Henry Hartwell nodded. "Of course, you can. But reporting it to the police won’t do any good. They’ll just tell you to go ho and wait for results, and it’ll most likely amount to nothing."
Claire Sinclair was at a loss for words.
Teacher Hartwell was right. For one, she hadn’t actually been hard. Furthermore, the letter didn’t explicitly state what they planned to do to her. The police probably wouldn’t pay it much mind.
"Forget it. Maybe it’s just a prank. I refuse to believe soone would kill over an article. There can’t be an idiot that stupid in the world, and even if there were, there’s no way I’d be unlucky enough to run into them."
She simply refused to believe she could have such terrible luck. As for who it was, she couldn’t care less.
Claire Sinclair carried the box with the mannequin head out to the stairwell, tossed it into the trash can, and returned to her desk in the office.
Phoebe Lockwood snuck a glance at Claire Sinclair, a faint smirk playing on her lips as a look of gleeful mockery clouded her eyes.
...
Five days after the publication of "What If, One Day, Art Were to Perish at the Hands of Top-Tier Celebrities?", just as the online fervor was starting to die down, the Bureau of Culture’s official account dropped a bombshell announcent: the toughest performance art examination in history was coming!
Regardless of age or gender, any performing artist would be required to take an examination set by national-level examiners at the end of the year. Those who failed would have two chances to retake it. If an artist failed all three attempts, they would be banned from working in the film and television industry, and no production company would be allowed to hire them again.
In addition, the Bureau of Culture also issued a discreet salary cap, intending to improve the quality of film and television productions by limiting celebrity pay.
Posterity would attribute this campaign to clean up the chaos in the entertainnt industry to Claire Sinclair’s article, "What If, One Day, Art Were to Perish at the Hands of Top-Tier Celebrities."
In reality, however, the article brought Claire Sinclair little honor; instead, it brought her imnse trouble.
Ever since receiving the mannequin head, she had been inundated with a succession of other horrifying items: a Barbie doll riddled with needles, a cloth doll with its limbs severed, and even a threatening letter written in animal blood...
Realizing this was more than just a simple case of intimidation, Claire Sinclair saved the items, packed them up, and brought them to the Aethelgard Police Departnt to file a report.
After an officer took her statent, he showed no particular concern, simply telling her to go ho and wait for results.
Subconsciously, Claire Sinclair had an instinctive trust in the police, so she didn’t dwell on it.
But the next day, she received another threatening letter. This one said she wouldn’t live more than three days.
She called and told the officer about it, but he just said, "We’re aware of the situation. Please wait for the results," and left it at that.
Claire Sinclair began to realize she might be dealing with bureaucratic inaction, so she wrote a post on Weibo:
[Ever since I published the article "What If, One Day, Art Were to Perish at the Hands of Top-Tier Celebrities?" in the newspaper, I started receiving threatening letters on the third day. It’s now the seventh day, and I’ve received a new threat every single day, each one more creative than the last. A new surprise every day.
I’ve been asking the police for help for three days, and every day they just tell to wait for an update. The threatening letter says I won’t live past three days. Tomorrow is the deadline. If I die, please rember my na. I am the journalist, Claire Sinclair.]
Claire Sinclair already had three million followers on Weibo. When many of her loyal fans saw her post, they spontaneously organized and went to @ the Aethelgard Police Departnt’s official account, declaring that their idol was being threatened. Only then did the Aethelgard Police Departnt hastily issue a statent, claiming they would expedite the case.
When she got ho from work that evening, Claire Sinclair booted up her old computer, which she called Little White, and prepared to handle a little business.
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