The phone vibrated for the thirty-seventh time.

Su Ming didn't look.

He was still working on the design draft—the third version the client wanted. Logo color changed from dark blue to navy blue. He adjusted the brightness. Brought down the saturation. Sharpened the edges a bit. Scaled it down to eighty percent to check. Then zoomed in to one-twenty.

The difference between navy blue and dark blue. He'd explained it three times.

The client said: "Think it over again."

Su Ming stared at the message. He didn't reply.

He saved a copy of the navy version. Added "_v3" to the filename. Closed Photoshop.

The phone vibrated again.

Su Ming picked it up and glanced at it.

Weibo DM: 999+.

The latest one: "You still dare to post? Die, plagiarism dog."

Su Ming froze for about three seconds.

He tapped the trending page.

#SuMingSlandersLinQing sat at number seven. A red "Hot" tag beside it.

He scrolled down.

Lin Qing Studio had released a statement two hours ago:

"Regarding online user 'Su Ming_SM' maliciously slandering our artist Ms. Lin Qing over plagiarism allegations—our studio has retained legal counsel and is gathering evidence. The so-called 'original creation timeline' posted by this user is maliciously photoshopped, intended for extortion. Please do not spread rumors or unverified claims."

The first comment below had eight hundred thousand likes.

"Sister Lin Qing's 'Evening Breeze' was written by her. Who even is this Su Ming? Is he that desperate for clout?"

Su Ming placed the phone on the desk.

Screen facing down.

He sat in his dark rented room. In front of him was a four-year-old MacBook Pro, still showing the logo design the client hadn't approved.

He thought back to three days ago.

He had posted three screenshots on Weibo.

The first one—a WeChat chat record between him and Lin Qing from three years ago. Lin Qing said: "Bro, I need lyrics for my new song. Help me write one? I'll buy you dinner."

The second one—the original file properties of that lyric he'd written. Creation time: May 17th, three years ago. Author: Su Ming.

The third one—a screenshot of their chat, where Lin Qing said: "The lyrics are amazing. I'll definitely credit you."

He hadn't intended to start a fight.

He was just scrolling late at night and stumbled upon Lin Qing's interview. The reporter asked who wrote the lyrics for "Evening Breeze." Lin Qing smiled and said, "I wrote it myself. Spent several nights working on it."

Su Ming looked at that smiling face. Remembered the three sleepless nights he'd spent writing those lyrics.

So he posted the three screenshots.

He didn't curse anyone. Didn't tag anyone. Didn't add any hashtags.

Just three pictures.

With one line: "I wrote the lyrics for this song."

Three hours later, eight million people were calling him a "clout-chasing photoshop fraud."

Su Ming wanted to post another explanation.

He typed a few lines.

"Everyone, the three screenshots I posted are not photoshopped. The original files are still on my computer. You can check the file properties—"

He didn't send it.

He deleted it.

He typed another line.

"I met Lin Qing three years ago. She asked me to write lyrics for her. I did. The entirety of 'Evening Breeze' was written by me—"

He didn't send that one either.

He realized that everything he said would be screenshotted and twisted.

He said "I have the original files." The comments said "Photoshopped. AI can fake files now."

He said "The chat records are real." The top comment said "Nice Photoshop skills. You taking commissions?"

He said "I just want credit. I don't want money." Someone replied "Playing the victim? Have your cake and eat it too."

Thirty-eighth vibration.

Thirty-ninth.

Fortieth.

The screen lit up.

DMs kept jumping in. One after another.

He didn't open them.

Two in the morning.

Su Ming finished the design—fine, navy blue it was, not like it made any difference—sent it out, and closed his laptop.

The rented room was so quiet only the hum of the AC remained.

A knock at the door.

Su Ming looked through the peephole.

An elderly woman in a gray sweater stood outside. Around sixty. Carrying a canvas bag.

He didn't know her.

But he opened the door anyway.

"You are…?"

"Little Su."

The old woman's voice was calm. As if knocking on a stranger's door in the middle of the night was the most normal thing in the world.

"Your father sent me."

Su Ming paused. "My father… he's been gone for three years."

"I know."

The old woman set the canvas bag on the shoe cabinet. She took out a kraft paper envelope.

"Before he passed, he told me—if you ever reach a day where 'no matter how much you explain, nobody believes you'—to give this to you."

Su Ming looked at the envelope.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Shen Yufen. An old friend of your father's."

"Just call me Auntie Shen."

Su Ming took the envelope.

He opened it.

Inside was a yellowed sheet of paper. Brushed calligraphy.

"Su Ming, my son—

When you read this letter, you should be experiencing something you cannot explain with words.

Everyone misunderstands you.

The more you explain, the less they believe.

This is not your fault.

This is the fate of our family's guardians—every heir must first endure 'being drowned by the world's malice' before they can receive the key.

What the key is—you'll know once you activate it.

It's in your blood. No external device needed.

As long as you truly believe—that what belongs to the original creator should belong to the original creator—it will answer you.

Your father left you no money.

He left you something more useful.

Hold on."

Outside the window, the streetlamp cast a dim yellow glow.

A car drove by occasionally. Sound approaching from far, then fading into the distance.

Su Ming sat in the office chair he'd been using for three years. The yellowed paper rested on his lap.

He read it three times.

His hands shook every time.

His father had passed away three years ago. Su Ming was out of town working on a draft. He didn't make it back in time.

He left almost nothing behind. Four thousand yuan in the bank. A few books. An old radio.

This letter was the last thing his father left him.

Su Ming folded the letter and placed it in the deepest drawer.

He closed his eyes. Tried again.

"What belongs to the original creator should belong to the original creator."

Three seconds.

Five seconds.

Nothing happened.

He opened his eyes.

Auntie Shen still wore that calm expression.

"Try again. You have to truly believe."

Su Ming closed his eyes again.

He thought of "Evening Breeze."

He thought of the moment he wrote "Evening breeze gently brushes your face." It was four in the morning. It was really raining outside.

Back then, he felt that line would touch someone.

And then he felt it.

An interface appeared in his mind.

No screen. No light effects. No sci-fi special effects.

Just a clear interface—like he could see rows of data even with his eyes closed.

At the top, a line read:

"Global Copyright Repository · 17th Generation Guardian · Su Ming"

Below it, a row of category tabs:

Music · Film & TV · Game IP · Design Patents · Domain Names · Writing Copyright

Instinctively, he "clicked" on Music.

A search bar appeared automatically.

He typed a name.

Lin Qing.

Results jumped out—

"Lin Qing · 23 registered works"

He opened the first one.

"Evening Breeze"

Lyrics: Su Ming (Registration date: June 3, three years ago)
Music: Lin Qing
Current copyright owner: Su Ming (100% lyrics copyright)

Su Ming opened his eyes.

He stood in his cramped rented room. An old woman in her sixties stood before him. His phone kept vibrating. Countless people were cursing him.

But somehow—the vibration didn't sound so noisy anymore.

"You felt it?"

Auntie Shen asked.

Su Ming nodded.

He opened his mouth to speak. But realized he didn't know where to start. About the interface. About the data. About the copyright his father had registered for him three years ago—every bit of it felt too unreal.

"Now you know."

"Your father guarded this thing his whole life."

"Before he left, he said—'Little Su has the key now. I don't need to worry anymore.'"

Auntie Shen patted his shoulder.

"The rest of the road is yours to walk."

"I'll be going now."

She turned and walked into the stairwell. Her footsteps gradually faded.

Su Ming closed the door.

He picked up his phone.

The screen was lit. The latest DM was still cursing him.

He typed a line and sent it out.

Not an explanation.

Not a counterattack.

Just one line—

"Hello, Global Copyright Repository."

He hit send.

Sent.

Then he saw the comment below his post.

The first reply came from an account he didn't follow.

Its profile picture was a key.

The reply read: "Hello, Guardian."

End of Chapter 1: The 37th Vibration