Rising Popularity

Chen Ge hunched in the mildew-choked gloom of Room 208, the wall a flimsy veil between him and the landlord's lair. Fearing the limping man's ears might catch his breath, he pressed the phone closer, voice sinking to a whisper—barely a rustle, like wind through a crypt. The line crackled with tension he hadn't meant to weave. When he finished spilling the apartment's twisted tale, silence reigned—then He San's stunned gasp broke through. The lad, fresh from rural fields to Jiujiang's medical halls, hadn't bargained for this in his first chat with an online acquaintance. "You're there? In that cursed pit?"

"Aye," Chen Ge murmured, eyes flicking to the shadowed door.

"And the landlord—next door—might be the killer from years back?"

"Aye."

"Hold up—this is a cauldron too deep for one gulp. Give me a sec to stir it." He San's voice wavered, a stark foil to Chen Ge's plight. Picture the boy: cocooned in a quilt, munching KFC, the glow of mindless videos bathing his dorm—while Chen Ge crouched in a haunted husk, its air thick with sorrow and rot, every creak a harbinger of doom.

"Boss," He San ventured at last, "call the coppers. Proof's thin, sure, but a false report's a slap on the wrist next to losing your hide."

Kindly meant, but Chen Ge's mind turned elsewhere. Murder by Midnight—the black phone's decree—demanded he endure the night here. Police boots would trample the mission, snuffing his shot at a new scenario. Surrender felt like torching a rare tome. "Not yet—cops stay out for now."

"Your neck's the prize here…" He San paused, then brightened. "Here's a brew: flip on your GPS, keep the line live all night. I'll ear on—any queer sounds, I'll summon the law quick."

Not half bad. Chen Ge glanced at his phone, still idling on the video app. A garish Mukbang ad flickered—some glutton gorging for clicks. Then, a spark flared in his shadowed mind. "Why not livestream it? If danger claws, viewers can howl for help—record's my proof. If all holds, it'll lure eyes to my haunt, swell my ranks."

Last night's clip had snagged a thousand followers; today, his Haunted House had buzzed twice as full. The path gleamed clear. His quest here was to claim the mission's boon—bolster his lair. A livestream could guard his throat and fan his fame—why not wield it? "No coin for grand ads, but streams and shorts can hook the rabble."

He lacked polish—platforms, conduits, savvy—but content? That he had in spades. The studio pest had nettled him, yet they'd struck truth: today's crowd craved instant thrills. What outshone a night in a cursed flat, tangling with a mad butcher? His edge gleamed sharp—every shudder, every scare was real, unscripted, a raw plunge into the abyss even he couldn't chart. The stream would mirror his black phone odyssey, live and unfiltered.

"He San, cutting the call. Join my stream—ID's near my profile's mark." He hung, flicked on GPS, set 991 to speed-dial—fingers steady despite the pulse hammering his ribs. On the app, he tapped Livestream.

Short vids—fleeting bursts of seconds—rarely paid. Streamers leaned on live feeds to bind fans, turn follows into coin when not crafting clips. Shorts lured the curious; streams forged them loyal if the brew was potent. By chance, Chen Ge had stumbled into the craft's true alchemy.

"Overnight in a Haunted Hell! Your Daring Guide! Peeling Back the World's Dark Veil!" He punched the title with exclamation marks, a jagged beacon amid tepid chatter streams. Truth be told, he needn't have bothered. This app's live nook was a shallow pond—mostly simpering lasses in scant threads. Chen Ge's feed reared like a troll amid pixies, impossible to miss.

The stream flared live, pinging his followers—his profile blazed with the alert. Seconds ticked, and the first watchers swarmed.

He San led the charge: "Boss, you're for real? Streaming this?"

Death to all Men snarled, "You—the freak from last night's vid? Here to reap your soul!"

"Bloody hell, sis, ease off—let's parley!" Chen Ge shot back, half-amused.

"Creep host, subbed," chimed I'm a Little Green Worm.

"Subs, what's this stream's meat?"

"Can't you read? Title's glaring!"

Viewers surged—lurkers primed for his next move since that mirror clip. Numbers climbed, a slow bleed upward. Chen Ge stowed the mallet—its heft a grim comfort—and faced the lens, grave as a potions master. "Folks, a snag to untangle. Last night's vid? No jest—I lived it. Hunt the full cut on ghost forums if you doubt. Untouched, pure—the mirror's thing is real. Hard to swallow, I know. Stick with me, and I'll crack this world's hidden skin, shard by shard."

"Hello, 001, what's the madhouse hotline? Found an escapee," quipped a wag.

"Love your brazen bull," another jabbed.

"Lee Ming! I see you lurking—fetch me supper. Fried noodles, no heat, cheers!"

"Fu San Mental Ward, Room 31, subbed! Rooting for our mate's new gig!"

Skepticism splashed the chat—disbelief in bright barbs. Chen Ge grinned, unruffled. "Call me unhinged—I don't mind. You'll eat those doubts soon enough." The tally swelled. He turned to the window—night's cloak thickened, stars snuffed by inky sprawl. Lighting a cigarette, its ember a lone firefly, he began unraveling Fu An Apartments' bloody saga for his growing horde.