Today is once again a preparation day ahead of filming Episode Sixteen of The Hidden Moon and the Sea of Dawn.

The crew spends the morning shooting a few simple locked-off shots.
Progress is unusually smooth, and by noon they finally have a moment to catch their breath.

The office fills with the warmth of boxed lunches and the faint hum of the air conditioner.
Several folding tables are crowded with food of every kind.

The director leans back on the sofa to steal some sleep.
The art lead sits in the corner tearing open a bag of braised snacks.
As usual, the screenwriter works with a laptop open, fingers tapping lightly across the keyboard, eating while continuing to work.

The atmosphere is quiet—
a touch of calm settling in amid the fatigue.

The manager remains seated where he is,
his lunch box placed in front of him, still unopened.

His gaze rests on a folder,
his brow gradually knitting without him noticing.

The art lead, heading over to fill a water bottle, catches the change.
Still holding the straw she’s just pulled free, she bends closer.

“What’s wrong?
If you don’t eat now, it’s going to get cold.”

The manager says nothing.
He flips to a page of documents and hands it over directly.

The art lead lowers her gaze to take a look, then pauses.

“Blocked accounts? Fifteen…
grace6…
Girls in Islamabad…”

Hearing the string of unfamiliar account names, the screenwriter—who had been busy in the corner—leans over as well.
His eyes sweep the table, his brow slowly lifting.

“Thirteen in total from April 12 to today?
And ten of them all on April 16 alone?”

The manager nods.

“Marketing flagged it.
Fanggezi’s comment sections were likely targeted by zombie accounts.
They’ve been flooding posts with random links.”

“At first, marketing thought the metrics were spiking,” he continues,
“but it turned out to be fake—pure junk traffic.
It even interfered with backend analysis.”

The art lead lets out a quiet “Oh,” as if everything suddenly clicks into place.

“No wonder I noticed the comment count change a few days ago,
but there was nothing there when I clicked in…”

As her words trail off, her gaze drops,
the end of her sentence sinking into something subdued.

“So in reality…
our actual audience comments are zero, huh…”

The screenwriter squints and laughs softly, as if he’d guessed it all along.

“So right now, it’s just manual blocking,
one by one, the slow way?”

“For now, all we can do is block them one by one,
while reminding readers not to click suspicious links.”

The manager closes the folder, tapping his knuckles against it twice.

“They said even the official accounts got hit.”

“Huh?
Even the Vocus platform itself was hit?”

The screenwriter looks genuinely taken aback.

“Then why isn’t the tech team stepping in?”

“At this stage, the most straightforward approach is still account blocking.
Once an account is blocked, its related comments are hidden as well.”

“There aren’t any other methods available right now.”

The manager shrugs.

“Because Vocus only offers two comment-permission options—free or paid.
We can’t very well set the entire series behind a paywall
just to deal with a bunch of zombie accounts.”

“…Huh…”

The art lead tilts her head and takes a sip from a paper cup with barely any water left,
half stunned, half resigned.

“So marketing basically just got promoted to comment patrol officer—
the kind that has to be on duty all day.”

She then pats her knee.

“No matter where you are,
a office drone is always a office drone…”

The screenwriter rubs at his hair.

“Please, stop.
You’re making me feel sorry for myself now…”

Watching the two of them spiral through this pitiful little exchange,
the manager finally can’t help but laugh.

Even his furrowed brow loosens a little.

The comment section has become a battlefield of data,
but this office still allows a brief moment to breathe—

someone venting,
someone chewing on dried tofu,
someone stubbornly guarding a box of cold lunch.

—as long as the food hasn’t been invaded too,
it’s not the end of the world yet.