Caleb lowered his head, fingers flying across the transparent keyboard.
[Answer questions while twerking increases people's sympathy]
[Enter]
[Ding!]
[1 Hijack Point Consumed]
A faint smirk tugged at his lips. "Let's begin…"
In the studio, Clara got a cue from the producer through the big prompter behind the camera: Cut to the point — ask about Joe's relationship with Caleb.
She gave a small nod, then turned to Joe. "Alright, Mister Joe, could you tell us… what exactly is your relationship with Caleb?"
Joe took a deep breath, staring straight into the camera with a look full of pity—then… he stood up, turned around, and began slowly swaying his hips, moving them up and down in a light, old-man twerk.
"Caleb is…"—his hips swayed more noticeably—"…probably just a pathetic manchild, only… enabled by a toxic mother."
Clara quickly looked away, pretending to straighten her script papers to keep from laughing. The crew behind the camera started elbowing each other, fighting the urge to burst out laughing.
Joe went on, now standing tall to make his speech even more dramatic—which, of course, made the twerking more intense.
"He needs guidance! Someone to steer him onto the right path!"—hips swaying side to side—
"And I… with all due humility…"—knees bending, hips bouncing faster—"have tried to do just that!"
The live chat went absolutely feral.
[💀💀💀💀]
[BRO IS COOKING AND TWERKING]
[The hell is wrong with this old man?]
[LMAO my neighbor just knocked on my door from all the noise]
[Ngl that old ass kinda good bruh]
Caleb covered his mouth with his hand, pretending to stifle a laugh—but his eyes gleamed with pure satisfaction.
"Your daughter's gonna be ashamed for life, ahaha…" he muttered, fingers already poised to type the next command.
Behind the cameras, several crew members exchanged glances, their faces a mix of panic and disbelief.
"What the hell is he even saying?" whispered one of the assistants, eyes glued to the monitor.
The producer, headset clamped to his head, bit his lip—fingers hovering over the cut to break button, but not pressing it.
"We're drowning in sponsors and viewers right now, got it? If we cut the feed now, it's like pouring gasoline on the fire," his voice was tense, but there was a greedy undertone he couldn't hide.
A sound technician raised a hesitant hand. "If this gets worse, we could get sued."
The producer shot him a sharp look. "And if we stop now, we could lose hundreds of millions in ad revenue and still get sued. Which one do you want?"
On screen, Joe kept talking in that increasingly bizarre tone—a strange mix of forced confidence and a glimmer in his eyes, as if his ego as a self-proclaimed wise father figure was being fed.
He flaunted his "effort" to win sympathy… by twerking in front of the camera.
Other crew members began to frown. Two camera operators exchanged glances—one shaking his head slowly, the other smirking faintly, like watching a slow-motion car crash.
Some had already glanced at the studio door, as if looking for an escape route in case things blew up.
But no one moved.
Every pair of eyes stayed locked, waiting—like spectators who didn't realize they were sitting on the edge of a cliff… one that was slowly crumbling beneath them.
Caleb watched the screen, the corner of his mouth curling slightly.
To anyone else, this might've been an embarrassing train wreck.
To him? This was art of revenge.
Joe sank deeper into his "performance"—every sentence delivered with the cadence of a bargain-bin motivational speaker, yet every pause was punctuated by increasingly rhythmic hip thrusts. He didn't seem to realize that his "hard work" looked more like a ridiculous dance completely unrelated to the topic.
"Caleb is a boy who… ah—" hips swayed to the right "—needs guidance!" sway to the left, hips bouncing up and down "All my efforts were wasted because of his perverted mother, and Caleb—he even enjoyed that sinful relaaationship!" a quick on-the-spot twerk so sharp that the chair behind him slid half a meter back.
The live chat exploded.
[Bro's hips got more lore than his mouth]
[🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥]
[Why am I shaking too?]
[THIS IS PEAK INTERNET]
Clara tried to take control again, her voice slightly raised. "Alright, Mister Joe… perhaps we can get back to—"
But Joe cut her off immediately, locking eyes with the camera in an overdramatic glare—still twerking.
"No, let me finish this. Everyone needs to know… that I am a man full of love!"
Behind the cameras, the producer held his breath, eyes darting between the ratings monitor and Joe's face. The viewer count was skyrocketing.
"Hold it… let him go," he whispered to the floor director.
Caleb reached for the transparent keyboard again with his right hand.
"Still trying to taint my mother's name?" His jaw tightened, and this time his fingers moved with the emotion of a pianist entering a crescendo. Finally, they stopped—hovering above the Enter key.
A wide smile spread across his face, his eyes glinting.
"Let's begin the final requiem."