The real world seems to have been muted.
On the light screen, a cold dagger, a handcuffed policeman, a boy's calm yet chilling questioning... all of this is no longer just a joke, no longer a "sensational" esper live stream.
When Kuchiba Hiro drew back the curtain of resistance in the most direct and bloody way, presenting the cold violence to everyone without any concealment, the enormous impact froze the global uproar instantly.
The previous excited shouts of "Hehehe" and heated discussions about body shape and plot have disappeared.
The heated debates on whether "collective" interests or individual justice are more important have come to a standstill.
Even those who gloated and thrived on chaos fell silent.
It was an extremely shocking scene that could never be fully captured in a movie.
When the dagger mercilessly pierces the throat, a gruesome wound instantly forms, and blood gushes out like a fountain, splattering all around. The wound, though seemingly small, is deadly, as it directly severs vital blood vessels and the trachea.
The person who was stabbed, although her mouth was tightly covered and she could not make a painful cry, her eyes revealed an undisguised fear and despair.
Her eyes widened, her eyeballs seemingly about to pop out of their sockets, filled with fear of death and reluctance to leave life. Her body trembled uncontrollably as she tried to break free of the hand covering her mouth, but to no avail.
In that instant, time seemed to freeze, and everything slowed down dramatically. The tender, pink flesh, churned by the dagger, appeared exceptionally fragile and helpless. The gushing blood, like a crimson torrent, quickly stained everything around it, a horrifying sight.
Real, undisguised death and violence possess the most powerful deterrent effect. It's like a bucket of ice water, extinguishing any interest in watching from the sidelines.
When the struggle escalated into violence, transforming from a concept on the screen into a real dagger pressed against one's throat, everyone instinctively took a step back.
"..." (A long silence)
"I...I'm suddenly starting to dislike Kuchiba Hiro..."
"This...this has gone too far..."
" The Authorities, hurry up! It would be better to lock him up first!"
"Naked but not showing any nipples, with close-ups of bloody brutality... The person behind the light screen... What a perverse sense of humor."
Those who had previously sympathized most with Kuchiba Hiro's plight now fell into a difficult silence.
They could understand his pain and empathize with his anger, but when that anger turned into tangible acts of violence against "order" itself, a deeper fear of chaos and disorder gripped them.
Supporting him seems to mean supporting a dangerous force that could destroy one's own peaceful life.
Those who previously favored maintaining "order" and believed that the Authorities' methods might be "necessary" are now feeling an unprecedented sense of unease.
The representatives they sent to uphold the "order" were easily subdued, their throats slit with cold knives. The fragility of this "order," and the bloody consequences of the resistance sparked by the "suppression," made them afraid to speak out again.
A rare "neutral" vacuum has emerged in the otherwise noisy public discourse. People are watching cautiously, no longer readily taking sides or freely venting their emotions.
Because everyone vaguely realized that what was unfolding on that light screen was no longer a story unrelated to themselves. It was a mirror, reflecting the cruelest truths that could happen anywhere when an individual is driven to the brink of despair, when a massive machine begins to crush them.
The cold glint of that dagger seemed to pierce through the screen, illuminating the fear of violence, the dependence on order, and the helplessness in the face of irreconcilable contradictions deep within one's heart.
The initial enthusiasm for watching the play vanished, replaced by a heavy, almost suffocating silence. For the first time, people felt so clearly that they were not only spectators, but could also become… a speck of dust in this gradually spiraling change.
On the light screen, the boy made his choice.
Beyond the light screen, the entire world fell silent in the face of the bloody scene. Only the heart pounded heavily and uneasily within the chest.
The cold water washed away the bloodstains between her fingers, which had faded but still seemed sticky. Kuchiba Hiro looked up at the water-stained mirror above the sink.
The boy in the mirror was pale, his lips trembling slightly. Water droplets slid down his wet black hair, like cold sweat or undried tears. His pupils contracted slightly, reflecting a deep-seated, animalistic fear.
He was afraid.
He was trembling.
He was afraid.
He knew perfectly well what he had just done, and understood what those water-soaked hands had taken away. He also foresaw with unparalleled clarity that embarking on this path would inevitably lead to failure, and failure meant certain death.
A faint, instinctive sense of regret and chill crept into his heart like a venomous snake. Perhaps there was a better way? Perhaps…
But the thought had barely formed when it was completely consumed and destroyed by the raging fire in his chest that had not been extinguished but was burning ever brighter. The flames seared his internal organs, dispelling that momentary weakness.
He stared intently at his reflection in the mirror, as if trying to pierce the shadow of fear through his gaze. He muttered to himself, his voice hoarse yet carrying a desperate, reckless ferocity, as if casting a curse upon himself, or drawing strength from the souls of others throughout history who, likewise, had fought against colossal forces:
"The brave are angry and draw their swords against the stronger; the cowardly are angry and draw their swords against the weaker."
He turned off the tap, and the water stopped abruptly, leaving only the sound of his heavy breathing.
He picked up the crumpled towel next to him and vigorously wiped his palms, as if trying to wipe away all his hesitation and confusion.
"Even those living in the gutter can look up at the stars. If the stars are destined to devour us, then let them shine the brightest light before they do."
He raised his head and looked at his reflection in the mirror again. The fear in his eyes had not completely faded, but it was now covered by a more intense, almost insane, resolve.
Finally, in a very low but clear voice, he gave the final explanation for his futile resistance:
"Even if we are no match for them, we will never surrender."
Individuals battling a torrent. The insignificant challenging a behemoth. Though there are millions, I will go.
The boy in the mirror finally developed a completely cold, emotionless gaze...