Hugo rubbed his throbbing temples and sat at the stairwell connecting the second floor to the first. He had originally planned to go downstairs to take out the trash, but when he looked out the window, he saw a group of paparazzi gathered at the front of the house. His steps faltered, and he ultimately stopped on the stairs, sitting down on the steps and staring blankly at the photographers roaming outside.
Over the past week, Hugo had been hounded by reporters to the point of fear. He had been having recurring nightmares. In these dreams, he stood in an empty playground, surrounded by countless black camera lenses surging toward him like a swarm of spiders. Even without flashes, he felt suffocated. The phobia of dense objects gave him goosebumps all over. Behind each lens was a face, but the features were invisible, like Dementors in the Harry Potter series—hollow shadows under hats that seemed to drain all his joy. He was surrounded by these lenses, as if ants were devouring an elephant, gradually consuming him entirely.
In the nightmare, Hugo struggled, trying desperately to shake off the cameras, to break free from the dream's grip, but he always failed. Only when completely submerged in the lenses would he wake up drenched in sweat. These nightmares sharply deteriorated his sleep quality, leaving him mentally drained.
Hugo had always known that being a celebrity meant living under constant scrutiny, with every action magnified—sometimes under a microscope. He thought he was prepared, that his nerves were tough enough to handle it. Even after Anthony Stewart's provocations, Hugo had quickly calmed down and formulated solutions.
But he had underestimated the media's power. The recent speculation and scrutiny surrounding the "A-List Controversy" had fractured his life. Reporters were like leeches; once they touched him, they would not leave until fully sated, which caused Hugo endless distress. He had tried every approach—silent endurance, anger, reasoned argument but nothing worked. His once resilient nerves were tested like fire. The nightmares made him fearful of cameras and reporters alike.
Now, just seeing the journalists outside, he didn't even dare to go downstairs to throw out the trash. The situation was almost laughable.
Hugo wanted to force a wry smile at his own weakness and cowardice, but he found he didn't even have the strength for that. Not even a sarcastic grin was possible. He massaged his twitching temples, his mind feeling as though tiny people were beating drums inside, and his back tensed so much that he had to lean against the wall and close his eyes, hoping to relieve the throbbing pain.
"Get up! Don't block the way!" a harsh voice called from behind. Hugo didn't even need to open his eyes to know it was Ernst Lehmann, who lived upstairs.
Hugo opened his mouth to reply but suddenly found he didn't want to speak. He had talked too much to reporters recently, and now speaking felt burdensome. It was absurd—he never imagined he would one day fear talking. He snorted lightly in self-disgust.
"Are you dying? If so, go outside to die. Don't dirty the stairwell," Ernst said, prodding Hugo's back with a hard object. Hugo guessed it was Ernst's cane. The sharp pain shot through his sore body, making him feel as if he were falling apart.
Ernst's words were harsh, and Hugo, already in discomfort, snapped irritably: "Don't worry—I'll definitely outlive you."
Hugo turned to glare at Ernst, conveying his displeasure. Even this movement made his head pound as if it would explode. He suspected he might have caught a cold. Wonderful. But there was no time to dwell on his head. His hazy vision settled on Ernst.
Ernst was bundled in a thick coat, almost drowning his frail frame. His scarf covered most of his cheeks but could not conceal his forehead and the corners of his eyes, lined with age. The wrinkles were deep and clear. His murky eyes seemed to blur, as if any remaining spark could vanish at any moment.
Hugo realized that compared to himself, Ernst was closer to death. He didn't know Ernst's exact age, but he looked at least seventy. Hugo's earlier comment had been excessive. He paused, then sighed. "Sorry, I shouldn't have said that," Hugo admitted, twisting slightly on the stairs from the stiffness in his bones. "I'm in a bad mood, but I shouldn't have taken it out on you. Sorry."
Hugo took a deep breath, trying to calm his agitation, preparing to stand. "Sorry, I'll get up now." He knew he was blocking Ernst's way on the stairs.
But Ernst tapped Hugo's shoulder with his cane, signaling him to stay seated. In a gruff voice, he said, "Relax. I'm old, yes, but healthy. I might even outlive you. Who knows? You might overdose someday."
The old man was relentless. Hugo chuckled. "Ernst, I know you don't like me, but there's no need to curse me."
Ernst snorted. "I'm not a wizard. My curses don't hurt anyone. What, are you worried I'll stab you myself? Pathetic." His sharp tongue made Hugo smile wearily. "And you look so down and lifeless—don't tell me it's because of those squawking crows outside?"
Hugo couldn't help laughing at Ernst's description of the reporters and nodded. "Yes, their noise gives me a headache."
"Useless," Ernst said disdainfully, as if looking at a mastiff beaten by a cat. Hugo felt a wave of frustration hit his forehead as Ernst slowly sat down beside him. Hugo looked down, about to speak, but Ernst cut him off: "Scared of reporters? Pathetic. They're not dragons from the old legends." He then settled in.
Watching Hugo's astonished expression, Ernst put his cane across his knees and said, "You're an actor, right?" Hugo nodded blankly. He hadn't expected Ernst to strike up a conversation. This was the most normal interaction between them in a year—truly surprising.
"Media is part of your job," Ernst continued. "You need to use these crows for publicity, and they need you to survive. You're mutually dependent. So why fear them?"
Ernst glanced at Hugo with obvious disdain. "These crows' chatter is irritating. Some of it's good, some bad; some positive, some negative. If you listen to everything, you'd go crazy. You might as well quit acting and just sit around listening to them all day."
"I…" Hugo tried to defend himself. He didn't obsess over every comment from reporters, but Ernst wouldn't give him the chance. "Hah, don't deny it. If you didn't care about these crows, why would you sit here like an idiot?" Ernst jabbed his cane toward the trash bag beside Hugo, causing his cheeks to flush.
"It's like nobody is perfect. Nobody can win everyone's love. If you want to be universally adored, then money's your choice—checks, bonuses, things like that," Ernst said, his coarse voice grating like sandpaper on a chalkboard. The bluntness had a comical effect, making Hugo suppress a smile. "You don't actually think you're perfect, do you?"
Hugo shook his head quickly.
"Good, at least you have some self-awareness," Ernst muttered, smacking his lips as he studied Hugo's tense face. "So, the crows' opinions will always vary. When a film comes out, those so-called professional critics will cheer or jeer. Learning how to filter these opinions, how to interpret them—that's what's important."
Hugo listened intently. Ernst's words were rough, but full of truth. "If someone praises you, why do they do it? Is it genuine, or just flattery? And if they criticize you, is it constructive, helping you improve, or just for attention? You have to distinguish the meaning behind the noise, then ignore the useless parts."
Hugo had known these truths before, but only vaguely. Now, after experiencing the recent media storm firsthand, Ernst's words helped him understand them clearly.
"Most importantly," Ernst continued with a scowl, "don't let these crows dictate your mood. Don't celebrate every compliment or sulk over every insult. That's pathetic. Remember, they're just crows. You are you—staying true to yourself is what matters." Ernst's expression betrayed a mixture of scorn and irritation. "If you can't learn this in our world, then you might as well go hide in your mother's arms."
Hugo couldn't hold back a chuckle. For the first time in a long while, he smiled genuinely. But Ernst, confused, looked around expectantly. "What's so funny? Did a woman appear?" Ernst even looked around theatrically, adding to the comic effect.
Hugo forced back a grin. "No, nothing like that… it's just…" His gaze dropped to the stairs. "You're sitting on chewing gum. You do know that, right?" He had been meaning to tell Ernst earlier but had been interrupted.
Ernst froze for a moment, then, after about two seconds of hesitation, muttered, "O-of course!" He looked down at his pants, murmuring under his breath, "I'm going to kill that guy…"
.....
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