Fu Jingrong's jaw tightened, his arm instinctively wrapping around Hua Jing's shoulders as though shielding her from the world outside. His gaze turned glacial.
"Drive slowly. Don't let anyone get hurt. I'll handle this."
Fu Jingrong's voice carried a weight of authority that immediately silenced the trembling driver. Then, without hesitation, he pulled out his sleek black phone, his fingers flying across the screen with practiced speed. He made a series of short, clipped phone calls — his tone sharp, decisive, leaving no room for questions.
Hua Jing, who had been quietly watching him, tilted her head. Her clear eyes softened with curiosity.
"Who is that? Who are those people you're calling?"
Fu Jingrong didn't look at her. His jaw was tight, his eyes scanning the dense wall of screaming fans outside the windshield. He answered in just one word, his voice low:
"Help."
