tom was clearly taken aback. He opened his mouth to reply, but then caught himself, looking back at Anson with a smile. His expression softened back to his usual kind demeanor, and he raised his right index finger, pointing playfully at Anson while gently shaking his head.
"You sly dog, setting a trap for me."
"Whatever gossip you have with Matt, that's your business. You young folks can love and fight all you want, but don't drag this old man into it. I don't want any part of that."
A fox is still a fox—Tom instantly understood the deeper meaning behind Anson's words.
But at the same time, Anson could also read the underlying message in Tom's words—
Though he didn't say it outright, it seemed Tom and Matt Damon were on good terms. A casual mention of "love and hate" implied that Tom thought Matt might be the victim, suggesting that Anson and Winona's situation wasn't as simple as it seemed.
Of course, Tom wasn't accusing anyone. His stance was very subtle, revealed only through his casual remarks.
Originally, Anson was just making a light-hearted joke. If he hadn't picked up on the subtext, it wouldn't have mattered, but now that he had, he couldn't ignore it.
So...
Anson raised his hands in a surrender gesture, "At best, you're just a bystander making a few comments, while I somehow get dragged into it. It's like a shrimp watching whales fight—nobody cares about my feelings. I don't even have a microphone."
Tom paused, raising an eyebrow slightly.
He got the message.
Tom didn't want to get involved—after all, it wasn't his business. But after a moment of thought, he couldn't resist asking, "Aren't you and Winona friends?"
"Do you think a puppet has a voice at Paris Fashion Week?" Anson replied.
Lighthearted, but sharp.
People had forgotten one key detail:
Paris Fashion Week, Chanel runway.
Clearly, Anson had no say.
The invitation was a last-minute arrangement for the Dior show two days prior. Anson attended with Anna Wintour, and his seat was assigned by Karl Lagerfeld.
From start to finish, Anson and Winona's encounter was purely coincidental.
So, the truth was actually quite simple.
Tom considered this, and his expression became one of keen interest.
He'd seen Anson's charm before, which was why he supported Anson playing the role of young Frank. But today, he gained a new appreciation for Anson's composure and wit, and his internal judgment shifted slightly.
When Tom looked at Anson again, there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Even Pinocchio had a voice."
Anson spread his hands, "So, how does my nose look?"
If Pinocchio lied, his nose would grow.
Anson's response was a challenge—had he lied?
"Ha." Tom couldn't help but laugh, taking another moment to study Anson, his laughter growing. "Hahaha."
It had to be said, Anson was quite the character. His quick wit and humor were hard to overlook.
Now Tom finally understood why Jeff Robinov had a special regard for Anson. Earning the respect of these seasoned "foxes" wasn't easy—
And Tom was among them.
Unconsciously, Tom started looking forward to the day's shoot.
"I was worried you'd be nervous earlier, but now I see I was worrying for nothing."