Kapitel 162: Buried

The screening hall was restless, even though the lights had dimmed. The rustling sounds persisted, and to the audience's surprise, not only was the premiere of "Buried" lively, but it was also a full house. There were even some latecomers who couldn't enter the venue. For an independent film with little promotion and no gimmicks, this was truly a rare occasion. The atmosphere was charged with excitement.

Rodrigo couldn't help but become irritated because he knew that the film had started properly from the first shot. If the audience continued to be noisy, they would miss important scenes. A mixture of nervousness, unease, and anticipation surged within him. He clenched and then released his fists, but in the end, he couldn't hold back. He stood up abruptly and shouted, "Quiet, please be quiet! The movie is about to start. Can we please have silence?"

After his outburst, Rodrigo sat back down, his heart pounding in his chest. His action had been quite audacious. Unexpectedly, the commotion in the screening hall gradually subsided. The politeness of Canadians was indeed well-deserved.

Gavin Hunt watched the opening sequence with utmost seriousness. To his surprise, he didn't recognize the name of the production company, not even the name itself. It was a completely unfamiliar independent film. After the opening ended, the screen plunged into darkness. Gavin adjusted his posture, settling into a watching position. Ten seconds passed in silence, then twenty seconds, and still no sound. Thirty seconds elapsed, and there was no change...

Gavin looked around, puzzled. Could there be a problem with the film reel or the projection equipment? After the opening, there had been thirty seconds of complete silence and a black screen. It appeared to be a projection malfunction! How could this be?

Although "Buried" was an independent film, the lack of attention from the organizers and even a projection malfunction was truly unfair!

Gavin felt a sense of injustice, standing up for the "Buried" crew mentally. In the screening hall, although no noise was present, it was clear that doubt had begun to creep in among the audience. People were looking around, left and right, and the faint sounds of fabric rubbing against seats resonated in the darkness, breaking the immersive movie-watching atmosphere.

"Exhale." A breathy sound emerged from the screening hall, faint and slightly suppressed.

Gavin's initial reaction was that his journalist colleagues had noticed something. He looked around anxiously, only to realize that everyone was scanning the surroundings. Then, the faint breath resounded in his ears again, as if someone was right next to his ear, struggling with a stifled, painful exhale. Gavin froze in place, muscles stiffening. Slowly, he turned his head and looked at the motionless screen. Was that sound coming from the surround sound system?

The suppressed breathing began to intensify, mingling with choked coughs within the rapid breaths, capturing Gavin's attention. It wasn't just Gavin; the entire audience fell silent. In the pitch-black darkness, only the urgent sounds of breathing could be heard. The undulating darkness seemed like invisible ropes, binding everyone to their seats. Their muscles were immobilized as they stared at the screen, trying to discern any trace from the inky blackness.

But they failed.

Amidst the frantic breathing, something began to collide with the surroundings, emitting dull thuds, as if demons were struggling. Gavin felt as if his heart had been grasped in a tight grip, slowly constricting, tighter and tighter. A deadly fear quietly seized his ankles, the icy touch causing an involuntary shiver. He attempted to move his body, but found himself immobilized, much like the breath within the darkness, trapped in a confined space. His futile attempts to break free only resulted in bruises and injuries from hitting the narrow confines. The images in his mind merged with the panicked and rapid breaths, growing vivid and lifelike.

Thirty seconds—full thirty seconds—Gavin's eyes widened, unblinking, as if time had frozen on him.

"Damn, damn." The sound of a lighter hitting a flint made Gavin hold his breath. Dim light illuminated his disheveled left eye, where a mixture of panic, fear, hesitation, surprise, and unease danced, alternately bright and dim in the uncertain light, gripping Gavin's throat firmly.

Rapid breaths pounded against his heart, and the feeble light struggled against the impenetrable darkness, slowly diffusing. Then, he saw a mouth gagged with a dirty cloth, hands bound with coarse rope, two hands awkwardly holding a lighter. The light dispelled the surrounding darkness, revealing the world to the audience. It was a wooden box, a coffin-sized wooden box, imprisoning a man in its confined space.

The man began to pound the wooden panels with his elbows and shoulders, struggling and ramming against the walls. Desperation drove him to fight and resist, and the feeble sparks from the lighter danced as he exerted himself, encapsulating Gavin with a sense of impending doom.

Suddenly, the light extinguished, taking Gavin's breath and all sounds in the cinema with it.

Amidst the chaos, the man anxiously tried several times, reigniting the lighter and using every part of his body to strike. He attempted to break free. Only now did he realize that he quickly tore the cloth from his mouth, leaving a deep red mark on his cheek. "Cough... cough..." He tried to say something, but it seemed like he'd lost the ability to speak, ending up with a monosyllable, "Ah!" He called out, summoning rescue, assistance, his kindred... "Ah!"

He couldn't even manage to cry out "help". He resembled an infant, blindly and recklessly howling and colliding, reverting to a primal state, charging forth like a beast. Yet this only accentuated his trapped desperation and agony. Every ounce of his strength was expended, to no avail. His earlier struggles and efforts now seemed laughable.

Gavin gaped, staring fixedly at the screen. He'd forgotten how to blink, witnessing the man on the screen's dying struggle. A freezing fear crawled slowly up from his ankles, as though even his blood could sense the bone-chilling cold. However, he couldn't move, pinned to the chair, unflinchingly watching, afraid of missing even a single moment, even if it was just a breath.

Without a single line of dialogue and no unnecessary plot, the close-up shot depicted the spatial constraint and oppression in their entirety. Simultaneously, it magnified the man's emotions, capturing the suffocating suppression, the chaotic restlessness, and the hopeless helplessness. Under the illumination of the firelight, these emotions erupted, gripping every subtle shift in the audience's feelings. Gavin had lost his ability to think; his sole thought now was: Help! Who can come and rescue this man?

Finally regaining a semblance of sanity, the man used a nail in the corner to cut the rope binding his hands, freeing them. Then, using the lighter, he illuminated his immediate surroundings, surveying the environment he found himself in. It was a coffin, a rudimentary one. He strained to lift the lid with his shoulders, but his efforts proved futile. The coffin lid appeared immovable, and his exertions were as insignificant as ants attempting to move a tree.

Fury reached its zenith, pain reached its zenith, despair reached its zenith, and once again, the light extinguished, plunging the world back into darkness.

Within the darkness, he roared, screamed, punching and kicking the walls around him, venting his inner frustration and suffocation with abandon. Yet, at the end of his rage, a helpless despair overcame him. He even helplessly laughed, and once laughter reached its peak, it turned into sobbing. Clenching his lower lip, he muffled the bitter sobs in his chest, where they resonated.

Chanelle's pupils dilated to the extreme, her heart seemed to have ceased its beating. Even the flow of blood was imperceptible. She stood in silence, fixated and dazed, staring at the pitch-black screen. There was nothing on the screen, not even the outline of a figure. Yet, she could tangibly feel those jumbled emotions. As though trapped in the coffin herself, terror intertwined with fear, desperation mixed with bitterness. Even if she bled and suffered, she was engulfed in a bewildered helplessness, being dragged inexorably into the depths of hell.

She had anticipated, been curious, and imagined what the finished product of "Buried" might look like. But the reality was, in just the first ten minutes, from one darkness to another, besides the cries, there was no dialogue. The vivid sense of peril had utterly demolished all her defenses, leaving her unable to react at all.

She didn't want to miss even a single second of this film.

The sound of a vibrating phone broke the silence within the darkness. The faint blue light flickered, momentarily bright, then dim, tirelessly oscillating by the man's feet. It not only woke the man from his despondency, but also every audience member in the theater. Simultaneously, they all sat up straight, curiously and eagerly fixated on the big screen. Why was there a phone there? Could this be the man's chance of escape? Who was calling at this crucial moment? What twist would the story take next?

The man attempted to reach the phone, but it was by his feet—a far from easy task. After tremendous effort, he managed to kick it up using his toes. He quickly picked up the phone. It was an old-fashioned bar phone, looking quite dated. He turned on the screen but froze on the spot, for the phone displayed Arabic script.

Arabic?