Su Wan placed her phone on the nightstand, screen facing down. Instead of immediately checking how many new messages had popped up in the comment section, she first poured herself a glass of warm water and took a big gulp, only then did the dryness in her throat ease slightly.

The sky outside was gradually growing darker. She sat back at Su Wan’s bedroom desk, lit up her phone again, and the C.me interface appeared. The video’s view count had stalled just over a thousand—not high, but not low either. What really made her squint was the flood of new accounts that surfaced as she scrolled down the comments.

“Did the blogger get dumped on a blind date and now she’s filming videos to elicit sympathy?”

“I heard she publicly insulted someone at a dinner party—no manners whatsoever.”

“This makeup looks so clean, but it’s probably photoshopped, right? Can a real person really look this fresh?”

“Don’t believe her cheap product recommendations—she must be getting paid behind the scenes; otherwise, why bother?”

One after another, the tone was pretty much the same, and the wording seemed to have been carved out of the same mold. She clicked on a few of the profiles and sure enough, they were all newly registered accounts today, with no other content posted and empty follow lists, each boasting only a handful of followers.

Su Chen poked his head out from his room: “Here we go again?”

“Mm,” she replied, scrolling through the screen and starting to take screenshots.

“You’re still recording?” He walked over and stood behind her. “Just block them—problem solved. Why bother saving all this?”

“Blocking won’t solve the problem,” she said, dragging the screenshot she’d just taken into a photo album folder labeled “Paid Internet Troll No. 1.” Then she opened her notes app and typed: [Time: 6:03 PM, Username: ‘Sunny Little Orange,’ Comment: ‘Acting like a working stiff? Clearly just trying to get famous’—the phrasing is identical to the previous three comments, suggesting they’re all part of the same coordinated operation.]

“How can you stay so calm?” Su Chen leaned in to take a closer look. “If I were you, I’d’ve already fired back with a scolding.”

“Fire back?” She finally looked up at him. “As soon as I open my mouth, they’ll have a new talking point—‘See? Such a bad temper—no one wants her, just as expected.’”

Su Chen choked and scratched his head. “Then what are you going to do? Just sit here and let them talk nonsense?”

“Don’t worry—I’m not the type to hold a grudge and not seek revenge,” she said, without even looking up, continuing to scroll down.

Suddenly, a picture popped up. It was blurry and extremely pixelated, looking like a screenshot ripped off from some social media platform. The image showed her last winter, waiting outside the supermarket for her mom to drive her home, wearing a woolen hat and carrying two bags of rice, her face a bit red from the cold. The caption read: “This is a real photo of her life—she’s hideously ugly in person; the videos are all photoshopped!”

She stared at the picture for three seconds, then slowly took a screenshot.

“Who is this?” Su Chen frowned. “This is just disgusting.”

“Probably an old account they dug up,” she said softly. “I posted something on WeChat Moments back in college, but I deleted it later.”

“They could even dig up something like this?” His voice rose. “Isn’t that a violation of privacy?”

“That’s exactly why we need to keep it,” she said, moving the image into another newly created folder titled “Privacy-Violation Evidence,” and casually tapping the upload button to back it up to the cloud.

Su Chen stood there, clenching and unclenching his fists. “How about I reply for you? Just say these are all fake!”

“If you do, they’ll have something to say,” she finally looked up at him. “They’ll claim, ‘See? The real person can’t handle it!’ or ‘They’re only bringing their brother in because they’re feeling guilty!’—the more they try to smear us, the worse it gets.”

Back under the video, those new comments kept popping up. Someone started steering the narrative: “What the person upstairs said is right—she doesn’t look like an ordinary worker at all. Her speech is way too smooth; she must be being packaged by a team.” Another chimed in: “Ordinary people don’t have time to put on makeup in the morning—she’s just trying to boost her views.”

She went through each comment one by one, calmly taking screenshots, filing them away, and marking the timeline.

Half an hour later, she closed her phone, leaned back in her chair, and closed her eyes to rest. She ran through all the information she’d gathered today in her mind, making sure she hadn’t missed any key details. The timing of when these accounts appeared en masse, their pattern of comments, and the angles from which they attacked—all pointed to the same goal: not to question the content, but to ruin her reputation.

End of Chapter 7: Abnormality