The Screen Watcher

Lin Mu finally managed to buy the ticket. Four hundred and eighty yuan. He checked the ticket information over and over, as if the seat number printed on it wasn't a number but a complex legal provision requiring careful study to grasp its full meaning, especially the tiny, almost illegible additional clauses. The ticketing website was like a spinning maze, leading him down "Sold Out" cul-de-sacs countless times before finally, in an unexpected corner, spitting out this strangely numbered ticket. He wasn't even sure if he really wanted to go, but the process of obtaining the ticket itself, like completing an arduous and meaningless task, brought a kind of weary satisfaction.

The stadium resembled a crouching behemoth, swallowing and disgorging the teeming crowd. Lin Mu clutched his ticket, swept along by the human tide. The air hung thick with a feverish mix of sweat, perfume, and the smell of cheap popcorn. The security personnel at the entrance were expressionless, like components on an assembly line, mechanically waving their detectors; the occasional "beep" was the only sign that this vast machine was functioning. Lin Mu felt a knot of anxiety tighten in his chest; he kept feeling there was something wrong with his ticket, as if it bore some inappropriate mark, and he might be stopped at any moment, denied entry for a reason he couldn't comprehend.

However, he passed through without incident. Through one door after another, down one dim corridor after another, the walls plastered with blurry signs, arrows pointing in ambiguous directions. He felt as though he were navigating the interior of a vast, constantly shifting organ. Finally, a staff member in uniform, their eyes vacant, stopped him and pointed towards an even narrower passage, one almost overlooked. "Your ticket, go this way," the voice was as flat as if announcing an established fact, leaving no room for doubt.

The end of the passage opened up suddenly, but not onto the stands he had imagined. It was more like a makeshift area, cordoned off with cold metal railings, sparsely furnished with a few plastic chairs. And directly ahead, dominating his entire field of vision, was not the stage, but a massive, cold LED screen. The screen was illuminated, but for now, it only displayed looping sponsor advertisements, the light glaring, the images distorted.

Lin Mu stood there, stunned. He glanced around. There weren't many people in this area, perhaps a few dozen, all wearing the same blank, confused expressions as him. They silently found places to sit, then turned their gazes, collectively and fatalistically, towards the screen. There was no communication between them, as if separated by invisible walls, each person an isolated island, their only connection the vast, silent screen.

Four hundred and eighty yuan – so that was the signpost pointing here. Sitting on the cold plastic chair, Lin Mu suddenly felt an absurd chill. He was so far from the stage, not just physically, but separated by some essential barrier. The figures on stage, the lights, the actual clamor – all were filtered, compressed, translated by this screen into two-dimensional, cold digital signals. These people, they were the ones screened out, deemed worthy only of watching images – the "Screen Watchers."

The performance began. Blurred figures appeared on the screen, followed by deafening music. But the sound blasted from enormous speakers hanging on either side of the screen – sharp, distorted, lacking the depth and warmth one would expect from a live event. The images on the screen switched rapidly: close-ups, wide shots, shots of the cheering audience... everything was meticulously choreographed, perfect to the point of unreality. Lin Mu even began to wonder, was what played on the screen truly the performance happening right now? Or was it a pre-recorded, standardized "concert experience" template? He looked towards the bottom of the screen and could vaguely make out the tiny, flickering points of light on the distant, actual stage, like signals from another, faraway galaxy – faint and unattainable.

Beside him sat a middle-aged man who remained motionless from beginning to end, like a wax figure, his eyes fixed firmly on the screen. Lin Mu wanted to say something, ask something, but his throat felt constricted. What would he ask? Whether the man also found all this strange? Whether he regretted buying the ticket? But such questions seemed utterly meaningless here. They had been assigned to this area, to watch this screen, as if assigned an immutable social role; any questioning was futile.

Time slipped away amidst the shifting lights and shadows on the screen. Lin Mu felt a peculiar kind of exhaustion, not physical, but mental. He felt as though he were participating in an elaborate deception, one in which he was not only a victim but also a silent accomplice. On the screen, the singer sang of dreams and freedom, while down here, they were invisibly imprisoned, watching a grand illusion that had nothing to do with them.

He began to notice small details about the screen. Occasionally, the image would flicker slightly, or brief, almost imperceptible static would appear. In these moments, Lin Mu experienced a fleeting illusion, as if something else lay hidden behind the screen – a truer, perhaps crueler, reality. He even imagined that perhaps, in unseen corners of the stadium, there were countless other such "screen watching areas," nested one inside the other like an infinitely mirrored labyrinth. Perhaps those sitting in the so-called "inner circle" seats were also just watching another, larger, clearer screen? Even the person on stage – were they merely performing for a screen displaying their cues and expressions? Who could truly determine what was the real, live event, and what was the broadcast image?

The concert neared its end, and the screen began displaying fireworks. Brilliant colors exploded across the two-dimensional surface, accompanied by simulated sound effects that lacked any real impact. Lin Mu stood up without waiting for it to finish. He turned silently and started walking back along the passage he had come through. The dim, labyrinthine corridors seemed even more winding, even longer than on the way in. He felt like he was escaping, yet he didn't know what he was escaping from.

Stepping out of the stadium, the cold night wind hit his face, bringing a sliver of clarity. The city remained boisterous, neon lights flickered, and giant advertising screens played various images in the night sky. Lin Mu stopped and looked around blankly. He realized that no matter where he went, he couldn't seem to escape screens of one kind or another. Phone screens, computer screens, television screens, advertising screens... they were omnipresent, defining his field of vision, shaping his perception, broadcasting one meticulously edited "reality" after another.

The four-hundred-and-eighty-yuan ticket stub in his pocket felt like a heavy metaphor. Had he bought a ticket to a concert, or the right to watch a screen? Or had he merely confirmed his predetermined position in this vast theater composed of countless screens? Lin Mu didn't know the answer. He just kept walking forward, merging into the nocturnal flow of people like a sleepwalker, unable to tell if he was heading home or towards another, even larger, more formless screen.