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Harry Pesci had had enough. He really had enough.
He wasn't some circus contortionist; his joints had stiffened like dried beef jerky since he was seven, crushing any dreams of becoming a ballet dancer. He had finally found a sneaky way to get into the "Spider-Man" production trailer to see what was going on. Did he have any other choice?
No, he had to go through with it, no matter what.
After all, this was a paparazzo's job, wasn't it?
Unfortunately, there was nothing inside the trailer. Everything was just the usual stuff, and after a quick search, he found no secrets worth leaking.
Harry was ready to give up. After all, there weren't any big names in the "Spider-Man" crew, so continuing to chase this lead wasn't really worth it. But then, he hesitated. Was he really going to give up that easily?
He had gone through so much trouble to sneak into the trailer, and now he was just going to leave empty-handed?
Besides, thinking about it, Sony Columbia had been acting mysteriously lately. The news about the stolen "Spider-Man" costume had been making headlines for a month, and still, no one knew the truth—
Was Sony Columbia orchestrating the whole thing, or did it really happen?
If he could photograph the Spider-Man costume and sell the pictures to *American Weekly* or *Entertainment Weekly*, he might not make $200,000, but $100,000 seemed reasonable.
With this thought, Harry stopped and began searching for a hiding spot.
The wardrobe—this was the best place he could find.
However…
Hiding in the wardrobe was stuffy and hot, narrow and cramped, like being in an oven. Who would have thought that in March, he'd be sweating like it was the middle of summer, like a panting dog in the street? His knees were pressed against his chest, making it hard to breathe, and the tight calf muscles were on the verge of cramping.
Just then, someone finally entered the trailer.
Harry was delighted and tried to listen closely. From the conversation, he could tell that the person was likely the male lead, Anson!
Finally, perfect timing!
But why had it gone so silent after they came in? What happened?
Unable to help himself, Harry's leg slipped out of his control and bumped against the wardrobe, making a noise. He clenched his teeth, trying to stay still, his expression as determined as Tom Cruise's character in *Mission: Impossible* when he was suspended mid-air, stealing data.
But Harry wasn't a spy. His leg continued to slip out of control.
Damn it!
As his calf began to cramp, Harry gritted his teeth and made a quick decision. He let his knees relax, grabbed his camera, and aimed it at the wardrobe door.
He took a deep breath, then another.
Whoosh.
Harry suddenly flung open the wardrobe door. Light pierced the darkness, and before he could even take in the scene, his finger was already pressing down on the shutter.
The shutter clicked like the trigger of a machine gun.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
In a barrage of shots, the camera's rapid clicks were accompanied by the flash of silver light, enveloping the whole world in a blur of shadows and flashes. Harry, with his years of experience, made a noise to startle them, intending to throw his target into chaos.
### Harry Was Unaware of the Situation Outside the Wardrobe
Harry had no idea what was happening outside the wardrobe. He didn't know if Anson was alone or with someone, whether Anson was in his costume or completely undressed. But that didn't matter. What mattered was creating chaos.
Chaos led to mistakes; chaos led to embarrassment.
And once someone was embarrassed, that's when the news broke.
As a seasoned paparazzo, Harry knew this all too well. If he could snap a photo of Anson and another person in a compromising position, or even just catch Anson struggling to change clothes and accidentally falling, today's effort would be worth it.
So, Harry needed to be aggressive and decisive—
Bang! Bang! Bang!
A flurry of action, as fierce as a tiger.
Ah, cramp—wait, a leg cramp! His curled-up body twisted in agony like it was being roasted over hot coals. At this point, he couldn't care less about the camera, clutching his calf and howling in pain.
"Ah, ah, ah… My leg, it's cramping, cramping…"
Harry clung to his calf, his face full of despair, whimpering and crying, unsure if the wetness on his face was from tears or sweat.
Suddenly, he looked up and saw Anson.
Does anyone remember that classic fisheye lens shot from the movie *Trainspotting*?
That was exactly how Anson looked in Harry's eyes—head tilted, full of curiosity, blinking innocently like a bystander munching on popcorn. His expression was like that of a schoolboy studying the habits of ants, missing only a slice of watermelon in his hands.
Harry: ???
Something was off.
Anson wasn't panicking, wasn't embarrassed, wasn't shy, and wasn't nervous. He was as calm and collected as a person taking a leisurely stroll, his composed expression making Harry feel deeply insulted.
Excuse me, sir, could you at least pretend to be startled or maybe a bit angry? This is a paparazzo catching you off guard here! Give me something to work with.
Could it be… Anson didn't understand the situation?
Harry blinked in confusion.
"I… I'm taking photos."
Anson nodded lightly. "I know."
Harry felt like an idiot.
Anson then casually sat down across from Harry, looking at him lying in the wardrobe. "Very dedicated. I've seen documentaries where top photographers lie on the ground like this to get the perfect shot. Does that help with your work?"
Harry, "Not really. This isn't a studio; there's not enough light… Hey! I'm sneaking photos of you! Why aren't you panicking?"
Anson shrugged lightly. "Should I be?"
In a way, Anson could understand the cat-and-mouse game between top celebrities and paparazzi. Their lives were already so exposed under the spotlight that they had no private space left, and playing hide and seek with the paparazzi was almost like a silent protest.
But the thing was, Anson's career was just starting, and he hadn't experienced anything like that yet, so he wasn't bothered by paparazzi, much less afraid of them.
After all, he had nothing to hide.
That straightforward attitude left Harry, lying on the floor, completely stunned—
Something's not right here.
The whole situation was off. Harry was lying on the ground, Anson sitting on a chair—guess who was the hunter and who was the prey?
Harry was panicking.
His mind was a chaotic mess, but before he could think any further, the pain in his calf took over, a sharp numbness spreading from his foot up his leg, like a swarm of ants gnawing at his muscles, leaving his calf completely numb. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out.
Ah.
The sudden surge of pain hit its peak, blasting his brain like a pulse of light, making him wonder if his pain receptors had been severed, leaving him voiceless. Harry found himself in a silent scream, his contorted face rivaling that of Jim Carrey's rubbery expressions in *The Mask*.
Finally, Anson noticed something was wrong. He stood up, took two steps forward, and asked, "Wait, do you need help?"
Harry burst into tears. *Sir, you're just now noticing the agony on my face?*