Livestream

Chen Ge's mind churned, a cauldron of doubt bubbling over. Only one soul fit the shadowed profile from the news: the old man holed up with the so-called 'landlord.' Peculiar—the articles crown the owner an elder, yet this limping brute barely crests middle age. He rose from the fungal bed, its damp tendrils brushing his fingers like a living thing, and pressed his ear to the peeling wall. The television next door blared on, a relentless drone now peddling some garish commercial—cheap wares hawked in tinny cheer. Who endures this drivel for minutes unbroken? He edged closer, the wall's mildewed chill seeping into his cheek. Something's slipped past me—I've missed a stitch in this grim tapestry.

He shut his eyes, willing the fog to clear, and sifted through the day's jagged fragments. I'd barely crossed the threshold of 208 when that plate shattered next door—a brittle cry in the stillness. Then the landlord's voice erupted, spitting venom at the old man, curses piling like storm clouds. It raged until the TV's volume surged, swallowing the din. His thoughts snagged on the old man's frailty—wheelchair-bound, helpless. Had to be the landlord who cranked it. But why drown the room in noise?

A dark thread wove through his mind, tightening his gaze. Abuse? Is he thrashing the old man, the racket a shroud for the blows? The notion took root, sprouting thorns. That plate fell the instant I arrived—too pat, too perfect. A signal, maybe—an SOS scratched out in porcelain? A mere dish shouldn't spark such fury—unless he feared I'd catch the echo. His pulse quickened. Why dread my ears? Why would the old man cry for aid?

A stray memory flared, sharp as a wand's spark—the landlord's tirade had spilled foreign oaths, alien to Jiujiang's tongue. The burned family were locals, rooted here. This hobbler's no kin—his accent betrays him. The chill sank deeper, clawing at his ribs. No man bequeaths his legacy to an outsider—unless this limper snatched it, chaining the old man in his own ruin! A caretaker turned vulture—or the murderer himself, squatting on his kill?

Both paths led to peril. His fists balled, nails biting his palms. That's why he lurked at my door—sniffing for what I've unraveled! Sweat slicked his brow, a cold sheen born of frantic deduction. He wasn't a detective, just a haunt-weaver, cobbling clues from late-night thrillers and half-remembered plots. Storm in, club him 'til he drops? Madness—if I'm off, I'm the villain, locked up or worse. The mallet's weight pressed his hand, the penknife a cold lump in his pocket as he paced the room's squalid confines—dust swirling like restless spirits in his wake.

Test him—prod his guise? Too dicey. Accomplices could skulk nearby, and I'm a lone fool here. No hard proof—just whispers and guesses. He halted, breath hitching. The mission's quarry is the killer from four years past—stick to that, not this tangle. A deadlock gripped him, a mental mire with no exit. Then—silence crashed in. The TV cut off, abrupt as a guillotine's fall, leaving the night hollow and vast.

What's afoot? He nudged his door ajar, sinking low, a thief in his own shadow. Peering out, he scanned the landlord's den—no light bled from beneath. Abed at 8 p.m.? Mallet clutched, he scuttled over, a absurd silhouette crawling through the gloom. Halfway there, a wry chuckle escaped—What a sight I must be—and he stowed the weapon, retreating to his lair. My theory's a wisp—need a sharper mind to cut through.

He flopped onto the bed, the fungal stench curling around him like a shroud, and fished out his phone. His contact list stared back, a barren roster save for Xu Wan's name glowing like a lone candle. Beyond her, the others were specters—untouched, uncalled. Loyal as a dog, aren't I? He scrolled, hunting a lifeline. One name flickered: He San, the lad who'd crumpled in his haunt. Med student—brain wired for logic, surer than mine.

The video app blinked alive—twenty messages piled up, a digital clamor. A studio's note shimmered: praise for his craft, a bid to enlist him. Some fame-peddler? No time for such trifles—he sought He San's ID, brushing the offer aside. Yet the studio doubled down, relentless:

"You there? Your clip's got juice—real potential.

"Team up with us?

"We'll sling you to top streamers—fame's yours.

"Solo's a grind—most ride crews and connections.

"Prime deal—mull it over.

"You there?"

The barrage grated, pop-ups flashing like cursed missives. I'm dodging a butcher who torched four souls, and they hawk glory? His patience frayed. "Stepping away," he typed, curt.

"Witty one! Just tag our logo—we'll lift you up, swell your crowd."

"Not now—occupied." Polite, he reckoned—others'd hurl curses and banish the lot.

"Your short's a spark—could blaze big. But it's a lottery. Million uploads flood this pit daily—you're a fortunate mote. Fast-food watchers—no patience. Newer, shinier baubles snatch their eyes hourly. Botch this, and your flicker drowns in the tide."

"Later—pressing matter." He San's ID gleamed.

"Graver than gold? Still teetering? We'll pay fat coin for your tricks, your lens-craft."

Irritation flared—he blacklisted the pest, pinging He San. A reply zipped back, swift as a hex: "Boss! Craving your next reel!"

"Hold—got a weightier ask." Numbers swapped, he dialed, voice a hushed rasp in the fetid dark, spilling the apartment's twisted skein.