Prisoner A's First Broadcast
The rain in Seattle finally stopped at dusk, but the leaden clouds still hung low, locking the damp, chilly air firmly over the city.
The air was filled with a mixture of rain-soaked soil, asphalt road surface, and the fishy smell of the distant harbor. It wasn't a pleasant smell, but Kong Xiang felt it was a million times better than the lingering, cloying smell of disinfectant mixed with death in the morgue.
The safe house he was in was located in a quiet, middle-class neighborhood in Seattle. It was a detached house with front and back yards, and the neighbors were spaced just right. K had rented the house through a complex network of shell companies, and all the procedures were "legal" and difficult to trace. The interior was simply furnished but highly functional, especially the room that had been converted into a temporary "broadcast control center".
The room had no windows, and the walls were covered with dark sound-absorbing material, isolating it from all outside noise. In the center was a large solid wood table, which was sparsely furnished with only a high-performance desktop computer, a professional condenser Mike, a webcam with a physical switch (the lens was currently sealed tightly with opaque tape), and an external sound card for switching voice-changing effects.
On the computer screen, the background interface of the live streaming software was displayed, along with some small tool windows for monitoring network status and abnormal connections—all of which K had remotely guided him through the installation and debugging process.
Kong Xiang sat upright in his ergonomic gaming chair, showing no sign of relaxation. He wore a plain gray hooded sweatshirt, his hair was a little messy, and his face was expressionless, except for his focused gaze on the fluctuating parameters on the screen and the green indicator light that said "ready."
He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, trying to suppress the mix of tension, uncertainty, and a desperate determination welling up in his chest. This was the path his boss had suggested, and the exit he had chosen himself. There was no turning back.
He reached out, hovered his finger over the mouse for a few seconds, and then clicked the "Start Live Stream" button.
The streaming software displayed a successful connection. A completely black live stream appeared on the screen, with only a simple, white English word in the center: "LA". There was no background music, no flashing animations, no streamer image, just Prisoner A void of darkness and that cold, impersonal code name.
He had registered this account beforehand on an international live streaming platform known for its anonymity and free discussion. The profile only had one sentence. "Recording some forgotten corners." Without any prior announcement or promotion, this brand-new, empty live stream room currently showed 1 person online. That person was himself.
Kong Xiang brought the Mike closer and cleared his throat. The sound card was already adjusted; he chose a voice changer that would make his voice slightly lower and hoarse, and eliminate most of his personal accent. He sounded like a man between thirty and forty years old, with a calm, even somewhat numb, quality that came with experience.
"Test, test." He said two words into the Mike, and the processed voice came through the monitoring earpiece, unfamiliar and cold. He frowned, not used to it, but this was exactly what he needed.
He glanced at the top right corner of the screen; the number of online users jumped to 3. It was probably either randomly selected visitors from the platform or simply web crawlers.
It's time to begin.
He made no opening remarks, no "hello everyone," and no attempts to attract attention. He cut straight to the point in a processed, calm, almost indifferent voice, as if reading a dry autopsy report.
I have two things to say today.
"The first one is about a guy who works on a construction site. Let's call him M."
He began. With concise, restrained, yet strikingly detailed language, he recounted the story of Miguel, the Latino undocumented immigrant who earned $100 a day but only received $5. He described the filth and danger of the construction site, how the layers of exploitation operated, the blank look in Miguel's eyes as he received the five-dollar bill, and the precarious home in Mexico that those five dollars had to support. He offered no subjective sympathy or anger, simply stating the facts, including Miguel's desperate situation of not daring to resist, not daring to get sick, and even not daring to die.
"... So, he's not lazy, nor is he stupid. He's just locked into a system. This system is designed so that people like him will forever struggle below the poverty line, using all their strength just to barely maintain themselves as 'labor force' so they don't immediately become obsolete. As for his family, his future, and his dignity, they are not included in this system's calculations."
Kong Xiang paused, seemingly recalling something, or perhaps organizing his thoughts for the next sentence. The number of online viewers had jumped to over twenty. Scattered comments began to appear in the live chat.
"Really? This kind of thing happens in United States?"
"Make up a story? Five dollars a day?"
"If it's true, that's terrible..."
"The streamer's voice sounds weird, is it a voice changer?"
Which state is it in?
Kong Xiang ignored the comments, took a sip of water, and continued to tell the second story in his calm tone.
"The second thing is about a family. Father and daughter. Let's call the father J and the daughter A."
He recounted the stories of "a father who worked after receiving a leg-strengthening injection" and "a daughter who attempted self-abortion with a clothes hanger and suffered severe bleeding." This time, his tone seemed even colder, as if he were describing two broken pieces of equipment. He described J's journey to the illegal clinic after breaking his leg, how the so-called "strengthening injection" drained his life force in exchange for temporary mobility, the night A took to the streets, and the chilling despair and bloodshed in that cheap hotel.
"... The father traded his broken leg and potential lifelong disability for his family's safety today. The daughter traded her body, her health, and all her dreams for the future for her family's safety tomorrow. Was this a choice? No, it wasn't. This was the only answer the system gave: either A sacrifices, or B sacrifices, or both are crushed. They chose to let different people, at different times, and in different ways, be partially crushed. In this way, this family, as a minimum 'unit of survival,' can barely survive."
His narration ended. The live broadcast room was silent, except for his processed, flat breathing, which came through the Mike to the earphones of dozens of unfamiliar listeners.
The chat was silent for a few seconds, then suddenly exploded:
"Holy shit..."
"My scalp is tingling."
"Is this United States? In 2025?"
"Is the anchor a social worker or a journalist?"
"Do you have any evidence? It can't be made up, can it?"
"If it's true, won't the local government do anything about it?"
"It makes me feel sick, but I can't help wanting to listen to it."
"I've followed. When will the streamer broadcast next?"
The number of online users exceeded one hundred within just a few minutes, and is still rising slowly and steadily.
Kong Xiang looked at the scrolling comments and the ever-increasing number, feeling no joy, only an empty, calm stillness, like a stone settling in water. He spoke out. Facing the void of the internet, facing these unfamiliar IDs, he poured out some of what had been weighing on his heart.
He didn't interact, didn't answer any questions, and didn't announce the next live stream. After the initial flood of comments subsided slightly, he spoke one last sentence into the Mike in the same voice:
That's all for today. Just recording some forgotten corners. I'm Prisoner A.
Then, he moved the mouse and decisively clicked "End Live Stream".
The screen went black. The room returned to silence, broken only by the soft hum of the computer fan.
Kong Xiang leaned back in his chair, looked up at the dark ceiling, and let out a long, long sigh. He felt... strange. There was no relief, nor regret. It was as if he had completed a task that had to be completed. The heavy thing in his heart seemed to have been moved a little, leaving a pit that was still sunken but no longer completely filled.
He didn't know if it would work, how many people would believe him, or if it would cause trouble. But at least he said it.
Thousands of miles away, back home. Study.
On the tablet in front of Lin Feng, the black screen ending of the "Prisoner A" live stream was playing. He had watched the entire stream on silent, only reading the automatically translated comments.
Lü Yi stood nearby, her eyes wide open, her expression somewhat blank, clearly not yet fully recovered from the story she had just heard.
"Boss..." Lü Yi swallowed, his voice a little dry, "This... Kong Xiang, what he said was too... that... It made me feel choked up."
Lin Feng did not respond immediately. He turned off the tablet, his fingers unconsciously tapping lightly on the smooth tabletop.
The live stream went better than he expected. Kong Xiang's calm, "forensic autopsy" style of narration was more impactful than any emotional appeal. The audience, numbering only a hundred or so, reacted genuinely. This was a start.
"Let him continue," Lin Feng finally spoke, his tone calm. "Just make sure he's safe."
His gaze was fixed on the deep night sky outside the window, as if it could penetrate the clouds and the ocean to see the city of Seattle shrouded in rain clouds, and the young man sitting in the dark room who had just sent a faint signal to the world.
The seeds have been sown. Now, it's time to wait, observe, and... see which way the wind and rain will come from.