There is only half a month left before the 23rd radio station's contract with CCA expires. Once that time passes, he will have to pack up and head to the Piano Key District, and the city's 23rd radio station will forever become a part of history. The late-night show "Your Moon, My Star" will forever remain a memory of nostalgia.

Alright, perhaps he is the only one reminiscing, as "Your Moon, My Star" has never had more than a hundred simultaneous viewers.

After all, who is willing to listen to an old man in the midst of a midlife crisis cracking some lousy jokes on the radio?

"Welcome to listen to Your Moon, My Star. The great director is me, and I am—Ince. Just Ince."

Ince murmured the all-too-familiar opening line, deciding to do something meaningful in this final stretch of time.

Even the smallest flame wants to shine with all its might before it goes out, hoping to catch someone's attention.

Even the most unnoticed light desires to illuminate others, allowing them to feel warmth.

Thinking this way, Ince adjusted his collar, like a man preparing to go into battle alone, checking the film in his camera, hooking up the communication screen to the 23rd radio station, ready to start the broadcast at any time. In a dark room miles away, a massive server array lit up simultaneously, just like the flames burning in the man's eyes at this moment.

An hour ago, he received a private email, the content of which was roughly about Moon Sugar and the incident involving Lin Fan and Rongsen Media Company yesterday.

Reality seemed far more absurd than opera to him. How could a substance, universally acknowledged as extremely hazardous, poisons the lower echelons of countless cities, suddenly become, under capitalist glorification, a health supplement that supposedly enhances thinking and spirit?

He would broadcast what those city radio stations dared not.

He would voice the wails that countless suffering people dared not utter.

The truths jointly concealed by the upper class, which those at the bottom had neither the courage nor the qualifications to expose, he would bring them to light!

After connecting to another's communication screen, Ince heard a somewhat familiar voice.

"Mr. Ince, 113 Seashell Street in Queens District, your target is there, go on."

The girl's voice seemed familiar, as if he had heard it somewhere, but he couldn't recall at the moment.

But that didn't matter. What mattered was that he was about to accomplish something very small, yet significant.

After mentally preparing himself, Ince, holding his camera, plunged into the gray rain curtain. His black trench coat unfurled like a raven's wings, glittering at certain angles.

Queens District, 9:15 PM.

Black clouds rolled in, and the torrential rain poured down, with the entire sky trembling amidst the thunder.

The entire derelict building was shrouded in gloom, the air filled with a mixture of body odor, pungent mildew, and the metal scent of rust.

Navigating through abandoned bricks, broken wooden debris, and kicking aside glass bottles rolling underfoot, Ince arrived at his destination.

A bolt of pale lightning split the sky, illuminating the grotesque outline of the building interior. Seeing the shadows of those ceaselessly convulsing, emaciated figures with dirty skin lurking in the shadows of the building, Ince's mood weighed heavier.

These lives of the lower class people were being manipulated, toyed with, and trampled upon by those above them, with such substances.

He could capture a corner of the derelict building with his camera, but not the shadows of the entire city.

"Do you see them?" The girl's voice came through the communication screen, with a hint of rising intonation.

"They are the typical homeless, who overdose on Moon Sugar and end up on the streets. Show their faces to everyone."

Perhaps it was the girl who had been egging him on from behind. After starting the screen recording and live broadcast on the 23rd radio station, a flood of viewers quickly poured in. Numerous citizens, who had turned on their TVs intending to relax after a long day, tuned into the 23rd radio station simultaneously.

[: Hey, is this an outdoor broadcast?]

[: Where is this, why am I being shown this?]

[: Are those people zombies? How creepy...]

Holding the camera, Ince took a deep breath and approached a slow-moving, expressionless Sugarman. After setting up the camera and thrusting it into the other's face, Ince made a V sign in front of the lens.

"Everyone, look here. This is an outdoor educational program. The topic is simple: to let people understand the dangers of Moon Sugar up close."

Feeling the cold iron box approaching, the ragged Sugarman raised his head. Beneath his matted hair, his muddied eyes seemed to be contemplating something, but after a fit of spasms, he quickly lost consciousness again, dragging his unresponsive body along the graffiti-covered wall.

Suddenly, a surge in his stomach made him reel under the impact of vibrant hallucinations, the entire world seeming to spin. The Sugarman reached out his emaciated arm to brace against the wall, the grime in the seams of his fingers distinctly visible.

Suddenly, the Sugarman bent over and began to vomit violently, the yellowish and whitish filth quickly covering the entire wall. What shocked everyone was that amidst the yellowish-white content, fresh red clots stirred, containing the dissolved internal organs of the man.

[: Did he just vomit his own organs out?]

[: Damn, my scalp is tingling.]

[: How disgusting.]

Amidst the heavy thud, the man fell silent into the filthy mass, and the desolate building descended into silence once more, with only the steady sound of the rain falling outside.

Watching the scene before him, Ince felt something crawling up his spine, chilling him to the bone, when the girl's voice reminded him in his ear: "Now is the perfect time, don't let it slip by."

He snapped back quickly, explaining to all the viewers of the live broadcast: "Long-term use of Moon Sugar leads to decreased immunity, severely diminished physical condition, mental lethargy, even loss. This pitiful man before us is a living example."

[: Isn't Moon Sugar touted as a harmless health product? Wasn't it said that artists take it for inspiration during creation?]

[: Yeah, wasn't it recently revealed that artist Lin Fan took Moon Sugar for composing music...]

[: Whatever they say, you believe. Fools, aren't these just a bunch of homeless people ruining the city view? Did you see them using Moon Sugar?]

At this point, the camera was once again pointed at a tent in the corner. It was a mountaineering tent, often scavenged from the trash piles by the homeless and set up as their shelter.

Inside the filthy mountaineering tent, a man covered in mud and wounds chuckled bizarrely, rummaging through something until finally pulling out a candy bag adorned with a cartoon moon from the foul mess of clothing.

As he tore it open, people watched the man sacramentally suck the crystalline candy into his mouth, before convulsing violently, grabbing a piece of glass, and beginning to mutilate himself, creating horrifying ridges on his body, carving away chunks of decayed flesh resembling tree bark.

The man seemed oblivious to any pain, growing faster and more vicious in his actions, relishing this process as though it brought him utmost satisfaction and pleasure.

The harrowing scene chilled the viewers of the radio and the live-streaming audience alike.

[: Is this guy insane?]

[: He's covered in wounds, gruesome and terrifying.]

[: So who's the fool again? Can people really believe what's online about Moon Sugar being a health product?]

Soon the audience in the screen live stream started arguing amongst themselves. Seeing that it was having an effect, Ince felt invigorated, but then suddenly heard the girl's warning in his ear.

"Watch out."

Suddenly, the man in the tent got up, aiming the bloodstained shard of glass at Ince, advancing with a strange gait while cackling.

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