Chapter 118

Chapter 118: Belated Justice

Once again in the dead of night, a black-haired girl with twin tails barged into the ramshackle hut that was gradually taking shape.  

From the outside, it still looked pitiful, but the interior had begun to resemble a proper dwelling.  

For certain reasons, the multi-talented operative who should have been globetrotting on missions had temporarily decided to stay put. With time to spare, she’d taken to renovating the dilapidated shack—though tearing it down and rebuilding might have been easier.  

There was even a television now, though it was only ever tuned to the news.  

When Mi Xiaoliu entered, Wei Shi stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette.  

But then he glanced at his freshly started game and the blinking “Flash” icon on-screen. Might as well finish this match before chewing her out.  

He hadn’t summoned Mi Xiaoliu. Unauthorized visits were strictly forbidden.  

“What’s this about?” The Hermit, lounging on the sofa with her phone, looked up in surprise as Mi Xiaoliu marched straight toward her.  

“Meow.” Mi Xiaoliu flopped onto her.  

The Hermit: “??”  

“Meow.” Mi Xiaoliu repeated.  

Her pleading intent was unmistakable.  

The Hermit raised a hand, and the girl obediently pressed her cheek into it, inviting head pats.  

Damn, she’s cute.  

After thoroughly ruffling Mi Xiaoliu’s hair (Not unlike petting a dog), the Hermit sat her down beside her, idly kneading the girl’s ice-cold fingers.  

“Alright, out with it. What do you need your big sis’s help with, this time?”  

—  

The day before, Yiwen had asked Uncle Chen about her father’s past work history. To her frustration, he’d refused to divulge a single detail.  

That damn old man.  

The next school physical was in… about a month. Summer break would follow shortly after.  

Barring unforeseen circumstances, that same old nurse would likely handle Mi Xiaoliu’s evaluation—meaning the results would almost certainly omit his true abilities. Yiwen needed to find another way to uncover them.  

She turned her head, spotting Mi Xiaoliu dead asleep at his desk, a long, diamond-shaped paper slip tucked into his collar. The character for “White Slash” was scrawled across it.  

Yiwen’s handiwork.  

Normally, such slips only worked when hidden in hoodies—their movements went unnoticed that way. But who wore hoodies in the middle of summer?  

Mi Xiaoliu hadn’t stirred when she’d slipped it in. Just what was he up to last night?  

If a teenage boy wasn’t gaming, reading novels, or binge-watching dramas late at night… What else was there?  

Puberty stuff?  

She’d heard boys started getting… ideas as early as middle school. Not that girls were much different.  

“Yo, Old Liu.” Jim, ever tactless, shook Mi Xiaoliu awake. “Heard about that new triple-A game? Gangster: Wukong or something?”  

“You’re still keeping up with new releases?” a boy behind them chimed in.  

“What, we’re just supposed to swear off games forever now?” Jim scoffed.  

After the Dream Game incident, parents had all the ammunition they needed to clamp down on gaming.  

“Yiwen.” Barrett sidled up, draping herself over Yiwen’s shoulders to whisper. “Have you seen the news about Jingyin?”  

Yiwen’s heart skipped a beat.

That name—she dreaded hearing it from anyone else.  

…  

Hayakawa Kumi, a graduate of Sunshine City’s First Media University, was a rising star in Fanzui City’s journalism scene. Her sweet voice and penchant for controversial topics were her greatest professional assets.  

Yet, until last year, she’d been just another obscure intern barely scraping by.  

This was the information age. Anyone could be a content creator now—even those “internet beggars” she looked down upon made more money than she did.  

She despised streamers and influencers. Most traditional media and entertainment professionals did, really. They were an affront to her expertise, requiring virtually no qualifications yet raking in ten times her salary. The thought made her grind her teeth.  

Fanzui City didn’t have many of them, but Sunshine City was different. You’d see them everywhere—holding selfie sticks, filming with elaborate setups, ordering ten-egg omelets from street vendors just to ask, “How long have you been making these, boss?”  

Then, two years ago, she scored her first viral interview. A building under demolition in Sunshine City had partially collapsed, leaving one floor teetering dangerously over an adjacent structure. A crowd gathered to gawk.  

“Look at all these people just watching—not one trying to help,” she’d muttered offhand.  

Unbeknownst to her, her cameraman was already live. That careless remark got broadcasted.  

Mysteriously, ratings soared. Even stranger, some viewers genuinely agreed with her throwaway comment—who even were these people?  

Though her face wasn’t shown, the backlash was immediate. But the more people cursed her, the more attention she garnered. Clips of her segment spread through reaction videos like “Debunking Viral Moments” and “Dumbest News Bloopers.” 

Online forums erupted into thousand-comment threads debating whether bystanders should’ve “helped” the collapsing building.  

The internet was like that. Any topic could spark vitriol because there were no barriers to entry. Behind an account might lurk a PhD holder with the maturity of a toddler, or a middle-schooler failing exams yet pontificating online with righteous fury.  

Did the backlash crush her? Hardly. She saw gold in those flame wars.  

Controversy was the ultimate engagement hack.  

If interviewees refused to play along, she’d just edit accordingly. Not outright fabrication—just… selective trimming to guide narratives.  

“Murderer’s Son Living Lavishly Years Later.”  

“Orphaned Teen Shows No Grief On Camera.”  

“Store Clerk’s Pursuit Causes Thief’s Death—’I Did Nothing Wrong!’ She Screams.”  

Each guaranteed at least a thousand comments from people wholly unconnected to the stories.  

No lies—just “neutral” framing that let subjects hang themselves. She wasn’t stupid, letting audiences “speculate” was legal. Outright slander wasn’t.  

Honestly, wasn’t her work more substantive than those “Filmed this random thing and it went viral!” clout-chasers?  

These days, real money requires compromised morals.  

And yet, even after her success, she still looked down on those talentless influencers—like that Jingyin girl.  

Too young to be streaming. Can’t sing. Obviously facetuned. And that “ditzy” persona? So fake.  

Initially just a hater, she’d once commented questioning Jingyin’s filters and vocal technique. The girl’s rabid fans attacked. Their vitriol only deepened her resentment—even though Jingyin herself never responded.  

Thus emerged her only truly fabricated piece: the “Jingyin ignores drowning victims to play phone games” clip.  

Posted from a burner account, of course. She wasn’t an idiot—it’d be useless after the inevitable debunking.  

Except Jingyin was an idiot. Her “clarification” video backfired spectacularly, the backlash driving her offline—tantamount to admitting guilt.  

Just a child.  

Had it been her? A few strategic videos—”My Cyberbullying Trauma,” “Overcoming Depression,” “Don’t Fall For Me Challenge”—would’ve fixed everything.  

—  

“Senpai, was that food safety exposé fake too?” a junior asked at the company banquet.  

“I never said anything. Read the copy—’allegedly,'” Hayakawa smirked.  

“But that restaurant went under—”  

“Did it? Perfect. I’ll interview them again soon—’How Fake News Destroyed This Viral Eatery.'”  

Not her fake news, naturally. She’d only said “allegedly.” The internet mob did the rest.  

This conversation, carelessly filmed by a colleague during the banquet, should’ve been deleted. She’d personally ensured it.   

Yet there it was—blazing across the front page of every short-video platform.  

Alongside:  

“Jingyin Incident: The Unedited Truth.”  

“Hayakawa Kumi: The Human Utility Knife?”  

“The Reporter Who Preys on Trauma.”  

Dozens of exposés from different accounts, all dissecting her career with surgical precision.  

They’d doxxed her.  

Hayakawa frantically checked her own accounts. Private messages overflowed the 99+ limit. Former fans now hurled vitriol with the same fervor they’d once cheered for her.  

Slurs. Ancestral insults. Vomit emoji chains.  

Each barb stabbed her pride. How dare these nobodies attack her online? What right did they have? Weren’t they the same sheep who’d joined her witch hunts?  

She was still reeling when the handcuffs clicked around her wrists.  

“You’re under arrest for defamation and malicious fabrication under Federal Code 231,” Officer Chen stated flatly.  

The sentence wouldn’t be long, but in the court of public opinion, she’d already died. This cyberlynching would haunt her for years.  

“Wait—I’m the victim here!” Hayakawa writhed against the restraints. “Doxxing is illegal too! Aren’t you investigating that?”  

Officer Chen remained silent, nodding for officers to escort her away.  

Two separate crimes.  

Outside her former workplace, rival reporters swarmed like vultures, microphones jabbing toward her nostrils.  

“Is it true you edited interviews to manipulate narratives?”  

Hayakawa instantly conjured tears, her face morphing into wounded innocence. “I didn’t edit anything! I was just an intern—”  

“So you did manipulate interviewees?”  

“No! The editors wrote those scripts! Those videos are complete fabrications—”  

“Any regrets now?” The reporter talked over her, questions presupposing guilt.  

Ah.  

She wasn’t giving the right sound bites.  

Hayakawa lowered her head, but the interrogation continued:  

“Anything to say to Jingyin? She was fourteen when you unleashed the internet on her.”  

“Seen what your family posted about you on social media?”  

“Don’t you have any questions for the police?” Hayakawa finally snapped, avoiding the microphones as she glared darkly at the reporter and muttered in a low voice, “Can’t you see I don’t want to talk to you? Stop kicking someone when they’re down.”

“Well then…” the reporter pressed on with one final question, “Have you ever considered that the people you interviewed felt exactly this way?”

“……” 

Hayakawa’s silence spoke volumes.