After Fang Zimo's apology, more things surfaced.

The next day, major music platforms began delisting the 29 songs registered under his name. At the same time, more creators came forward. Someone posted melody comparisons in the comments. Someone shared screenshots of manuscripts bought at cutthroat prices. Someone wrote, "I sent him a demo three years ago. He used it. Never credited me." One after another — by that evening, the thread had over five million shares.

Su Ming read every single one. He opened the Copyright Repository and searched Fang Zimo Studio's registration name — the results showed over three hundred works registered under that entity, and more than two hundred of them had original creators who weren't studio artists. In other words, beyond the seventeen who had already stepped forward, there were countless more he didn't know — people scattered across different cities, living lives that had nothing to do with music.

He messaged Zhou Yuan, asking if he knew any other victims. A few minutes later, Zhou Yuan created a group. The group was called "Fang Zimo Victims Alliance." There were seventeen people in it. Su Ming clicked through each profile — some were still in the industry, some had switched to selling insurance, someone had opened a fruit shop back in their hometown, someone who'd written lyrics for ten years had ended up doing operations at an internet company.

Messages kept popping up in the group. A guy named Old Chen said he'd written four songs in 2017 and sold them to Fang Zimo Studio, signing a buyout contract. Not much money, but back then he thought being sung by someone was enough. Later, those four songs became the lead tracks on a Fang Zimo album — all credited solely to Fang Zimo. Old Chen said: "Back then I thought my writing just wasn't good enough. If he took it and tweaked it a bit and called it his own, well, that's normal. Until I saw the timestamps you guys posted — he didn't change a thing. Not a single note."

Another person said: "I submitted a demo to him in 2019. Later that song showed up on his live album. I went to ask about it. Their legal team said I'd waived my copyright by default when I submitted it. Back then, I didn't even know what copyright was."

Someone else sent a long voice message. Su Ming tapped to listen — the voice sounded young, like someone who'd just graduated a couple years ago. "I'd just moved to Beijing back then. Rented a partitioned room with a north-facing window. Freezing in the winter. It took me a month to write that song. I rewrote the chorus thirteen times. Fang Zimo Studio's people said they liked it. Gave me three thousand yuan. Said they bought it. I thought having my song performed by someone was a good thing. Three thousand — I paid the rent, had two hundred left, ate instant noodles for a week. Later that song became the lead track on their album, closing the show at a music festival." He paused here. "I didn't go to the festival. The tickets were too expensive."

The group went quiet for a few seconds. Someone typed: "It's not your fault."

Su Ming typed a line in the group: "Hi everyone. I'm Su Ming. I was plagiarized too. I have evidence." The group exploded. Someone said their 2019 song had been taken. Someone else said a piece they wrote in 2020 had been credited to Fang Zimo. Su Ming replied: "Send me the titles. I'll check them for you."

That night, he sat alone until 4:30 AM. The living room held only the clatter of keyboard keys and the low hum of the AC. The streetlamp outside cast a long shadow across the wall. He searched each name one by one in the Copyright Repository, comparing original registration records. By the time he'd finished the 43rd song, the sky was starting to lighten.

At 3 AM, he went to the kitchen for a glass of water. The water in the kettle had gone cold. He didn't bother reheating it. He took the glass to the window and looked outside — the street below was empty, the streetlights painting the asphalt a warm orange. Most of the windows in the building across were dark. One or two still glowed faintly — maybe other people staying up like him, or maybe just lights someone forgot to turn off. An occasional taxi drove by, the sound of tires on pavement rising up — muffled, then gone quickly. Late-night in this city had a kind of emptiness that the daytime bustle couldn't cover. On the rooftops in the distance, red aviation warning lights blinked on and off, like stars that would never fall.

He finished his water and sat back down at the computer to keep checking. The cold water going down his throat woke him up a little. The screen's glow fell across his face. He rubbed his eyes and kept scrolling.

He came across a document from a lyricist named Zhou Yuan — rough drafts of lyrics he'd written. There were revision marks, sentences crossed out and rewritten, and a note scribbled in the header: "Did another version today. Still think the first one was better." Su Ming stared at those handwritten notes for a long time. He remembered his own design drafts being sent back by clients for revisions — the first version's idea was always the best. He remembered writing "fuck this" in a file note after the tenth revision, then deleting it and doing another round.

Three days later, he published a long Weibo post. The title was "His Ten Years, Their Whole Lives." There was no cursing in the article, no accusations — just a list, item by item: which songs were written by whom, what the original registration dates were, where those people were now — some still in the industry, some had switched careers, some were paying off mortgages. At the end of the article, he wrote: "I'm Su Ming. I'm not some bigshot. I'm just a designer who writes lyrics on the side. Three days ago, eight million people cursed me out. I know what it feels like to be misunderstood. So I wanted the people who actually wrote these songs to be seen. Even if just once."

Within twenty-four hours, the post had over ten million shares. Fang Zimo's name disappeared from the number one trending spot, replaced by #WhoIsZhouYuan and #FangZimoVictimsAlliance.

On the sixth day, Fang Zimo's management company announced they were terminating his contract. Lin Qing Studio announced its dissolution the same day. Lin Qing posted a Weibo: "I was wrong. I'm sorry." No other words. Su Ming was working on the 21st version of a design draft when he saw it. He glanced at it and kept working.

He didn't reply to that Weibo. No like, no comment, no share. He wasn't sure what he felt — not exactly happiness, not exactly forgiveness. He stared at those words "I was wrong" for a while and thought they came too late. If they'd come two weeks earlier — if she'd stopped and thought before teaming up with her fans to brigade him — maybe none of this would have happened. But she hadn't. She chose to delete comments instead of apologizing. She chose to say those three words only when there was no ground left to retreat to. The timing of an apology matters more than the apology itself — late is late, just like copyright registration.

But he didn't feel vindicated either. He was almost tired. Like fighting a long battle against an unworthy opponent — he'd won, but there was nothing to be happy about. He was just a designer. All he wanted was to keep doing his design work, keep writing his lyrics, and not be cursed at for no reason. Now that the people cursing him were gone, he realized he didn't care about it as much as he used to.

That evening, Zhou Yuan messaged him saying he'd written new lyrics. The title was "Before Dawn." Su Ming read it and replied with two words: "It's good." Zhou Yuan replied with three words: "Thank you."

The Municipal Copyright Bureau issued a notice the same day — the copyright registrations for 29 songs under Fang Zimo's name contained false information, and revocation proceedings had been initiated. Su Ming screenshotted it and sent it to Zhou Yuan: "What are you thinking about right now?" Zhou Yuan replied with a voice message. His voice sounded lighter than before: "Thinking about — what to do after daybreak."

Su Ming didn't reply to that voice message. He set his phone down on the desk and stared out the window. The design draft was still open. The client was waiting for the 22nd revision. The difference between navy blue and dark blue — he used to think that question mattered. Now he knew where to draw the line.

End of Chapter 5: Avalanche