NOVEL NEXT Chapter 3 - Livestream Murder. Who Did He Think He Was?
Chapter 3: Livestream Murder. Who Did He Think He Was?
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Translator: Simple MTL Editor: Simple MTL
At this moment, Bowen was on the verge of collapsing. He had only one son, Little Bowen. Little Bowen was disappointing and did not inherit any of his business talents. He would only cause trouble, and Bowen had to clean up all his mess.
However, Little Bowen was very good at pleasing him. Many of the women he played with were all brought over by Little Bowen.
Bowen’s personal doctor had already examined him. His body had already been damaged, and it was impossible for him to have more children.
He did not want to give up on Little Bowen!
Bowen was still pondering on it, but the voice rang out again. It came from the other end of the room.
“Now, the game begins. You still have 29 minutes left.”
The Death Judge said only two simple sentences, but it made Bowen so anxious that he was about to go crazy.
He didn’t want to die!
He had finally reached this point. He was wealthy, he enjoyed a respectable status, he had many women, and he had everything that every man in the world dreamed of!
He hadn’t enjoyed it to the fullest, and he wasn’t even fifty years old yet. How could he die here like this!
Bowen was buried deep in thought. He ran to the elevator but saw that the elevator had already closed. He slapped the elevator crazily, but there was no response.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!”
Bowen cursed as he ran to the stairs. He could already feel the pain in his body gradually becoming more intense.
“Listen! I’m Philemon Bowen! I am the boss of Bowen Petroleum. Someone is going to kill me live. Hurry up and save me!”
The operator who stayed up all night calmly and slowly said, “Don’t worry. Tell me slowly. Where are you? Do you know the person who wants to kill you? What phone are you calling from now?”
“Didn’t you hear me? I’m Philemon Bowen! I’m at the Wall Street Financial Building. Come here quickly! I don’t pay so much tax every year to feed a bunch of trash!” he roared.
Five minutes later, two police cars set off from the nearest police station and rushed to the Wall Street financial building.
“Chief, we’ve found the live broadcast,” a police officer yelled as he handed the computer to the chief.
Benjamin Theodore, the chief of the 77th Precinct of the New York Police Department, took the computer. In the videos, he could see that Bowen had fallen down. It was due to the effect of the poison on his muscles. He had rolled down the stairs. When he fell, his head was bleeding, and no one could tell how he was doing at that exact moment.
“A live broadcast of murder. Who does he think he is? He doesn’t care about us at all! Seal his live broadcast room and account immediately!” the chief said.
The police officer answered, “No, chief. I’ve tried it just now. This live broadcast room is not a normal live broadcast room. It’s like a virus that is plugged into the Internet. It can’t be shut down at all. The only way is to directly shut down the website’s server. Even so, it might not be useful. If it fails and is not completely shut down, viewers will simply jump to other live broadcast rooms. That would cause a greater impact!”
When Theodore heard that, he hesitated. He couldn’t shut it down, and he had no choice but to do so! The longer he dragged it out, the greater the impact!
Shut it down!
With a hardened determination, Theodore ordered, “Immediately contact the FBI and tell them to shut down all the servers of all the websites that are broadcasting the content of this streaming room!”
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“Yes, sir!”
Meanwhile, Bowen had already dragged himself to the hall on the first floor. The monitor in the middle of the hall suddenly turned on. What was playing was the content of the streaming room. He looked at himself on the monitor. The muscles on his face had begun to dissolve and became distorted. He had never seen such an ugly face.
“Am I going to die? Where are the police? Come and save me! Who will save me?”
The anxious Bowen shouted in the hall, but because the muscles in his vocal cords had dissolved, his voice sounded even more unpleasant than the screams of the devils in hell.
There was no response. Only the echoes of his own voice could be heard in the empty hall.
Bowen looked out of the window and stared at the entirety of Wall Street, which was illuminated by the lights. He felt that his vision was getting darker and darker. This place represented the wealth of the world. However, no amount of wealth now could prevent him from sliding toward death.
Suddenly…
He seemed to have thought of something. He frantically searched for something at the reception desk in the hall.
Soon, he found the golden hammer that he used to ring the bell whenever his company went public!
He walked to the French window and swung his arm.
He expected the glass to shatter. However, the golden hammer flew out of his hand and hit his head.
Time is money!
Bowen, who was lying on the ground, had said this when he was young. Now, he completely disagreed with this sentence.
If he could be given even a few minutes, he would be willing to give up money. Every second was torture for him now. Not only was he experiencing physical pain from his dissolving muscles, but he was also being tortured psychologically. Every minute, the pain would become more intense. The intense pain kept reminding him that death was getting closer and closer to him, but he had no way out. He could only endure the physical and psychological pain.
“Huff! Huff!”
Bowen’s breathing became more and more labored.
The deformity of his face caused by the dissolution of his muscles was also becoming more and more evident. His face was no longer recognizable. It no longer looked like a human’s face.
“This guy is dying. Hurry up and die! Why are you still breathing so hard? It’s a waste of air!”
“He’s not dead yet. It’s just scary. If he can still stand and swing the hammer, it means that he’s still far from death. The judge said that he is given 30 minutes. He still has 16 minutes left.”
“The judge obviously calculated well. It’s clear now that this guy won’t be able to escape. The road is still a little congested. The police obviously won’t be able to make it.”
“Did you see the deformity on his face and the shape of the bones on his shoulders and arms? That’s because the muscles have dissolved. He is now dehydrated. Even if he doesn’t die soon, he won’t be able to climb up the stairs because he ran out of strength. In another ten minutes, he won’t be able to even pick up a knife.”
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