🕛 3:17 A.M.: Lights flicker on a manager’s face as he whispers horrors no one should hear. “It was… art. His screams, our canvas.” 😨

Caught mid-confession, Du Qiang unravels a nightmare: Yu Menglong, alive and breaking, twisted into “performance art” for elite eyes—filmed agony sold in shadows. Bandages hide the unspeakable; what police uncovered in that raid? A gallery of ghosts that could devour dynasties.

Will this footage finally shatter the silence? Or seal fates forever? Click for the full, gut-wrenching reveal: 👇 If it keeps you up at night, drop a ⚠️ below and share the chill…

The veil of secrecy shrouding Chinese actor Yu Menglong’s death ripped further open late Friday when Taiwanese authorities released excerpts from a midnight interrogation of his embattled manager, Du Qiang. Captured on camera at precisely 3:17 a.m. in a dimly lit detention room in Taipei, Du—sweating under harsh fluorescents—allegedly confessed to horrors that blend the surreal with the savage: subjecting Yu to days of live torture framed as avant-garde “performance art,” all captured on film and peddled to shadowy collectors. “It wasn’t just control… it was creation,” Du reportedly stammered, his voice fracturing as he described Yu’s pleas morphing into “screams for the canvas.” What police uncovered in the ensuing raid on Du’s hideout—a cache of encrypted drives, bloodied props, and installation sketches—has left investigators reeling, fueling a torrent of online outrage that ties this fresh revelation to broader accusations of elite ritual abuse, money laundering, and a CCP-orchestrated whitewash now valued at over $20 billion in hidden funds.

Yu Menglong, the 37-year-old Xinjiang native whose smoldering gaze lit up C-dramas like Eternal Love and The Story of Minglan, met his end on September 11 in what Beijing police initially dismissed as a booze-fueled tumble from the 17th floor of Beijing’s Sunshine Upper East complex. With 26 million Weibo followers mourning a “tragic accident,” the story might have faded into the regime’s digital black hole. But leaks—from grainy sack-draggings to autopsy whispers of pre-fall mutilations—ignited a conspiracy inferno. Du Qiang, the 42-year-old Tianjin Shenlan handler long vilified as Yu’s “demonic agent” for viral clips of onstage yanks and backstage glowers, fled to Taiwan on a chartered flight September 20, per airport audio leaks. Detained two days later amid cross-strait extradition buzz, his 3:17 a.m. breakdown—first teased on X by dissident @Beautifulwaltz—has supercharged the #JusticeForYuMenglong crusade, now boasting 3 million posts and U.N. petition signatures cresting 500,000.

The confession, pieced from 22 minutes of footage smuggled via Telegram before Taiwanese censors could scramble, unfolds like a fever dream from a dystopian script. Du, cuffed and cornered, recounts the “art project” greenlit at a September 8 villa soiree at QiHao Art Museum—ostensibly a networking bash for Tianyu Media stars, but allegedly a front for the “17-person list” of suspects: director Cheng Qingsong, producer Fang Li, actress Song Yiren, screenwriter Li Ming (aka “Ji Guang Guang,” red-family scion), singer Jiao Maiqi, and fixers tied to princelings “JG,” the LP financial dynasty, and YT media overlords. “JG’s whisper: Make it raw, make it real,” Du quotes, eyes darting as if expecting reprisal. Yu, fresh off spurning a “casting couch” overture from Xin Qi at the event, stumbled on basement files—USBs logging $616 million in laundered arms cash funneled through film shells, per earlier Vision Times dumps. Panicked, he palmed one; the “artists” pounced.

What followed, Du alleges, was no mere beating but a meticulously staged ordeal dubbed “Puppets and Flesh”—a nod to plastination whispers linking Yu’s fate to Qiao Renliang’s 2016 “suicide,” where fans repurposed mannequin pics as proof of body-to-art conversions. Day 1: Drugged via spiked champagne, Yu was strung up in the villa’s yellow-lit chamber, thunder masking his “Call me Xiao Yu” whimpers as shadows whipped and injected. Dark web streams, sold for $100,000 a pop, framed it as “immersive theater”—buyers anonymous, but IP traces to Beijing elite VPNs. “His pain was the pigment,” Du confesses, detailing how Yu’s thrashing inspired “dynamic installations”: limbs bound in silk ropes mimicking Eternal Love knots, screams synced to ambient scores for “emotional resonance.”

By Day 2, escalation: Yu, sensing the game, swallowed the USB—a desperate bid echoed in X threads analyzing his final livestream’s swaying posture against bare walls. “Vomit it out! Vomit away!” handlers barked in leaked audio, kicking until ribs cracked, teeth loosened. A parking lot dash—caught multi-angle on X by @moon_ki95—saw Yu bolt, only for “trusted” accomplice Fan Shiqi to tackle him: “Why, Fan? I trusted you most,” his wail pierces the clip. Dragged back, the “first drop”: a sloppy shove from the 6th floor onto dug-up grass (photos prove the turf swap), landing him alive but shattered. Paparazzi dawn shots show white-shirted Yu splayed, head bloodied, legs akimbo—unnatural for a suicide leap.

Day 3 dawned in a private clinic tied to Bulgari Hotel—glass doors scrubbed post-op, per tips. Surgeons sliced Yu’s abdomen for the drive, bandages peeking in post-fall pics; Du weeps describing the “extraction ritual,” where docs posed as “sculptors” amid ventilator beeps. Fake Weibo disinfo—”It’s a monk, not Yu; he’s not that tan”—bought time. Revived but ruined, Yu was shuttled to Song Yiren’s 3rd-floor pad for wardrobe swap: blue shirt over wrappings, beige pants for the “final act.” At 5:15 a.m. September 11, the staged plunge from the 5th: face-down, thighs rigor-twisted, abdomen agape. Neighbors’ screams in X’s multi-view vids capture a bark: “Move aside—no photos!”

The raid on Du’s Taipei safehouse, triggered by his airport murmurings—”Jiguangguang… Yu Menglong”—unearthed the abyss: 47 encrypted files of “art reels,” props stained with Type A blood (Yu’s match), sketches of “flesh puppets” echoing Qiao’s case, and ledgers bloating the scandal to $20 billion via 17 shells. One drive allegedly holds kompromat on nine other Tianyu “suicides”—vanishings hushed since 2016, linking to Falun Gong “black warrants.” Du implicates all: Cheng’s bloodied shoes Weibo (“Stains that linger”), Jiao’s glasses-reflected crime scene Douyin (deleted), Wang Yucen’s pre-death eulogy from Tianjin IP. Even Yu’s dogs, Fuli and Huotui, factor in—X claims they were slaughtered on cam as “motif for loss,” their “adoption” by Wang a cover.

Fallout cascaded globally. Beijing detained three women September 22 for “falsities”—one for surveillance tampering claims—while scrubbing 20,000+ posts. Yu’s Xinjiang mom, post-remains claim, vanished; “fake ashes” rumors swirl. Overseas, Times Square rallies October 18 waved “Quit CCP” banners; U.S. Ambassador Burns caught X heat: “Probe or no pandas.” Bollywood Life dubbed Du the “escaped demon,” tying his mentor Sun Derong to fresh fears. Taiwanese lawyer critiques the mainland probe as “evidence bonfire,” citing rushed closure and family blackouts.

Skeptics on Reddit’s r/China warn of psyop soup—QAnon vibes in plastination tales, unverified dark web bids. Foreign Policy notes the frenzy as “moral revolt” against opacity, where voids birth myths. Yet volume screams truth’s shadow: 10,000 deleted Weibo eulogies, Chaoyang leaks pinning Jietai Temple as Yu’s last free breath.

For Yu—from modest roots to principled rejector of shady gigs—the arc was heroic tragedy. His English ballad days prior? Prophetic shadows. Du’s sobs—”You’ll find them… the payers”—hang like unanswered pleas. Will this “art” expose the empire’s rot, or fade like Tangshan’s echoes? Beijing stonewalls; the diaspora roars. In China’s gilded cage, one man’s canvas became the world’s mirror—cracked, bloodied, unyielding.