Chapter 2: Blood for Headlines

It was a person. A woman, wearing pajamas.

Her body was twisted at impossible angles, her head split open, one eye bulging, staring right at me. Blood gushed from beneath her, quickly spreading in all directions…

I gagged, but instinct kicked in. I’d seen death before, but never like this. The shock froze me for a heartbeat, then adrenaline kicked in.

Instinctively, I looked up, but the darkness above revealed nothing. No way to tell how she fell.

All I knew? The man hadn’t lied.

Blood crept toward my shoes. I jerked back to reality.

I shot photo after photo, hands shaking. Focusing, adjusting the light, shooting from every angle.

The only sounds—the shutter. My ragged breath. Each click felt like a heartbeat, a drumroll for the tragedy at my feet.

From experience, I knew this would be a huge story. Death always sells.

Residents, disturbed by the noise, came out one after another. I took the chance to ask them about the woman. They said she used to have it all. Then she lost everything. Typical.

She even turned tricks to survive.

In short? Tragic.

Maybe she just gave up.

Back at home, I sorted the material and wrote a dramatic news story, shot it to my boss before sunrise. My fingers flew across the keyboard, heart racing with the thrill of being back in the game.

She’d been woken from a sound sleep and was furious at first, but after reading the article, her anger turned to joy. She made it tomorrow’s front page, no question.

"People eat this stuff up. Sex, gambling, violence—they can’t get enough! Ethan, this is what you should be doing! Keep it up and be the 'Beacon of Journalism' again!"

Once, my name meant something. Once, the name Ethan Grady was famous in the industry.

Three years ago, on a downtown street, a young man was killed—and I happened to be passing by. The killer? Just a thief, caught in the act. The young man stepped in to stop him and was stabbed in retaliation.

He stabbed again and again. Nobody dared move. He was too brutal, too terrifying.

I forced myself to keep shooting. The lens never flinched, even when I did. I can still remember the blood, the screams, the way time seemed to slow as I pressed the shutter.

Those photos showed a life ending. People couldn’t look away.

People argued for weeks. Was it worth it, risking your life for a stranger?

The incident caused a huge sensation. Under public pressure, the police quickly caught the murderer, and my photo series, "The Moment of Death," was named the most influential photographic work of the year. Overnight, I was a star.

Beacon of Journalism. What a joke. I was even hailed as the "Beacon of Journalism."

But in this fast-moving information age, three years later, nobody remembers. All that glory? Gone.

Some days, even I forget who I was. Even I’m losing faith in myself.

But when the sun rises tomorrow, things should be different, right? Right?

The next morning, the story aired on local TV. The striking images and explosive content sent ratings through the roof. My phone buzzed with messages. Everyone in the newsroom was talking. The comeback kid.

My boss looked at me with a warmth I hadn’t seen in years, and my coworkers regained their respect for me. That’s how it goes. You’re only as good as your last story.

But what really puzzled me was—who was that man? How could he predict what would happen in just half an hour, and even specify the exact time and place?

I pulled out my phone and tried calling the number, but it wouldn’t connect—the system said it was invalid.

Clearly, he didn’t want me to find him. If anything, that made me more nervous.

Couldn’t make sense of it, so I told Marissa.

After listening, Marissa was also troubled. Her gut was screaming.

"Ethan, I don’t think it’s that simple," she said, worried. "Could that woman have been pushed by him?"

"I think so too," I said. "If that’s true, it’s terrifying! And why did he come to me?"

"Yeah, it’s too strange! Ethan, let’s call the police!"

"Call the police? Would they believe me? What if they suspect me? That’d be the end of me!" I frowned. "My career is just getting back on track. I can’t afford any trouble…"

After thinking it over, I didn’t call the police.

I admit, I’m selfish. Compared to other people’s lives, I care more about my own struggles. I’ve got a mortgage, bills, and a family counting on me. Sometimes, just surviving means looking the other way.

I’ve got a kid, two sets of parents. It’s a lot.

I’m not a bad person. Just out of options.

Not long after, the police closed the case just as everyone expected—the woman died by suicide. She left a note, definitely in her own handwriting.

Case closed. Just like that.

No one but us.

People are forgetful. Soon, I moved on from her shadow—and the bit of glory she brought me.

In the age of social media, hot topics change too fast. In the blink of an eye, everything is different.

Glory fades fast if you don’t feed it.

I’m just a firefly—here, then gone.

Everything slowly went back to the way it was. Scolded by my boss, mocked by colleagues—even the new interns dared to boss me around…

Falling hurts. More than I thought.

That’s when I got another call from that man.

Same as before. Confident. Like he knew I’d listen:

"Ethan Grady, at 3 a.m., bring your camera to Lakeview Drive. Something’s about to go down!"