The lights never dim in the world that worshipped her, yet three men slipped into darkness forever after crossing Ireine Song’s path. Yu Menglong, Kimi Qiao, Alan Yu (names that once sent teenage hearts racing) now share the same sterile tag on a morgue drawer, the same exotic molecule floating in their blood like a signature written in poison. No doctor, no pharmacy, no black-market dealer stocks this particular sedative in quantities large enough for one death, let alone three. Except someone does. Someone with private jets, offshore accounts, and a smile that convinces the world she can do no wrong.
She moves through premieres untouched, hair flawless, voice soft as silk, while detectives pore over flight manifests that place her in the same cities, the same hotels, the same hushed corridors hours before each man stopped breathing. Security footage catches a tall silhouette in couture slipping past keycard doors that should never open for strangers. Text messages recovered from shattered phones read like love notes at first (“Wear the blue suit, I have a surprise”) until you notice every conversation ends the same way: radio silence, then a body.
The industry circles wagons faster than police can knock. Agencies delete schedules, managers develop sudden amnesia, sponsors flood timelines with nostalgic clips of Song handing out charity teddy bears. But the cracks spread. A lighting technician leaks a photo of Song’s dressing room drawer (vials neatly lined up beside lipstick). A former driver sells dash-cam audio of her laughing about “loose ends that tie themselves.” Each whisper lands like gasoline on an already raging fire.
Fans fracture overnight. Hashtags duel in real time: #JusticeForTheBoys versus #ProtectSongAtAllCosts. Death threats fly both ways. Someone hacks her Weibo and posts a single black-and-white image: three autopsy photos side by side, Song’s red-carpet smile superimposed in the center like a ghost attending her own crimes.
Behind bulletproof glass in an unmarked interrogation room, investigators lay out the evidence in chilling order. Same drug. Same access codes. Same handwritten note found in Alan Yu’s cold fist: “You promised no one else would know.” The handwriting matches the birthday card Song sent her co-star last year, now sealed in an evidence bag.
She sits across the table, legs crossed, expression serene, the way only predators can manage when the cage door finally swings shut. One detective leans forward and asks the question the entire nation screams at their screens: “Who’s next?”
Her lips curve, almost tender. “Darling,” she whispers, voice sweet enough to rot teeth, “the list is longer than you think.”
Somewhere in the city, another phone buzzes with a midnight invitation. Another rising star stares at the screen, heart pounding with the lethal mix of fear and flattery.
The princess still wears her crown.
But the throne now drips red.
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