After speaking, he strode purposefully towards the producer, gripping the collar of the latter's shirt with such force that he almost lifted him halfway into the air, dragging him directly under the glare of the camera's harsh lights. "This so-called creative genius of a producer, who boasts of boundless ideas, has reduced a sacred interview program into a sensationalist reality show spectacle. He, disregarding my principles and boundaries, unilaterally altered the program's flow without my slightest consent, dragging Li Haoyu's fiancée forcibly into the eye of the storm, attempting to create a buzzworthy confrontation from afar. Does he claim this is for the sake of content's comprehensiveness and authenticity? Preposterous! It is merely a despicable tactic to boost viewership, a premeditated scheme concocted in his mind the moment he pressed the answer button. Then, regarding the farce enacted by those so-called 'staff members,' he dismisses it with a flippant 'I had no idea,' which I find nothing short of ironic. I have endured all of this, hoping only for the smooth completion of the program."
However, as the program neared its end, he became restless again and tried to subvert the established arrangement once more. Some might say that this is just a show and there is no need to be overly serious. But as a host, I deeply understand the great responsibility on my shoulders - protecting the dignity and privacy of every guest is an unshirkable mission for me. I must carefully consider the possible consequences of every word and every action, because the viewers behind the camera only see the tip of the iceberg. What I need to do is to guard that unobserved deep sea.
This producer only has click-through rates and topics in his eyes but has forgotten our heavy social responsibilities. In this era when the number of reported cases is constantly rising, the internet is filled with unfounded accusations and malicious speculations against victims. They are labeled as "flirtatious", "deserving of punishment", and "shameless". As if beauty and excellence themselves are a kind of sin and sufficient reason to be violated. Facing these cyber-violence waves surging like the tide, although I am unable to counterattack one by one, I deeply know that through my program, at least I can build a defense line for them and reduce the possibility of secondary harm.
Henceforth, I am more vigilant and resolute. I swear to defend this sanctuary, lest it be transformed into yet another platform for the public execution of victims. For in this world, every soul has the right to pursue beauty, and beauty must never be an excuse for harm. Thus, I will safeguard my guests, shielding them from further trauma."
At a pivotal moment, the program assistant burst through the door, rushing towards the producer with urgent whispers. The host's fingers gradually relaxed, allowing the producer's collar to slip down, as he collapsed to his knees, drained of strength, his face etched with disbelief and sorrow.
But the producer was instantly reinvigorated, his eyes flickering with an eerie intensity. He yanked the second and fourth cameramen, sprinting out of the studio like a predator fixated on its prey. The photographers, sensing the gravity of the situation that could alter the fate of their program, followed suit without hesitation, navigating through corridors, pushing aside startled colleagues, and ultimately bursting through the emergency exit into an unfamiliar hall.
Outside, a crowd had already gathered, fueled by curiosity, their chatter echoing throughout. The producer swiftly assigned tasks: "Number 2, stay on my heels. Number 4, flank us for visuals." Despite their trepidation, the photographers, driven by professional instinct, fought through the throng until a chilling sight forced them to take a involuntary step back—beyond the television station's gates lay a horrific spectacle.
The producer's stern voice thundered in their ears: "What are you standing there for? Keep filming! Keep the cameras rolling until I say stop!" With trembling hands, the photographers reluctantly trained their lenses on the gruesome scene: the lifeless body of 74 lay still on the cold ground, its spark extinguished, the right foot twisted grotesquely behind the shoulder, blood oozing relentlessly from the head, mouth, and the pelvis that had ruptured through the skin. The eyes, wide open and staring towards the television station's entrance, were likewise stained crimson with blood.
The body of 74 was contorted into a heart-wrenching angle, its wounds spewing blood like a raging flood, and those widened eyes, even in death, seemed to narrate endless tales of agony and unfulfilled desires.
The air around seemed to solidify, with only the distant, muffled hum of traffic and the photographers' heightened breaths of fear breaking the silence. Nevertheless, amidst this suffocating moment, the pressure from higher-ups forced the scene to abruptly switch back to the studio like an invisible hand manipulating a puppet.
The host remained crouched, his eyes vacant and disconnected, as if his soul had wandered far from his body. He muttered to himself, his voice laced with self-reproach and confusion, "Cheng Shaocheng, what have you...done?"
Meanwhile, in a different realm, the tenant of 3F, having witnessed the broadcast of these events, abruptly turned off the television and retreated to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face in an attempt to wash away the shock and unease that lingered within. Beside the sink, the lines scrawled on a notepad, marking the days of captivity, glared accusingly, a constant reminder of the elusiveness of freedom.
But the television, as if possessed by its own will, flickered back to life, and the relentless images continued to play out on the screen. He realized that he was compelled to witness the entirety of this program.