The aftershocks of the online backlash hadn't subsided; instead, like a persistent, insidious disease, they continued to erode the commercial value represented by the name Lin Chen. Termination notices poured in like snowflakes, and even those with whom he had only had initial contact immediately distanced themselves. Online, the name "Lin Chen" had become synonymous with "tainted artist" and "hypocrite," and any attempt to defend him was immediately drowned out by even more intense insults.
Starry Entertainment remained silent publicly, offering only an initial, lukewarm statement and no further public relations action. Internally, the treatment of Lin Chen was simple and brutal—an indefinite suspension.
Amy stopped contacting him proactively. Only an administrative staff member routinely informed him that he could temporarily reside in the company-provided apartment, but all living expenses (including utilities and property management fees) were his responsibility, and the company would no longer cover them. His work phone was also confiscated, ostensibly to "avoid unnecessary media interference."
He was thoroughly and cleanly "stored away," like a flawed piece of merchandise tossed into a warehouse corner, ignored by everyone.
The economic pressure hit first. Although he received a partial advance payment after signing the contract, most of it was deducted by the company under the guise of "training fees," "styling fees," and "advance advertising expenses," as stipulated in the contract. What remained was already meager, and he had even sent some money home to buy medicine for his mother. Now, with his income completely cut off, he was living off his savings, watching the numbers in his bank account steadily dwindle, his anxiety growing daily.
He tried contacting acquaintances who might be able to offer him a job, but the calls either went unanswered, or the other person immediately hung up upon hearing his voice. The coldness of human nature was on full display at that moment.
What he found even harder to bear was the spiritual isolation. That apartment, which he once found cold and impersonal, had become his only refuge, but also a magnificent prison. He dared not go out easily, for he might be recognized at any moment, facing pointing fingers or even more violent behavior. He stopped reading the malicious comments online, but the overwhelming malice had already seeped into his subconscious like a poison.
He began to suffer from insomnia, lying awake all night, staring at the ceiling, his mind replaying every detail from the competition to signing the contract, and then to being attacked online. Those distorted facts, those meticulously woven lies, played on a loop like movie clips. Sometimes, he hallucinated, as if he could hear paparazzi whispering outside his door, or the online insults ringing directly in his ears.
He became sensitive and suspicious; even the slightest sound would make his heart race. His appetite also plummeted; takeout orders were often left untouched at the door until they were cold.
Occasionally, he would pick up his old guitar, his fingers tracing the strings, only to find he couldn't even press a single complete chord. Music, which should have been his last refuge, now seemed to have betrayed him, becoming strange and distant. He tried to hum "Mountain Question," but only dry, broken syllables came from his throat.
The boy who sang in the mountain stream seems truly dead. What remains is merely a soulless shell, huddled in a corner of the city.
The harsh winter, freezing him to the bone, not only froze his career but also slowly extinguished his very life.