Chapter 9
The doctors had no choice but to push Jonal into emergency surgery using a fast–tracked priority protocol.
Five hours later, Jonah was wheeled out of the operating room.
Vivian saw the doctor’s solemn expression and sprang up with a twisted laugh.
“Hahaha! That cripple’s finally dead, isn’t he?!”
The doctor froze–clearly stunned. In his entire career, he had never
he had never seen a mother react like that.
“Ma’am,” he said slowly, “the child survived… but due to extensive brain damage, he’ll never be able to care for himself again.”
Vivian’s smugness vanished.
Her expression turned sour, eyes burning with silent blame–like it was the doctor’s fault Jonah
survived.
But fate wasn’t done yet.
The very next day, Jacob’s social media blew up. His follower count skyrocketed to over 100,000 in just hours.
The videos of Vivian’s abuse–her slaps, screams, and beatings–went viral.
They trended for three days straight.
Each video racked up tens of thousands of comments. I scrolled through them with my tea in hand, enjoying the show.
“These monsters don’t deserve to live!”
“This isn’t abuse–this is attempted murder. Why haven’t the cops locked them up yet?”
“If the law won’t handle it, we will. Time to find these psychos.”
“I know where Ryan Taylor works Let’s pay the bastard a visit.‘
A few days later, those threats became reality.
A crowd surrounded Ryan outside his office.
They beat him until his nose broke and his face ballooned. Then his boss stepped in–on camera- and publicly fired him.
27.272
Middle–aged. Unemployable. Internet infamy.
He had no choice but to flee back to his hometown.
Across the hall, the apartment fell into an eerie silence.
A few days later, I headed out for work wearing a mask and just so happened to bump into Vivian downstairs.
She had on a wide–brimmed hat, thick black mask, and moved fast–clearly trying not to be seen.
Curious, I followed her.
She walked into a plastic surgery clinic.
As fate would have it… I worked there.
I watched the surveillance feed as she entered a consultation room.
“I want plastic surgery. A full transformation—no one can recognize me afterward.”
These days, if Vivian went outside without a mask, someone would recognize her.
At a restaurant, someone dumped hot soup on her.
At the market, people pelted her with rotten eggs.
Someone even doxxed her address–and now she got packages of dead animals and fresh feces delivered daily.
She was coming apart at the seams.
“Ma’am, this kind of procedure is serious… maybe you should take time to think-”
Before the consultant could finish, her phone rang.
“Yes, President Winter.”
“Follow her request. Design exactly what she wants.
“Understood.”
The caller? Me.
dving to see how far Vivian would go.
“}
nd a quote.
27.27%
Middle–aged. Unemployable. Internet Infamy.
He had no choice bu
to flee back to his hometown.
Across the hall, the apartment fell into an eerie silence.
A few days later, I
downstairs.
on for work wearing a mask and just so happened to bump into Vivian
She had on a wide–brimmed hat, thick black mask, and moved fast–clearly trying not to be seen.
Curious, I followed her.
She walked into a plastic surgery clinic.
As fate would have it… I worked there.
I watched the surveillance feed as she entered a consultation room.
“I want plastic surgery. A full transformation–no one can recognize me afterward.”
These days, if Vivian went outside without a mask, someone would recognize her.
At a restaurant, someone dumped hot soup on her.
At the market, people pelted her with rotten eggs.
Someone even doxxed her address–and now she got packages of dead animals and fresh feces
delivered daily.
She was coming apart at the seams.
“Ma’am, this kind of procedure is serious… maybe you should take time to think-”
Before the consultant could finish, her phone rang.
“Yes, President Winter.”
“Follow her request. Design exactly what she wants.”
“Understood.”
The caller? Me.
I was dying to see how far Vivian would go.
The consultant went through the designs and printed a quote.
27:27.
“$40,000 ?!” Vivian screeched like a rooster getting strangled.
“Well, if you’re just doing eyelid reshaping, it’ll only cost about $1,300,” the consultant offered gently.
“No, no–1 need a new face…” she muttered, almost to herself.
The consultant wisely said nothing more.
Vivian leaned over the table, desperation leaking from her pores.
“Do you do payment plans? Loans? Anything?”
The consultant shook her head, awkwardly.
That’s when inspiration struck.
I asked for time off and rushed home.
On the way, I picked up a flyer someone had handed me on the street.
A high–interest loan business card.
This was going to be fun.
