a girl shouted, standing from her seat.
"No, no, he's looking at me!" another cried, her hands waving frantically.
"You're both wrong, he's staring right at our section!" someone else yelled, almost in tears.
Soon the fans were arguing with each other, each desperately claiming that Fu Jingrong's eyes had chosen them. But the truth was different. His gaze wasn't vague. It was piercing, unwavering, locked onto a single point—as though whoever he was staring at carried a weight far heavier than anyone else in the room.
The atmosphere shifted. The clamor slowly died as people realized this wasn't just a random glance. His eyes were too focused, too intense, burning with meaning that ordinary words could not explain. It was the kind of gaze one gave to someone who mattered deeply—perhaps too deeply.
And then, in the midst of the murmurs, the chaos, the stage changed again.
