Title: The Night the Candlelight Turned Red
The video didn’t start with screams.
It started with laughter, music, and champagne—exactly what everyone expected from the birthday party of the powerful manager known only as Madam Xu.
Seconds later, that laughter curdled into something unrecognizable.
Viewers who watched the clip described a shift in the atmosphere, a sharp drop in temperature like the air itself sensed something was deeply wrong.
The camera panned across velvet curtains and golden decorations.
Guests wore glittering masks, their faces half-hidden, their smiles too wide, too still, as if they were waiting for a cue only they could hear.
Then, the lights dimmed.
A soft red glow replaced the warmth, washing the room in color that looked too close to blood to feel accidental or festive.
No one spoke.
Not even the person filming breathed audibly, as though they were both terrified and compelled to keep recording whatever was about to unfold.
A figure in white stepped forward.
He looked young, graceful, and unaware that every person in the room had turned toward him with identical, unsettling expressions.
This was Lian Yu, the rising singer whose voice had become a sensation across the entire country.
Everyone loved him—until this video made people question what anyone truly knew.
Someone whispered his name.
It was soft yet sharpened by the eerie silence, a sound that echoed strangely as if bouncing off walls that had heard too many secrets.
Madam Xu approached him slowly.
Her mask was more elaborate than the others, decorated with obsidian feathers and metallic streaks that glinted like tiny knives.
She held a wine glass filled with something far too dark to be merlot.
The way the light hit it made the liquid glisten like fresh ink or midnight oil.
Online viewers froze at the moment she raised the glass toward Lian Yu.
A thousand comments appeared within minutes, all asking the same question: What were they drinking?
The guests began to chant.
It wasn’t a birthday song—it was rhythmic, low, and unnervingly synchronized, like they had rehearsed it for months.
Lian Yu didn’t join them.
He looked around, confused, visibly uncomfortable, but he stayed where he was, perhaps too polite or too stunned to react.
Then the chanting stopped abruptly.
In that instant, someone extinguished the candles, plunging the room into near darkness illuminated only by a single red spotlight.
The chanting resumed, louder.
This time it rose like a wave, shaking the air and rattling the nerves of every viewer who watched the clip online.
Madam Xu reached out to Lian Yu.
Her hand was steady, too steady, as she traced a line across his cheek with her gloved finger.
People watching the footage felt a collective shiver.
They claimed something in the gesture felt wrong, heavy with intention, like a signal the rest of the masked guests understood perfectly.
Someone stepped behind Lian Yu.
A tall man in a silver mask placed his hands on the singer’s shoulders, guiding him toward the center of the room.
The red spotlight followed them.
Viewers noticed how the shadows stretched unnaturally long, as though the figures were being swallowed by darkness.
A round table stood waiting.
Covered in silk, decorated with strange symbols, it looked nothing like a birthday prop—and everything like something ancient.
Lian Yu resisted slightly.
Not enough to cause a scene, but enough for online viewers to sense fear shimmering beneath his silence.
Madam Xu’s voice finally emerged.
Calm, melodic, yet stunningly cold, she said something unintelligible, a phrase that didn’t match any known language.
The chanting responded instantly.
Almost like a ritual answering its priestess, the masked guests raised their hands in perfect unison, palms facing the trembling singer.
The video zoomed in.
The gloved hands, the red light, the symbol-covered table—every detail framed a moment that would explode across the internet in minutes.
Lian Yu’s eyes widened.
Viewers reported feeling a sudden pressure in their chest, as if the fear in the video reached through the screen to grab them.
Madam Xu lifted the dark wine glass again.
She held it above Lian Yu, tilting it slowly, letting a single drop fall toward his forehead like a ritual mark.
The clip abruptly cut.
The screen went black, leaving millions of viewers gasping, shocked, and scrambling for answers.
But the horror didn’t end there.
A second clip circulated minutes later—shorter, grainier, and even more disturbing than the first.
It showed the guests applauding.
Not cheering, not celebrating, but clapping rhythmically, each clap forceful and mechanical like they were under someone’s control.
Lian Yu was nowhere in sight.
Only the red spotlight remained, shining on the symbol-covered table now empty except for the glass that had fallen on its side.
People online lost their minds.
Comments poured in demanding explanations, police involvement, or at least confirmation that the singer was safe.
Conspiracy theories erupted instantly.
Some claimed it was a secret cult.
Others insisted it was a staged performance gone wrong.
A few fans believed it was a coded message.
They argued that Lian Yu had been trying to expose something dark in the entertainment industry, and this was the evidence.
Investigators denied knowing anything.
Madam Xu issued no statement.
The guests remained anonymous.
Every hour without answers fueled outrage.
The public wanted truth, justice, and proof that the singer had not become a victim of something unimaginable.
