At 1:14 a.m., only 803 people remain in the livestream. Old Li Bu Kui keeps urging Lin Zhixia to sing, then complains that she sounds awful. He even exposes her in front of everyone, saying she signed a three-year contract with Huanyu Culture Media and hasn't gotten a single featured spot. But tonight, a person appears behind every word on the screen. She sees Li Wei sitting in a van with the engine still running. That afternoon, while hosting a wedding, he forgot to say the bride's name and was publicly berated by the groom. He has been sitting in the van for forty minutes, too afraid to go upstairs. He insults her just to turn the page. Lin Zhixia calls him out in front of everyone. His profile goes gray. He sends ten little hearts and apologizes. The chat turns in her favor, and the viewer count jumps to 1,064. The gray avatar at the top of the viewer list, nickname 0000, has been here for three years, never missed a stream, and never said a word. At the bottom, a message drifts by: "There's no point in living." The sender is Wanwan Never Replies. Behind the words appears an old fourteen-square-meter room. Twenty-three-year-old Su Wan sits on the floor, a printed sheet spread across her knees. An empty medicine box lies by her feet, and her phone is propped up on a dictionary, showing this very livestream. She has just typed those six words. Her fingers are shaking, and she wants to delete them. Lin Zhixia clenches her hand. She can't call out, so she just pulls the microphone closer and says, "Turn your volume up one notch. Don't turn it off." The three-year rule can wait. She won't sing that song before ending the stream tonight. The 803 viewers are still urging her on. She looks at the camera and says, one word at a time:
