891-895

Chapter 891: Recording Daily Life

Wait, that's it?

As the audience spends a full half-hour focused and engrossed in watching the movie, only to discover that the truth is this simple, one by one, they fall into deep self-doubt. They can't believe their own judgment and start questioning everything.

They thought the movie was building up to something, but… that's it?

Simple. Plain. Slow.

And even, well… a little boring.

"Michelle."

An unremarkable girl who dutifully studies but is ostracized by the other girls because of her plain looks. They mock her for being good at math as if it's something to be ashamed of. They ridicule her for wearing "grandma's underwear," so much so that she refuses to wear the required gym shorts during PE, opting for long pants instead—even if it means getting scolded by the teacher.

She's too scared to get angry or upset, or even to look back at the girls attacking her. She just wants to run away.

Hurriedly, she leaves the locker room and rushes to the library to help the teacher organize books. Only in the library does she feel calm.

"Nathan."

He's a player on the school football team—handsome, popular, the object of many girls' crushes. But all he can think about is skipping school with his girlfriend to go for a drive.

They manage to get permission to leave school by tricking the administration. But instead of leaving right away, the young couple, full of youthful passion, sneaks off to find a private spot to spend time together.

Everything is ordinary. Even for high schoolers, it's the most mundane kind of ordinary—the trivial, simple daily life that holds no special significance.

There's no draw, no allure.

Most importantly, it's quiet.

When the audience sits in the cinema, they're used to being bombarded with sights and sounds—a 360-degree surround of visual and auditory stimuli. But Elephant isn't like that.

Not only is the imagery simple, but the information it conveys is very limited. There's no soundtrack either. The film is entirely quiet, like a true recording of daily life in a school.

Some documentaries add music to create atmosphere and emotion, but Gus Van Sant does the opposite, completely cutting out music and returning to the pure essence of documentary filmmaking.

Especially with the presence of Anson, who breaks the fourth wall, further blurring the line between fiction and reality. This gives the film an original, raw, and authentic documentary feel.

But the question remains—who wants to watch a bunch of high schoolers living their boring, uneventful lives?

Other than the long, lingering shots that haunt the scenes like a ghost, the film, so far, seems pointless.

Yes, pointless!

This situation is actually quite familiar.

The three major European film festivals are known for this, and it happens often. These festivals are a haven for art films—those that are experimental, groundbreaking, and artistic. But with challenge and innovation also comes risk, and experimentation and art often lead to confusion.

So, people walk into the theater with high expectations and storm out in frustration. It’s not uncommon for people to leave halfway through a screening. This kind of scene happens three to five times at festivals every year—it’s almost a hallmark of these events.

If you like something, you like it. If you hate it, you hate it. If it’s mediocre, then it’s just mediocre.

On the festival stage, there’s no need for fake praise or polite compliments. Everything is real, and films must prove themselves.

A film about the daily lives of high schoolers?

No way. It’s so boring, so tedious, so dry. What on earth was Gus Van Sant thinking?

No wonder Anson is part of the film—he doesn’t need to act at all. This is the perfect role for him.

But wait!

Something doesn’t feel right.

If this were just a simple documentary about high school life, the Cannes Film Festival’s selection committee wouldn’t be so foolish. They don’t need to kiss up to Gus or Anson. So why did they choose this film for Cannes? And in the main competition, no less? It can’t be that simple… right?

The beauty of the European audience lies in their patience and calm. They have a deeper understanding of art.

Despite all the complaints, the Lumière Hall remains silent. No one speaks, and no one leaves. They're waiting for a turning point.

And then, it comes—

Anson pulls himself together, no longer consumed by grief and sorrow. After modeling for Iris, he walks through the hallway and exits the school through a different door.

In the end, he can’t stop worrying about his father.

As he steps outside, he lifts his head, scanning the area in the distance to locate his father and the parked car, making sure they’re still there.

He catches sight of a girl walking her dog. It’s clear this is a shepherd dog Anson is familiar with.

A smile breaks out, and though the camera remains behind Anson’s shoulder, hiding his face, the cheerful sound of his voice gives away his true emotion.

"Boomer!"

Anson claps his hands, and the shepherd dog runs over happily, performing a little trick by spinning in place, almost like dancing a tango.

It’s in this moment that the imagery shifts.

Slow motion.

The camera, which had been quiet and straightforward—recording the daily life from a purely observational viewpoint, with no embellishment, not even music—suddenly adopts slow motion, slowing down the interaction between Anson and the dog.

It grabs your attention, like a pebble tossed into a still pond.

So what?

Anson’s interaction with the dog remains ordinary. But before you can dwell on this thought, Anson notices two figures approaching:

They’re wearing camouflage pants and dark jackets, gloves, and boots. They’re carrying two heavy bags, clearly not dressed for an ordinary day.

Anson tilts his head and greets them, “Hey, what are you two doing?”

The boy with the baby face glances at Anson. “Get out of here. Don’t come back. Something bad is going to happen.”

Anson freezes. The two walk past him. He turns and shouts at their backs, “What are you going to do?”

But they don’t answer.

The camera follows their figures, capturing Anson's confusion and concern, but it doesn't linger. It abandons Anson and quickly follows the two boys, zooming in on their backs.

They march forward with determination, their camouflaged outfits and heavy bags crunching through the fallen leaves.

The wind howls, and in an instant, the sky darkens. A foreboding tension spreads.

The screen fades to black—

“Eric and Alex.”

The film doesn’t provide any more answers. Instead, it cuts to another scene, shuffling the timeline and showing Eric and Alex's daily life again.

But the Lumière Hall is now tense. The audience, comprised of seasoned viewers, senses the shift. A slow-motion shot, a close-up, a sudden change in atmosphere—without dialogue, explanation, or plot—the imagery has communicated everything.

The smart ones feel the dread. A few swallow nervously, trying to ease their anxiety.

In the next moment, they are drawn into this surreal daily experience, as if they’re truly watching a documentary. They know danger is approaching, but no one can warn the students. They know a tragedy is brewing, but no one can leave their seat.

This is just another ordinary school day.

Chapter 892: "The Changing Sky and Stormy Clouds"

“Eric and Alex.”

In physics class, while the other students listened attentively, Alex sat alone at the back of the classroom, lost in his own world of drawing comics.

However, Nathan and his group of football buddies weren't going to leave him alone. They wet some tissues, rolled them up into balls, and started practicing their "passing" skills—

One. Then another.

Did the person at the front of the class notice? Unclear.

Did the other students notice? Also unclear.

The camera stays focused on Alex, never switching angles. Naturally, the rest of the classroom remains out of sight, and all other activity is just background noise. The only certainty is that the class continues as usual, and so does their "passing practice."

Alex quietly leaves for the bathroom to clean himself up; then he wanders alone through the school, doing nothing in particular, standing idly in the hallway of the cafeteria.

Students pass by without noticing him. Not a single one.

Standing in the middle of the cafeteria, the noise of the world gradually grows louder, as if someone is turning up the volume on a speaker. Eventually, the noise erupts, exploding in Alex’s mind.

Alex clutches his head, struggling.

But everything around him remains normal. Students pass by as if nothing is happening. No one stops.

So, Alex goes home.

“Brittany, Jordan, and Nicole.”

Three girls discussing how handsome and cute Nathan is, how fierce and domineering Nathan's girlfriend can be. They talk about routines, beauty tips, dieting, and complain about a friend who has distanced herself from the group ever since she started dating. Such betrayal, they agree, deserves condemnation.

Nicole tries to defend herself repeatedly, but in the face of Brittany and Jordan's combined attacks, she falters, barely touching her food.

But.

One moment they're bickering, and the next, they're gleefully planning a shopping trip.

They finish their cafeteria meal with barely touched trays of food but still head to the bathroom together. Each girl takes a stall.

Before long, the sound of vomiting echoes from the stalls.

These unseen things, in fact, always happen quietly—things visible to Alex and Michelle, and invisible tensions between Brittany, Jordan, and Nicole, as they bond together against other girls or fret about body image.

An unspoken rule exists in the school, subtly altering social dynamics without anyone realizing.

Are these harms obvious?

Not really. At least, they aren't visible wounds or acts of aggression.

Yet, that doesn't mean they don't exist.

They hide in daily life, settling deep into the heart, eventually forming scars.

Precisely because school life seems so normal, as if nothing is wrong—whether through willful ignorance or simple acceptance—this banality of evil is all the more chilling.

Slowly, it seeps from the quiet scenes on screen.

The audience may notice, or maybe they don't.

But sitting in Lumière Hall at this moment, there's a tingling sensation underfoot. Goosebumps rise on their skin, shoulders shrink as they wonder if the air conditioning is just too cold.

When the camera cuts back to Alex, he sits peacefully at the piano, playing "Für Elise." The melody flows from his fingertips, soothing, romantic, calm.

The atmosphere matches perfectly with the school scenes, though a chilling and eerie sensation gradually spreads through the cool restraint of classical music.

His playing is a bit unpolished, a bit raw, but he is deeply absorbed, a trace of happiness visible on his boyish face as he loses himself in the music.

Even his good friend Eric’s arrival doesn’t interrupt him.

But Alex doesn’t mind.

Eric enters Alex’s home as if it’s his own bedroom, casually lounging on Alex’s bed, grabbing a laptop from the bedside to start playing a game—

A gun game.

On one side, Alex plays the piano; on the other, Eric becomes engrossed in his game.

Finally, when "Für Elise" finishes, Alex sits on the couch next to Eric and grabs the laptop off Eric's lap to browse the web.

Gun.

"Free," "Free"—though the web content is only glanced at briefly, the word "free" next to gun images stands out glaringly.

In the next shot, the skies begin to change.

The sky, once bright, turns indigo as clouds silently move, covering the sun. Vast swathes of shadow darken the world.

Boom. Thunder rumbles.

Not long ago, the sky was clear, but in an instant, it’s blackened, as if the heavens might collapse at any moment.

Cut to Alex, peacefully napping on his bed, with Eric curled up on the nearby couch like a sleeping cat.

The sky’s dramatic shift was just a midday storm. By the time Alex and Eric wake, lunch is ready, and golden sunlight bathes Alex's innocent face as he laughs cheerfully, in a good mood.

The world is calm again.

So, was the sky’s transformation merely a weather event or a reflection of the kids' inner turmoil? Or perhaps both?

A fleeting thought comes to mind—the movie's first scene was the changing sky, and it lingers throughout, focusing on the sun, the clouds, the shifting light. Similar shots appear multiple times, as if reflecting a state of mind or like a god watching over humanity.

The film may seem calm, just capturing everyday school life, but the imagery and sound offer much more, subtly infiltrating the viewers' thoughts and emotions—

This is cinema.

More than dialogue or plot, it relies on the visual language of the camera.

Gus Van Sant may not be Ingmar Bergman, a master of the lens, but he still knows how to quietly embed these shots into the narrative, affecting the audience's feelings without them even realizing.

The image flickers briefly, unnoticed by many in Lumière Hall, before viewers are drawn back into the documentary-like mundanity. These shifts, these abnormalities, quietly lodge deep in the brain, lying in wait.

The changing weather, storm clouds brewing, might just be an ordinary rainstorm, while the kitchen scene that follows is one of complete harmony.

Alex’s parents are there, preparing a simple but hearty lunch for the two boys—

Pancakes.

Not a lavish meal, but enough to fill their stomachs.

Eric watches as Alex grins broadly, devouring the pancakes with loud, goofy laughter.

Life returns to normal once again. It seems like just another lazy afternoon where two teenage boys skip school, play games, eat junk food, and chat about nothing important, wasting time like any other kids their age.

*Chapter 893: Sitting on Pins and Needles*

Everything was normal.

In everyday life, people like to see scenes like this—"normal"—because it means no troubles, no surprises. That’s what life generally looks like, not like movies or novels where dramatic conflicts keep coming one after another, where one wave hasn't settled before the next one crashes.

This has been in line with the consistent style of "The Elephant" so far.

However, the more normal it seemed, the stranger it felt. A creeping sense of unease spread like smoke and mist, but no one could confirm whether the feeling was real or not, because everything appeared so completely, utterly normal. In the midst of this unease and apprehension, anxiety started to build.

And soon, that unease continued to grow.

In the afternoon, two kids lay on the living room couch, bored, watching TV. On the screen was a documentary about the Third Reich.

Those historical images, those flags with emblematic symbols, played in a peaceful, suburban middle-class home, creating a stark sense of dissonance.

The calm was only broken when the delivery man arrived. The kids eagerly tore open the package—

A gun.

It was a gun they had bought online.

They handled it with great fascination and excitement, immediately heading to the tool shed in the backyard to test it out, aiming at the wall stacked with firewood, firing real bullets.

Bang bang bang. Bang bang bang.

The real sound crossed over from the realm of video games into reality. To the kids, it felt like just another harmless, fun game, their eyes sparkling with excitement.

—Sitting on pins and needles.

Quietly, it felt as if the seats in the Lumière Hall had grown spikes. One by one, the audience members shifted uneasily in their chairs, trying to find a comfortable position.

But no luck. They all failed.

In real life, moments like this often occur—

A gut feeling.

Everything seems normal, nothing is happening, you might even be in a good mood, but deep down you have this nagging feeling of unease. You can't shake the sense that something is about to change, some danger is lurking just around the corner.

When you tell others about it, they laugh it off, thinking you're overthinking, but the feeling won’t go away. It’s impossible to describe or explain, and you start to question yourself—maybe your subconscious is just imagining things?

But still, the unease lingers. Bit by bit, it ripples through your mind, until you begin to wonder if you’re going crazy.

That’s exactly what was happening now.

The quieter the movie, the simpler it seemed; but the more frightening it became for the audience.

The tension continued to build beneath the surface, pulling at everyone’s nerves. Everything was sliding into a dark abyss, but reality itself, like the weather outside, returned to calm after a brief storm, the tension buried deep in the air, unseen and untouchable.

There was no background music to amplify the atmosphere, no plot buildup. Everything seemed like ordinary life, leaving the audience completely unable to predict what would happen next. Was there even danger? Where was the story headed?

This sense of uncertainty clutched at their throats, pressing them deeper into their seats, backs sinking further into the chair, tighter and tighter, almost suffocating. And yet, no one could move. The invisible pressure left everyone trembling in place.

They wanted to scream, to run, but then convinced themselves:

There’s no need to scare yourself, no need to make a fuss, no need to be swallowed by your own imagination and fear.

Then.

The air in the Lumière Hall quietly, uncontrollably, grew tighter.

Drip, drip.

Alex entered the bathroom and stood in the stall, taking a shower. A short while later, Eric joined him.

Eric said, "I think today’s the day, we’re going to die today."

Alex replied, "Yeah… I haven’t kissed anyone yet. Have you?"

Eric shrugged lightly and stepped forward, meeting him openly.

Drip, drip.

The sound of water from the showerhead continued.

The two boys began gearing up, putting on camouflage and boots. The screen showed Alex methodically busying himself, while Eric’s voice came from the side.

“‘I don’t like those slogans.’ The next day, he gathered his friends and put up another slogan. She didn’t see it, so he posted another one, right in front of her apartment."

"The sign said, ‘The henhouse of Kim Campbell is closed,’ or ‘The ownership has changed, no matter what her name is, he couldn’t stand it anymore.’”

Alex pulled out a campus blueprint. "Let me see, we’ll park here, right?"

The scene cut to Alex driving, with Eric in the passenger seat.

Alex said, "We’ll enter through the south gate."

Just as they saw Anson coming out, Anson was playing with a shepherd dog and waved at them.

Alex said, "We’ll go past the trophy room, enter through the language lab—they don’t use that place anymore, so no one should be there."

Alex and Eric entered an empty classroom and began their preparations.

On one side, Alex’s bedroom was laid out like a battle plan, as he told Eric the entire scheme; on the other, the actual events unfolded, showing their movements.

It felt like a war movie.

But no one could tell whether those "real scenes" were just Alex’s imagination or what was actually happening.

The entire film blurred the line between reality and fantasy, not just within the camera but also on the screen in the Lumière Hall itself.

Because things were too normal, it felt absurd—

Perhaps, just like Wes Anderson's 2001 film The Royal Tenenbaums, which was nominated for the main competition at the Berlin Film Festival, it completely ignored the boundaries between reality and fantasy, presenting the imagination in a light and quirky way, including crime and breaking moral boundaries.

Though The Royal Tenenbaums and Elephant are stylistically different, with Anderson’s candy-colored visuals brimming with whimsical imagination, and Gus Van Sant’s documentary-style realism creating a different texture... who knows?

After all, to this day, no one understands what Elephant is really about.

Even as Alex and Eric approached the school with their online-bought weapons, the alarm bells were ringing in the audience’s minds, but still, no one could predict what would happen next—

Because there were no clues.

When Elephant debuted at Cannes, there was no information, no summary, leaving the entire audience in the dark. The film still remains mysterious even now, stirring deep anxiety and fear, yet no one can find the words to express it.

Then.

Bang.

A sudden sound erupted from the speakers in Lumière Hall, without any warning, like thunder from a clear sky. There was no trigger-pulling shot shown on screen, no blood splatter—just that sound, but it was enough to pin the entire audience to their seats, scared stiff.

Just like that, it happened.

---

*Chapter 894: Without Warning*

Alex said, "We'll prepare there, then head to the campus cafeteria and set off the first explosion."

Alex and Eric, fully geared up, stood in the long hallway of the campus—the same one where Iris had taken a picture of Anson.

In the movie, Gus presented the same scene from three different perspectives: Iris, Anson, and Michelle. Iris snapping a photo of Anson, with Michelle passing by in the background. The repetition puzzled many viewers—wasn’t it unnecessary?

Now, the answer becomes clear. The audience instantly recognizes the hallway where students once ran, laughed, and played.

Then, Alex and Eric appeared, armed.

Alex said, "After the explosion, we'll target the kids moving towards the east wing."

Bang.

The sound rang out just like that—without any warning, bluntly and directly.

It pinned the audience to their seats—just like that? No build-up, no context, no preparation? It simply happened?

Alex continued, "We should also plant another bomb in the gym, and one in the auditorium."

His innocent baby face spoke of the horrifying plan with calm seriousness. "By then, the scattering kids will come from all directions, and we can pick them off one by one."

Bang.

Alex entered the library, wandering amid the chaos of screams and fleeing bodies.

"Afterward, you'll hit this yellow line. That’s your Plan B. You'll go through Mr. Roos's office and take care of things there."

Bang.

Eric stood over Mr. Roos, trembling on the floor.

"I’ll follow this red line down the hallway—there are prime targets here, like dumb jocks and stuff, because today’s game day. Take your Tech-9 and rifle, and I’ll carry the ammo and my .223."

"I’ve also got a few handguns and knives. Our ammo should last about a day. Most importantly, have fun, man."

Cut to the next scene.

Alex and Eric got into their car.

Wait, so that was all just imagined in their minds? Like in a heist or spy movie, when they map out their plan before it happens? But reality often differs from imagination.

So...

Does this mean there’s still a twist?

You can’t help but start silently praying. Violent movies can be divisive—some people like them, others don't. But when the protagonists of the violence are minors, that fear multiplies a hundredfold. Most people can’t calmly watch, as a deep discomfort takes over.

But why do Alex and Eric want to do this? If there's a twist, does Anson become a hero and stop them? What happens next? How does the film end?

Your mind races with thoughts, unable to organize them, completely drawn into the storm of the scene.

The camera now follows Alex and Eric from the back seat of the car, as if the audience is sitting there with them, driving back to campus.

No music, no dialogue, just the steady hum of the engine.

Blood boils uncontrollably—not from excitement, but from unease, agitation, anxiety, even fear.

You’re so immersed you forget to breathe.

Alex and Eric arrive at the school without incident, each carrying their gear. They spot Anson, playing with his German Shepherd.

"Hey, what are you two up to?"

"Get out of here. Don’t come back. Something bad’s going to happen."

"What are you guys doing?"

The camera doesn’t pause, just follows Alex and Eric as they move forward.

Then, a sharp 180-degree turn as the camera focuses on Anson.

Anson freezes, takes two steps back, and quickly turns around, moving away from the school. Seeing other students heading inside, he rushes to stop them.

"Hey, don’t go in."

"Guys, don't go inside. Something’s about to happen."

"Don’t go in, okay?"

The students look at Anson as if he’s crazy, but he doesn’t give up. One by one, he warns everyone he can see.

He starts sprinting.

In Lumière Hall, dead silence reigns. Anson’s voice echoes in the room. You clench your fists, nerves taut. When you finally notice your palms are sweaty, you realize your back is drenched, too. The indescribable fear and unease have engulfed the entire theater.

On the big screen, everything is still calm.

Alex and Eric, fully armed, wait patiently in the familiar hallway.

Yet, nothing happens, as if there's a silver lining behind the dark clouds.

Maybe their plan failed. Maybe nothing will happen. Maybe the audience is just scaring themselves. Maybe this is a black comedy where everyone is given a false alarm.

Eric asked, "Man, what’s going on?"

Alex checked his watch. "Don’t worry, maybe it’s a bit delayed. Let’s go with Plan B."

Eric asked, "Are you sure the plan’s solid?"

Alex replied, "Flawless."

Anson kept running, panting heavily, and saw a man about to enter the school. "Sir, don’t go in. Trust me, do not go in."

Finally, he reached a car. The passenger door was open, but no one was inside.

“Damn.”

Anson cursed in frustration. “Dad?”

He stood there, bewildered, searching helplessly around.

Meanwhile, Alex and Eric continued down the familiar school hallways. Classes were in session, and the halls were empty except for the echo of their footsteps.

They turned a corner and entered the library.

Alex glanced to the side—click, his gun was cocked.

On screen, the children—who had only shown their backs before—finally turned around. It was Iris, who had just arrived at the library to look at photography books.

Iris clearly hadn’t realized what was happening. He raised his camera, focused, and clicked the shutter.

Alex turned around and saw Michelle arranging books on the shelf.

Michelle was equally clueless. "Hey, you guys—"

Bang.

Blood splattered.

Michelle collapsed, painting the bookshelf red.

In Lumière Hall: complete silence.

The audience was overwhelmed with shock and terror, as if falling into an abyss without end, continuously plunging deeper.

Your mind goes blank, filled only with a ringing noise: Buzz…

Alex turned around and fired once, twice, three times. Whether they surrendered or ran, as long as they appeared in his sight, he pulled the trigger.

In the hallway, Nathan and his girlfriend paused, puzzled by the sound.

In the bathroom, Brittany, Jordan, and Nicole finished vomiting, touched up their makeup, and stopped mid-movement when they heard the noise.

"What was that?"

"Sounded like an explosion."

"Oh, great. No homework, no teachers, haha."

"Yeah, that’s awesome."

Then, Alex appeared. The three girls were paralyzed with fear.

Bang, bang, bang.

One shot, one body.

The world went silent. Only the sound of gunfire echoed in the air. Everyone in Lumière Hall had lost the ability to react, paralyzed by the shock of the absolute violence.

Then, a figure appeared.

Just as the audience thought the story would descend into a sea of blood, a person dressed in a lemon-yellow T-shirt with pigtails appeared, wandering like a ghost through the corpse-strewn hallway.

"Benny."

*Chapter 895: Detached Observer*

"Benny."

A new face emerged, moving against the flow in a hellish scene filled with corpses and rivers of blood.

While the other students and teachers were frantically fleeing the school, overwhelmed by fear, Benny was the exception. He moved toward the source of the disaster.

Calm, composed, and unhurried.

The lockers in the hallway were engulfed in flames, the orange glow driving away the darkness and cold but offering no warmth or safety. Instead, it felt like a living hell, with hidden depths of endless difficulty and despair beneath the surface. Benny passed by the lockers without a second glance, continuing forward.

The entire scene was bizarre.

Benny didn’t act like a hero, ready to turn the tide, bring justice, or stop the disaster. In the midst of the panic and terror, his calm demeanor made him seem more like a wandering soul, detached from the world of mortals, witnessing human suffering from the sidelines.

Everything was too calm, too serene—like the mood conveyed throughout the entire film:

Mundane everyday life, dull conversations, a peaceful day. A slice of ordinary life carved out of a chaotic, horrible world. Then, violence barges in, but it coexists with that violence.

Benny’s calmness was like that of an outsider, an observer.

Though he saw the violence happening, he remained indifferent.

Is this meant to represent everyone in real life?

In an instant, defenses broke down—

No one wants to admit they’re cold-blooded, no one wants to admit they’re weak.

Online keyboard warriors often spout hateful rhetoric, bragging about how they despise evil and are so brave, acting like they could take down 300 men with a single punch. They self-righteously condemn others for cowardice. But when real danger strikes, maybe those same “tough guys” would be the first to wet their pants.

Even if that’s not the case—

How many people actually stand up in the face of danger? And how many look the other way, ignoring it completely? How many people pretend nothing is happening, shutting their eyes and ears, sweeping problems under the rug?

It’s all like the elephant in the room.

The elephant is clearly there, but no one talks about it. People even pretend it doesn’t exist, much like how violence, discrimination, and prejudice persist. People are either too stupid to see it or too clever to pretend they don’t.

Just like what’s unfolding here.

That eerie feeling quietly permeated the Lumière Hall.

Then—

Benny found Alicia in the meeting room, her legs stiff, unable to move. While all the other students had escaped through the windows, Alicia was rooted to the spot, consumed by helplessness, wanting to flee but frozen in place.

Benny reached out and helped Alicia escape through the window, but he didn’t leave himself. He turned back and continued wandering the hallway.

Whew.

Lumière Hall collectively exhaled a sigh of relief—

If Benny represents the audience, at least they wouldn’t feel too stung. Or rather, the sting would be slightly lessened.

Benny helped Alicia.

And who knows, maybe the reason Benny didn’t leave was that he planned to help more people. All those strange feelings earlier were just wild imagination. Maybe Gus didn’t intend for such an interpretation at all—maybe the audience was simply overanalyzing it.

Maybe Benny really was the hero.

A small glimmer of hope lit up in their minds, and the taut nerves relaxed just a little.

In the orange glow of the flames, Eric saw Mr. Roose.

Roose was evacuating students, urging them to leave quickly. But when he turned, he saw the dark barrel of a gun.

"...Eric."

Roose was stunned.

Eric took a step closer.

Roose backed away repeatedly, "What are you doing? Put the gun down!"

Eric fired a shot into the air, "I refuse."

Roose’s knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground. "Put down the gun, let’s talk this out. We..."

Eric interrupted, "Shut up!"

The scene shifted to outside the school, where Anson continued moving through the crowd.

The school was smoking, and there had been an explosion in the gym. Everyone had heard the commotion and was running, though no one had completely left the area—

No one knew exactly what was happening; most thought it was just a fire. Curious onlookers gathered, eager to see what was going on.

Maybe Anson was the only exception.

His eyes, wide and frantic, stared at the school. He was out of breath, his movements panicked as he weaved through the crowd, utterly incapable of processing what was happening. His blue eyes lost focus.

Then—

He stopped. Taking a deep breath, he stared ahead for a moment before raising his right hand to shout.

"Dad!"

Only then did he swallow, his throat unbearably dry.

Anson stepped forward to meet his father.

His father ran over. "The school’s on fire." Clearly, he didn’t understand the situation.

Anson bent slightly, his knees weak, the tension draining from him as the shock set in. But he quickly straightened up. "Are you okay?"

His father replied, "I’m fine." He looked Anson over, wanting to comfort him but unsure of what to say.

Anson couldn’t help but glance at the school. "I saw two guys go in..."

Bang, bang, bang.

Gunshots rang out, followed by screams. The fleeing students had now formed a chaotic mass.

Anson’s shoulders flinched. "They had black bags and camo gear."

"Oh my God..." His father instinctively grabbed Anson’s arm.

Anson asked, "Where were you just now?"

His father hesitated. "I was just..." His words trailed off, his eyes shifting away. He tried to give Anson a hug but found himself unable to move. "I’m sorry..."

Anson glanced at his father, saying nothing, and turned his gaze back to the smoking school.

Ding-ling-ling, ding-ling-ling—

The school’s fire alarm rang.

Benny was still moving upstream. As he turned a corner, he saw Eric and Mr. Roose.

But Benny didn’t turn away. He tiptoed, moving quietly, continuing to approach.

The collective breath in Lumière Hall was suddenly stifled, hearts pounding in their throats:

So Anson wasn’t the savior—Benny was.

That’s it, Benny couldn’t possibly represent an apathetic person indifferent to violence. Benny was surely the hero, one who stayed hidden among ordinary people but was ready to stand up at the crucial moment.

Like countless Hollywood films, the hero would show up at the last minute, save the day, and rescue the world. That narrative had been ingrained for so long, it was almost expected—even Sundance indie films weren’t exempt from this Hollywood formula.

But then—

Eric heard a noise and turned.

Eric looked at Benny. Benny looked at Eric.

Bang.

Eric pulled the trigger. Benny fell, blood pooling around him.

Lumière Hall fell silent. Even the sounds of breathing and heartbeats seemed to stop, a silence like a never-ending free fall, with only the whistling of wind freezing the soul bit by bit.

All guesses, all speculation—abruptly cut short.

Then, Eric turned back to Mr. Roose, who lay on the floor. Roose couldn’t take his eyes off Benny, watching him quietly, for a long, long time.

Lumière Hall did the same.