An explosion—massive, overwhelming, and all-encompassing.
It was even fiercer and more chaotic than just an explosion, because it wasn't limited to entertainment. Voices rose from every corner of society—politics, media, and various fields—expressing their own views.
"Entertained to death"—this had become a societal problem. Over the past half-century, it had become a worsening illness, continuously breaking moral and ethical boundaries, even crossing legal lines and threatening lives. This was no longer just entertainment news.
Without a doubt, this was one of the hottest topics of 2003.
The situation was spiraling out of control—something no one had anticipated.
Yet, the truth remained unclear:
What was going on between Jason Owen and Sony Columbia? Why had Jason taken the fall when Harry Pacey was the mastermind? Was there some shady deal between Sony Columbia and Harry? Had Sony Columbia allowed Harry access to the film set?
It was a tangled mess.
There were endless possibilities, and this uncertainty only fueled the public's outrage. They demanded the truth, they demanded justice, and their anger became a tidal wave, surging relentlessly toward Sony Columbia and Harry Pacey.
The pressure was immense.
As one of Hollywood's top production companies, Sony Columbia became an enormous target. Countless voices demanded an explanation. But taking on a giant like Sony Columbia wasn't easy.
Harry Pacey, however, was a different story.
Though a much smaller target—a mere paparazzo, insignificant amidst the chaos—his vulnerability made him easier to "hurt."
Not literally hurt, but the public could demand apologies, call for punishment, and these demands were achievable—much more easily than taking on a massive corporation.
So, as media outlets like American Weekly and Entertainment Weekly split into two factions, the public focused on Sony Columbia, while the paparazzi zeroed in on Harry, hoping to break him and uncover the full truth.
Especially with Lucas Wood's $100,000 bounty still up for grabs.
The vultures were gathering.
...
Harry Pacey thought the last few days had been hell, worse than death itself. But now, he would give anything to turn back time—24 or 48 hours. Compared to now, those days had been paradise.
For the past few days, Harry had been tormenting himself, but now, he was up against the entire world.
He wasn't exaggerating—he truly felt like he was fighting the world alone.
What had he been thinking back then? Using a fake name, hoping to fool everyone? Looking back, "Marvin Daniel," the name he used, was straight out of Home Alone, the name of one of the idiot burglars. If someone connected the dots like Anson had, it wouldn't have been hard to figure out.
And then there were the hackers.
They had traced his home address, leaving him no room to deny anything. How stupid had he been? He hadn't even bothered to upload things from a café or a public place, exposing himself completely while he stewed in self-doubt.
What a joke.
Now look at him.
The entire apartment was pitch black, every window tightly covered. The blackout curtains and blinds were closed, shutting out the outside world completely.
He didn't even dare turn on a lamp.
Harry knew that dozens of paparazzi were lurking outside his apartment, watching his every move.
He had spent years stalking others, but now he was the one being stalked. The feeling was like being thrown into a frying pan, his skin sizzling as every inch of him was slowly cooked from the outside in.
Any little noise, and the swarm would pounce.
Harry was on edge, unable to sleep or relax. The anxiety was driving him to the brink of a nervous breakdown.
And the worst part? He knew exactly what those paparazzi were up to.
They were digging through his trash, combing through his history, looking for any way to bypass legal boundaries and sneak into his apartment to snap a close-up of him.
He was like a wounded animal, barely clinging to life, while vultures circled above, waiting for him to drop so they could feast on his corpse.
Harry didn't think he could hold on much longer.
Click.
He opened the fridge, and a cold, bluish light spilled out, cutting through the darkness. Harry squinted against it, his face contorted as he looked inside.
One tomato, half a slice of bread, three eggs, and a bottle of water.
That was all.
He was running out of food. If he stayed here any longer, he'd be out of options.
There was a way out, of course. He could go out and buy groceries. He wasn't under house arrest. But he knew that the moment he stepped outside, the paparazzi would swarm him like sharks, not stopping until they ripped off an arm or a leg.
Harry knew exactly what was waiting for him, and that's what terrified him the most.
Just imagining it made him shudder.
Click.
He slammed the fridge shut, leaning against the door as his knees buckled, sliding slowly to the floor.
Despair washed over him. What should he do? Should he beg Anson for forgiveness? Could Anson help him fix this? Was it too late to apologize?
He had known Anson was dangerous, yet he still provoked him. And not just once—he had even gone to the hospital to taunt him afterward, walking right into the trap.
Stupid. So incredibly stupid.
Harry lay on the floor, wanting to cry but finding his eyes completely dry. He curled up into a ball, shaking uncontrollably.
He never imagined he would end up like this. So what now? When would this nightmare end?
Rustling.
A faint noise came from outside the door, making Harry's nerves snap tight. He shot up, frantically searching for the source of the sound. Any little movement could push him over the edge.
Who—or what—was out there?
A second later, knock, knock.
The knocking came like a clap of thunder, shattering the silence. Harry clutched his ears, curling up even tighter, trembling violently.
"Harry..."
The voice outside was that of the devil.