"Who is besieging Anson Wood?"
"The distortion and degradation of Hollywood's entertainment industry."
"Who is using every possible means to 'create' news?"
In front of the computer screen, bathed in the faint blue glow, Harry Percy's face could be vaguely seen:
Sometimes anxious, sometimes twisted, sometimes elated, sometimes dejected, sometimes laughing, sometimes enraged.
It was like he was going through a mental breakdown, experiencing drastic mood swings, unable to control himself.
There was a dark crowd, and every major media outlet and online forum was fixated on the "Anson Wood hospital break-in incident." While the investigation was in full swing, the discussions were rising to a new peak of attention.
One by one, people were acting as moral guardians, standing atop the high ground of righteousness and morality, passing judgment condescendingly. But Harry only found it laughable.
Because Harry knew, if the real inside story were exposed, it would be the same media that would immediately switch their stance, diving into follow-up reports. Morality and conscience simply didn't exist in the face of profit, and their righteous faces were just a reflection of the current trend.
Absurd.
Maybe the "New Yorker," with its consistent pride and aloofness, was one of the few exceptions.
"Amusing ourselves to death! Who exactly is crossing the line, disregarding life, all for the sake of a headline—
It's you. It's me. It's him. It's everyone. It's the whole society."
As a gathering place for intellectuals, the "New Yorker" did show some conscience. It didn't simply blame an individual but included itself, reflecting on the distortions of the entire era. Everyone got excited by gossip, thrilled by voyeurism, aroused by revelations—this culture of amusing ourselves to death was seeping into the bones and blood of society—
In the end, perhaps everyone would become both a perpetrator and a victim of this culture. When the avalanche happens, not a single snowflake is innocent.
The "New Yorker" ran a feature that spanned four pages, using the Anson Wood incident as a starting point to deeply analyze the illness of society, expressing profound concern for the future.
This sparked widespread discussions across various forums.
Netizens passionately offered suggestions, hoping to catch the real culprit, pushing the news to unprecedented levels of attention.
If he were to release the "Spider-Man" set suit photos now, the traffic would be unimaginable.
Only a fool would miss such a great opportunity.
However, if he released it, it wouldn't just mean giving Anson a weapon to strike back but also exposing himself to public scrutiny, and the potential backlash would be the real problem.
Harry wasn't foolish—he could foresee all these consequences.
As a result, he just sat there, holding a gold mine, staring blankly at the computer screen.
Damn. Damn it, damn it, damn it!
Annoyance, anger, and unease churned in his stomach, rolling around, unable to settle, as if he were being roasted over a blazing fire.
He hadn't slept for over forty hours. He was utterly exhausted, yet he still couldn't sleep. His mind seemed on the verge of exploding at any moment.
Then Harry saw a post—
"Doesn't Mount Sinai Hospital have surveillance cameras? I know there shouldn't be any inside the hospital, but what about outside? Or at the traffic lights nearby? There must be surveillance cameras around the hospital, right? Based on the time and location, could we possibly find a suspect from the footage?"
First reply: Genius!
Second reply: Yeah, yeah, the OP's idea is spot on. We should check the surveillance footage.
Third reply: Doesn't NYPD already know this? They might be sifting through footage as we speak.
Various discussions continued to unfold, with many eventually deviating from the original topic, but that one post sent chills down Harry's spine, goosebumps screaming across his entire body.
Crap!
NYPD was one thing, but Anson's Polaroid photo was another.
How could he forget about that Polaroid photo?
That was solid evidence, undeniable proof! Once made public, it would be execution day!
In other words, his identity being exposed was only a matter of time.
What to do?
Harry grabbed his head with both hands, lightly banging his forehead against the desk, trying to calm himself down, though that was clearly no easy feat.
Damn it, damn it, damn it!
Wait, a lightbulb suddenly went off in Harry's mind, and he stopped banging his head.
Harry had a bold idea:
Why not just release the Spider-Man suit photos?
Of course, anonymously, posted on the TMZ website.
First, it would divert attention. People's focus would shift easily. As long as there was fresh gossip, public attention would quickly move on, just like goldfish with seven-second memories, forgetting the hospital break-in incident entirely.
Second, it would create confusion. When people kept speculating about the suspect behind the break-in, the appearance of Spider-Man's suit could muddy the waters, leading them to think:
Maybe these were two different people. Maybe different paparazzi were all chasing after Anson.
More precisely, "paparazzi" was a collective term; it was a group activity. There were likely not just one or two suspects but hundreds, maybe thousands. Instead of blaming one paparazzo, why not blame the entire group? Instead of holding one accountable, why not critique the whole culture?
Just like the "New Yorker" feature.
Third, and most importantly, this was his labor of love—
The latest suit from "Spider-Man 2."
Wasn't that hook intriguing enough? Wasn't it a big enough headline? He had worked so hard to capture that perfect moment, yet the masterpiece just sat in the shadows?
It was unacceptable.
The more he thought about it, the more he felt unwilling to let it go. Regret, anger, anxiety, hesitation—all these emotions rushed in, gnawing at his soul.
It might be the proudest work of his career, and it made Anson stumble hard, but he was the only one who could appreciate it?
What a waste.
He craved for people to see his work, for his photos to go viral. At a time when everyone was curious about the new Spider-Man suit, he not only provided an answer but gave a perfect one—complete with extra credit. How could it just stay buried?
Torment. Pain. Agony.
If hell really existed, Harry was sure he was in it right now.
Without realizing it, Harry closed his browser, and there on his computer desktop were his works—
Photos from the set of "Spider-Man 2," showing Anson soaring in the air, executing a high-difficulty leap, perfectly embodying the stance of Spider-Man. Even though the wires were visible, it didn't break the illusion; instead, it was astounding. The fact that those shots weren't CGI but real stunts was mind-blowing.
Not just the suit, but the entire vibe and atmosphere were also flawless.
It was his creation—his piece of art. And no one could see it?
"Post it. Post it. Post it!"
The angel and the demon wrestled in his mind, the demon's whispers resonating in his ears, the adrenaline gradually lighting a fire, and before he knew it, his right hand was reaching for the mouse.
Like a moth to a flame.
Now Harry finally understood what that felt like. Even knowing the outcome, even with reason holding the reins, the impulse was impossible to resist.
Click.
The mouse clicked softly, and the TMZ website updated.