It began with three glowing screens. Cold. Silent. Unblinking.
CHEN WEI DEAD.
The headline flickered across every monitor inside the news van, casting a ghostly light on the faces staring back at it. No one spoke. Not at first. The hum of electronics and the rhythmic thrum of heartbeats filled the space like a ticking bomb waiting to go off.
Then—
"Where the hell is the family?" The producer snapped, his voice slicing through the silence like a whip. "We need someone—anyone. Get a camera on the damn entrance!"
The young reporter, Zhao, barely glanced up. Her fingers hovered, trembling, above her keyboard. "The police… They've locked it down. No one's allowed through. But… the crowd… it's growing. Fast."
Outside, the world was unraveling.
Dozens of cameras flashed like lightning in a storm. Reporters shoved, elbowed, and clawed their way forward, all desperate for a glimpse, a quote, or a tragedy they could sell. The building that had once stood quiet and proud now looked haunted, draped in shadows and the raw breath of hysteria.
A girl pushed through the crowd. Nineteen, maybe twenty. Pale. Fragile. Her eyes were wide with disbelief, her hands shaking as they clutched a framed photograph of Chen Wei to her chest.
"No…" she whispered. Her lips barely moved, but the agony in her voice cut deeper than a scream. "This can't be real. He promised us a comeback…"
A microphone lunged toward her like a snake.
"Miss! Miss! Were you close to him? Do you believe this was suicide? Was there someone else involved?"
Her sob cracked the air in two. Her friend pulled her away, shielding her from the frenzy, but the damage was done. She had become another shattered piece in the wake of a star's fall.
Back in the newsroom, the anchor's face flickered onto every screen in the country. She was pristine. Flawless. Not a hair out of place. But behind her polished composure, her eyes shimmered with the weight of the words she was about to deliver.
"This morning, the world of entertainment was struck by tragedy. Chen Wei, the beloved actor and national icon, was found dead in his home earlier today. Authorities are investigating the incident as a potential suicide."
The words hit like a thunderclap.
"We go live to our correspondent Zhang Wei, at the scene."
The screen shifted. A grey sky hung low over the city, and beneath it, Zhang Wei stood like a statue at the edge of a crime scene that felt less like a location and more like the end of an era.
"The atmosphere here is surreal," Zhang began, voice tight with restrained emotion. "Chen Wei was discovered by his assistant after failing to respond to calls. The authorities entered the apartment at approximately 10:07 a.m. What they found inside…" He paused, eyes briefly flicking down. "...was heartbreaking. Chen Wei's body was discovered in his private study. The early assessment suggests suicide by hanging."
A gasp rippled across social media. Comments exploded in real time.
"NO. NOT HIM."
"He just posted a selfie yesterday…"
"This has to be foul play. Someone did this!"
An ambulance pulled out from the underground parking. The sirens were off, but the silence that replaced them was even louder. The gurney was rolled forward, covered in a white sheet that couldn't hide the unmistakable outline of Chen Wei's form beneath it.
The world stopped breathing.
The crowd surged. Barriers bent. Screams echoed, raw and unfiltered.
Inside the ambulance, a paramedic's hand rested gently over the sheet, as if still offering comfort to the man who had once lit up the screens of millions. It was a gesture far too human for a moment so cruel.
Then the doors slammed shut, and with a groan of the engine, the ambulance vanished into the city's veins.
A black car pulled up just as the flashing lights disappeared.
Police Chief Li emerged, his face unreadable. Cold. Controlled. But his eyes betrayed him. There was something in them—something unsettled.
"Chief Li!"
"Was it really suicide?"
"Any word from the family? Did Chen Wei leave a note?"
He raised his hand, and the crowd fell into a brittle silence.
"We are treating this as an ongoing investigation. No conclusions can be drawn at this stage. We urge the media and the public to respect the privacy of the deceased and refrain from spreading speculation."
He turned without another word.
But speculation had already taken root like wildfire.
On Weibo, hashtags lit up like constellations:
#ChenWeiDeath
#GoneTooSoon
#TruthBehindTheSmile
Famous celebrities added their voices to the storm.
Wang Jie, award-winning actor: "I still remember the last scene we shot together. You laughed like the world couldn't touch you. Rest well, brother."
International pop star LUNA: "I watched him from across the sea. He was my inspiration. Why does the world eat its brightest stars alive?"
And then came the fans. Thousands. Tens of thousands.
Candles flickered outside his building. Flowers covered the pavement like a burial shroud. Letters, posters, and plush toys—gifts to a man no longer here to receive them.
But there was something else, too. A whisper beneath the mourning. A question no one wanted to ask but couldn't stop thinking:
Why?
He was beloved. He was adored. He had everything… didn't he?
Somewhere, in the middle of the crowd, a voice murmured, "There's more to this."
And in the distance, beyond the noise, beyond the tears, the apartment stood still—tall and cold like a tombstone in the sky. Behind its windows, secrets slept… waiting.