The label of network ban is stuck to the body like a dog-skin plaster, which cannot be torn off or uncovered.
He put out the cigarette butt and turned back to the house.
On the computer table, an old camera and pickup microphone were wrapped with tape. There were expired instant noodle buckets and a few "scripts" filled with scrawled handwriting scattered nearby.
The theme of tonight is scrawled in red pen on the front page of the script: "In-depth investigation into the case of death in a fall in Room 704, Building 3, Wangshuyuan, in the old city - live broadcast in progress."
Rumors. People have died. Recently.
The combination of these words is the traffic code that this kind of marginal live broadcast relies on to survive.
Shen Jingzhe knew the risks, and the platform's audits were getting stricter and stricter, especially on his account, almost to the point where the live stream would be cut off at the slightest sign of trouble.
But two hundred and seventeen thirty-six cents, not even a fraction of next month's rent.
