Anson wasn't sure if it was just his imagination, but the black platform shoe lying in the golden sunlight seemed to be screaming for attention.
What now?
But Anson didn't panic. Quickly assessing the spatial layout, he noted the shoe hadn't yet entered the young man's line of sight. As long as he didn't act suspiciously and draw attention to it, the guy might not notice—
Sometimes, the best hiding spot was right under the nose.
His mind raced.
Anson put on a thoughtful expression, tilting his chin slightly. "Over there—she just ran past with a cat in her arms. Looked like she was trying to hail a cab."
"Ah!"
The young man gasped, showing no suspicion. Without another word to Anson, he spun toward the indicated direction just as a taxi passed by. He immediately broke into a sprint, muttering curses under his breath as he vented his fury.
His menacing aura was barely contained, radiating intensity even as he restrained himself.
In the blink of an eye, he vanished around the corner.
Anson was about to tell the girl the coast was clear when a figure materialized in front of him like Catwoman, descending from above.
Whoosh.
Thud!
A dark blur flashed at the corner of his eye.
Instinctively, Anson reached out, unsure whether to catch her or shield her—just a reflexive gesture.
But she stuck the landing, striking a Terminator-style knee-drop pose before rising smoothly without any help.
Then, with a toss of her hair, she flashed Anson a superhero-worthy smile. "Thanks for the assist—"
Before she could finish, she began hopping on one foot, grimacing.
"Ah! Ah! My foot—cramp! Ahhh…"
Right in front of Anson, she stomped and gasped, writhing like an earthworm in the rain—a far cry from her earlier cool demeanor.
Anson burst out laughing. "You okay? Not hurt?"
The girl straightened up, forcing composure as she cleared her throat. "N-no, I'm fine—"
She turned abruptly, waving hurriedly at Anson while silently mouthing curses at the pain. But she didn't stop, heading straight for a corner of the parking lot to carefully place the kitten beside a larger cat lounging in the sun.
Stepping back, she watched the kitten burrow under its mother's belly, a relieved smile spreading across her face.
Then the grimace returned.
"Ow, ow ow ow…"
Only now did she realize she was missing a shoe—
L.A.'s afternoon sun was brutal. Even in April, the pavement burned like a griddle.
Hopping on tiptoe, she limped back, teeth gritted.
Anson picked up the abandoned platform shoe and presented it like a glass slipper on a luxury boutique display.
As she approached, he raised an eyebrow. "So… Cinderella, is it?"
The girl froze—
Then snorted.
"Hah! Hahaha!"
She doubled over laughing, her smile radiant as she replied with effortless charm.
"Scarlett Cinderella Johnson. You can call me by my middle name."
Of course, it was a joke—
Scarlett Johansson, the future beauty who'd captivate millions, was still a slightly scrawny, slightly alternative teen. Her features, not yet fully matured, were more delicate than sultry—sweet with a touch of elegance.
After all, she wouldn't even turn seventeen this year.
Honestly, Anson hadn't recognized her.
Even face-to-face, she felt unfamiliar. Was this really the same person?
Used to the Black Widow who dominated screens in the future, seeing this youthful version was understandably jarring.
Surprised as he was, Anson reacted seamlessly, executing a gallant bow. "Anson Prince Charming Wood."
Scarlett watched his knightly gesture, laughter bubbling up again—until she remembered the urgency. What if her giggles gave her away?
"Ah! Sorry, gotta run!" She waved, snatching back her shoe while hobbling away. Several steps later, she turned to call out, "Thanks! I mean—for everything!"
Tap-tap-tap…
The cherry-red pants disappeared into the distance.
Now, Anson finally understood that L.A. saying—
Throw a brick, and you'll hit three Hollywood professionals.
Whether they were actors, writers, directors, or something else depended on the neighborhood.
Maybe the server refilling your coffee was the next superstar. Of course, far more ended up as forgotten casualties in the industry's trenches.
Shaking his head, Anson headed into Ralphs, bought two cases of water, and wheeled them out. Just then, the Nokia in his pocket buzzed—
Pulling it out, he couldn't help but smile. He still remembered envying classmates who owned Nokias in middle school. In the year 2000, having one meant you were at the cutting edge of cool. Now those memories were back.
The caller ID read Chris.
As Anson went to answer, a commotion erupted ahead—
"No! I told you—no! I don't want to!"
It was… Scarlett.
And the furious young man from earlier.
The guy was trying to yank her arm, but she shook him off. Undeterred, he blocked her path, eyes blazing.
Scarlett shoved him.
But the power imbalance was stark—
This wasn't Black Widow yet.
The guy didn't budge, his rage barely leashed as he snarled, "You don't get a say in this."
"Now, two choices: come quietly, or I drag you out. Your call, Scarlett."
Was that even a choice?
Anson strode forward without hesitation, calling out from a distance, "Back off. Didn't you hear her? She said no. No need to harass her further."
He glanced at Scarlett. "You alright? Want me to call the cops?"
The guy cut her off with a glare, silencing her before rounding on Anson.
"Beat it."
"Turn around and walk away—unless you want trouble."
Fists clenched, he advanced on Anson.