I searched and fought in America.

Houston Police Department, press conference room.

Behind the long table, Police Chief Jeffrey sat in the center, flanked by several deputy chiefs and senior city government officials.

Each of them was dressed in the best suit and wore the most standard American smile.

The press conference has been going on for an hour.

For that entire hour, Chief Brown felt like he was being roasted over a fire.

"Chief Brown," a reporter wearing gold-rimmed glasses stood up from the audience, holding the microphone high.

"Does the Houston Police Department have a systematic solution to the security problems in the slum areas?"

According to statistics, the violent crime rate in the Ronnie neighborhood has increased by 37 percent over the past five years.

However, police response time has increased by 40%. How do you explain this data?

Brown's lips twitched.

It's that New York Times reporter again.

He remembered this person; he had already asked three questions, each one incredibly tricky.

Why is the city government cutting police budgets in slums?

What are your thoughts on incidents of police brutality against homeless individuals?

Now this happens again.

Typical blue state media, they come to red states to nitpick.

"Well," Brown cleared his throat and began reciting his prepared speech.

"We have been optimizing the allocation of police resources, taking into account the special circumstances of slum areas..."

"Special circumstances?" the reporter interrupted him, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"The special circumstances you mentioned, do you mean that the area is inhabited mainly by poor people and people of color?"

Brown's expression changed.

A low murmur arose from the audience, and a few reporters couldn't help but laugh out loud.

Brown took a deep breath, suppressing his anger.

He knew he couldn't lose his temper.

If I lose my temper in front of so many media outlets...

Tomorrow's headline will be "Houston Police Chief Loses Control in Public".

Those blue state media outlets love to write about this.

"What I mean is," he tried to make his tone sound calm.

"Police resources are limited, and we need to allocate them according to the crime rate. This is not discrimination; it's science."

The reporter was about to say something when a colleague tugged at his sleeve, and he reluctantly sat down.

Brown breathed a sigh of relief and glanced at the deputy mayor beside him.

The deputy mayor's expression was also unpleasant.

He turned his head slightly and asked in a low voice, "What about the survivors?"

Brown lowered his voice as well: "Ready? Wait backstage."

The deputy mayor nodded, then picked up the microphone, forcing a smile.

"Dear journalists, we can arrange a separate interview later regarding the discussion on public security issues."

The focus of today's press conference is on the survivors of yesterday's sewer explosion.

He paused, then raised his voice slightly:

"Now, let's invite two survivor representatives to share their experiences."

The reporters below the stage quieted down and turned their attention to the side door.

The door opened.

A young mother walked in carrying her child.

She was wearing clean old clothes and her hair was neatly combed.

An elderly man with a cane followed behind her.

The old man walked very slowly, each step was difficult, and his face was expressionless.

The two walked to the front of the stage and sat down under the guidance of the staff.

The flash went off again.

The young mother instinctively hugged her child tighter and lowered her head.

The old man didn't react much; he just calmly looked at the cameras below the stage.

"Excuse me—" a reporter eagerly raised his hand.

"Can you tell us what you went through? Why did you end up in the sewers?"

The young mother remained silent for a few seconds.

Then she looked up and spoke.

"We...we were captured by a cult."

There was a moment of silence in the audience.

Then the shutter sounds became more frequent.

"Those people," her voice began to tremble.

"They locked us in a very small room."

There were old people, women, and children—dozens of people in total. We were crammed together; there were no windows, no beds, we could only sit on the floor.

She hugged the child tightly in her arms; the child was still asleep and knew nothing.

"The food they gave us... I don't know what it was. Sometimes it was moldy bread, sometimes it was... something else."

She didn't say what "other" was.

But the reporters in the audience all understood.

Some people turned pale, while others covered their mouths.

"They carved things on our bodies with knives." The young mother loosened one hand, rolled up her sleeve, revealing a section of her arm.

On it were scabbed scars, crookedly forming a strange symbol.

The flashbulbs went off like crazy.

"They hit me, kicked me, burned me with cigarette butts." Her voice trailed off, but she kept talking.

"They took my child, my child is only two years old, they cut him with a knife, they almost severed his blood vessels."

She hugged the child even tighter.

"I thought... I thought we were all going to die there."

Several female reporters in the audience already had tears in their eyes.

The old man with the broken leg then spoke.

"I stayed there for three months, three months, without seeing the sun or knowing whether it was day or night."

Every day new people are brought in, and every day people are dragged out; those dragged out never come back.

He paused, then looked at the reporters below the stage:

"Do you know what happens to those people who are dragged out?"

No one speaks.

"It became the dinner of those cultists."

The old man's voice was calm, but that calmness was more unsettling than any excitement.

One reporter couldn't help but gasp in surprise.

The deputy mayor sat on the stage, his expression complex.

He listened to the two people's stories, feeling a mix of emotions.

These people have suffered more than he could have imagined. But as an official, he now had to consider the impact these words would have on Houston once they got out.

At this moment, the New York Times reporter stood up again.

"Thank you for sharing." He felt some sympathy, but he was more concerned about whether this would have an impact on Texas.

"My question is, during the time you were trapped, did the city government take any rescue operation? Did the police discover your presence?"

The young mother paused for a moment, then shook her head:

"no."

The reporter's eyes lit up, and he continued to press for answers:

"After you were rescued, what kind of help did the city government provide you?"

Is medical care arranged? Is psychological counseling provided? Is there a commitment to provide support for their livelihood afterward?

The young mother paused for a second.

Then she began to recite the passage she had prepared beforehand:

"The municipal government is very concerned about us. After we were rescued, we were immediately sent to the hospital, where doctors treated us and nurses took care of us."

People from the mayor's office also came to see us and said they would help us solve our future living problems.

We...we are very grateful.

Her tone was very flat.

The reporter in the audience could immediately tell from his calm demeanor that he had memorized the lines.

The New York Times reporter smiled slightly.

"May I ask something?" he said slowly and deliberately, "You've been trapped for so long, and the police haven't found you, and the city government hasn't offered any assistance."

Why were you "immediately" taken to the hospital right after the explosion?

Was it because of this explosion that you were 'discovered'?

Chief Brown's expression changed.

The deputy mayor's expression also changed.

This is a really tricky question.

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