After I died, they cried in the live studio

Chapter 184 was planned long ago.
"Get four hours of sleep after you arrive in Milan." Alice covered her lap with a blanket, and the roar of the plane engine gradually became clearer. "You have dinner with the Prada director at three in the morning. Remember to wear those emerald earrings—the ones that Sang Jiyue said 'not suitable for you' at the jewelry exhibition last year."

Sang Shuwan chuckled softly before closing her eyes, her fingertips tracing the video saved on her phone: Sang Jiyue walking towards her at a celebration banquet, champagne in hand. As the camera zoomed in, she could see the close-up tattoo on Sang Jiyue's ring finger—the same rose tattoo she had on her wrist today. It turned out that three years ago, the other woman had begun imitating her style, her tattoos, even replicating the curve of her raised eyebrows when she spoke, but she could never quite capture the sharpness hidden beneath that gentle mask.

The moment the plane broke through the clouds, Sang Shuwan's phone vibrated twice. It was a new statement from Sang Jiyue's studio, the wording of which had changed from "false rumors" to "malicious editing," accompanied by a blurry screenshot from surveillance footage, attempting to prove that the caregiver had only made a "slip of the tongue." She forwarded the screenshot to Alice, adding: "Back then, when she pricked my water bottle with a needle, she also said it was a 'joke.'"

The agent replied with a flame emoji, along with a document containing the chain of evidence just compiled by the legal department. Looking at the sea of ​​clouds outside the porthole, Sang Shuwan suddenly realized that this protracted battle had never been a draw from the start—when Sang Jiyue chose to use rumors as a weapon, she should have realized that the "agent's protection," which she considered a weakness, was precisely Sang Shuwan's strongest armor.

A light rain was falling in Milan in the early hours. Sang Shuwan stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of the Bulgari Hotel, watching Alice organize documents at her vanity. The tattoo on the back of Alice's neck was faintly visible—their shared secret: on a drunken night in Tokyo, they had tattooed the strokes of each other's names. Suddenly, the agent turned and handed her an emerald earring. Behind his glasses, his eyes, reflecting the city lights, gleamed like sharp blades tempered with starlight.

"Are you ready?" Alice put the earrings on her ear, her fingertips tracing the thin scar on her earlobe—a scar that Sang Jiyue had "accidentally" snagged with her earring three years ago. "Every step from here on out is a debt we're settling for over the past seven years."

Sang Shuwan looked at herself in the mirror, her red lips and emerald green gleaming coldly under the light. She remembered Alice's words in the Tuileries Garden: "In the entertainment industry, the most deadly thing is not the enemy's knife, but that they always think you won't fight back."

Sang Shuwan's phone vibrated on the dressing table. It was a message from Xiao Zhou: the top trending topic in China had become #SangShuwanEvidenceChain#, and screenshots of the timeline and key evidence she had compiled were already circulating in the thread. Sang Shuwan smiled, picked up her phone, and posted a new Instagram post: the accompanying picture was a silhouette of Alice checking documents, and the caption had only three words—"Parisian sunshine, Milanese night rain, and the eternal truth."

The rain outside the window grew heavier, and the Duomo Cathedral stood silently in the night. Sang Shuwan knew that their counterattack had only just begun. And those lies hidden behind the scenes would eventually crumble into powder, even more unbearable than the sugar shell of crème brûlée, under the spotlight of the truth.

Under the spotlight, the spiral staircase at Prada's headquarters gleamed with the luster of mother-of-pearl. Sang Shuwan ascended the steps in 12-centimeter stilettos, her emerald earrings tracing a cool arc across her earlobes. As the live stream camera panned upwards, she deliberately rested her hand on the stair railing, the still-fading tattoo on her wrist revealing the lingering shadow of a red rose under the light—the very design Alice had chosen for her in Paris just three days earlier.

"Ms. Sang, do you have any response to the recent rumors about your 'retirement' circulating online?" The Italian translator had barely finished speaking when Sang Shuwan heard Alice chuckle in Chinese through her earpiece: "It's time to let them see the schedule of a 'retired artist'."

Her fingertips traced the geometric pleats of her skirt, her smile as bright as a freshly unpacked red velvet cake: "Rather than retiring, I'm busier organizing some interesting memories." As the camera zoomed in, she pulled a folded piece of parchment from her handbag—a "collaboration timeline" that Alice had had printed overnight in gold lettering, with each date marked with the corresponding brand event and "accident." "For example, on the Cannes red carpet in 2019, a colleague kindly helped me adjust my skirt, and I almost broke my collarbone—" she lightly touched the "silver thread" marking, "Later I found out that she had 'custom-made' my dress."

The live stream chat exploded instantly, and #SangShuwanCannesBlackScenes# quickly climbed to the top of Twitter's trending topics. Alice watched the real-time data in the monitoring room, her finger swiping across a screenshot of a transfer record on her tablet—it was the 15 euros that Sang Jiyue had transferred to the tailor back then, with the words "hidden button on the skirt" highlighted in red in the comments section.

Backstage in the dressing room, Sang Shuwan was having her stylist adjust the shoulder line of her haute couture coat when her phone suddenly popped up with the latest statement from Sang Jiyue's studio: "Malicious speculation about colleagues is a major taboo in the entertainment industry. Jiyue is always grateful." The accompanying picture was a blurry chat log showing that she was "concerned" about Sang Shuwan's health.

"So grateful that you bribed the caregiver to spread rumors about me?" Sang Shuwan handed her phone to Alice. In the mirror's reflection, her agent was circling the W Magazine cover shoot for tomorrow night on the schedule with a red pen—the theme of the shoot was "Crown of Thorns," and the team had specially prepared a spiked headdress studded with diamonds. "How about we edit the caregiver's recording into a ringtone and set it as her caller ID?"

Alice suddenly grabbed her shoulder and turned the tablet towards the mirror: "Look at this." The screen displayed a recent report from Chinese paparazzi: Sang Jiyue was seen entering and leaving the obstetrics and gynecology department of a private hospital. In the accompanying photos, she was wearing a huge sun hat, and her lower abdomen was slightly protruding. The comment section immediately split into two camps, with some cursing her for "crying wolf" and others speculating that she was "secretly married and had a child."

"What a clever way to throw mud at someone." Sang Shuwan stood up, hooking her arm around the makeup artist's. The hem of her coat swept across the rose petals on the floor—props Prada had prepared for the photoshoot. "Have Xiao Zhou contact the hospital to check the surveillance footage, focusing on whether she went to the gynecology department. Oh, and by the way," she adjusted her earrings in front of the mirror, "cut in the video from last year of me accompanying Sister Zhang to her rehabilitation training in the ward, and remember to highlight the 'Alzheimer's Specialist' sign in the background."

In the early hours of the morning, a light snow was falling on the streets of Milan. Sang Shuwan sat on the bay window of the Bulgari Suite, watching Alice squatting on the carpet organizing the evidence box. The other woman's suit trousers were stained with rose petals as she used a highlighter to mark the key frames of the 2021 "Bird's Nest Porridge Incident"—just as Sang Jiyue was about to toss a stray strand of hair into the porcelain bowl.

"The Ministry of Justice said the caregiver is willing to testify in court." Alice didn't even look up, her fingertips tracing another video: Sang Jiyue "accidentally" knocked over Sang Shuwan's wine glass at the celebration banquet. In the slow-motion footage, you could see the arc of her wrist exerting force. "Back then, you didn't tell me there were shards of glass in the wine glass until I saw the stitches on your hand."

Sang Shuwan looked down at the thin scar on her palm, a mark left by countless "accidents" over the past seven years. She suddenly remembered when she first met Sang Jiyue after entering the industry, the other woman always said, "The entertainment industry is too dirty, I'll protect you." Later she realized that the dirtiest thing was never the environment, but the blade hidden behind a sweet smile.

“For tomorrow morning’s Vogue interview, I want to show a special video.” She pulled up the backstage surveillance footage of the 2018 Newcomer Award on her phone. Sang Jiyue smiled as she handed her the trophy. In a blind spot of the camera, fingernails were digging into her wrist. “I want the post-production team to do a close-up of the Swarovski crystals on her nails—they’re the same limited edition from the same brand as the earrings I’m wearing now, from 2018.”

Alice finally looked up, her eyes behind her glasses reflecting the neon lights outside the window like shards of broken glass: "She imitates your clothes, your tattoos, and even your agent's style—" She ran her fingertip along the tattoo on the back of her neck, "but she doesn't know that true protection is never imitation, but a chain of evidence in your hands."

The phone vibrated on the windowsill; it was an urgent message from the domestic team: Sang Jiyue's studio had contacted marketing accounts to spread an upgraded version of the rumor that "Sang Shuwan suppressed a newcomer, causing her to miscarry," accompanied by a candid photo of Alice paying at the hospital. Sang Shuwan looked at the photo of her manager carrying Zhang Jie's bag of medicine from behind and suddenly burst out laughing.

"Send out scanned copies of Sister Zhang's medical records and payment receipts, making sure to highlight the year." She took out the pair of emerald earrings that Sang Jiyue had "criticized as unsuitable" from the jewelry box, turned them in the light, and the cracks deep in the gemstones reflected an eerie light. "Also attach a close-up of my and Alice's tattoos—let them see that our bond can't be replicated by buying trending topics."

As the morning light pierced through the clouds, Sang Shuwan was trying on the crown studded with spikes. Alice, standing off-camera, suddenly raised her phone: "It's trending in China! In the hashtag #SangShuwanEvidenceVisualization#, fans have turned your timeline into an interactive webpage, where you can click on each node to view surveillance footage."

The makeup artist adjusted the angle of Sang Shuwan's crown, the sharp spikes casting tiny shadows on her forehead. Looking at herself in the mirror, she suddenly recalled Alice's words in the Tuileries Garden in Paris: "While they are busy making up stories, we make the truth into the sharpest thorns."

Suddenly, a commotion broke out on set, and assistant Xiao Zhou rushed in holding a phone: "Sang Jiyue's team has contacted local media in Milan and said they want to hold an emergency press conference to clarify the 'framing' matter."

Sang Shuwan smiled, her fingertips tracing the spikes on the crown: "Tell her I'm looking forward to it—" She turned to look at the Milan Cathedral outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the morning light streaming down from the Gothic spires, "I'm looking forward to her explaining on the live stream why the camera always seems to be filming her whenever she 'accidentally' hurts me."

Alice handed her the tablet, the screen displaying bombshell evidence she had just received: Sang Jiyue's private account had transferred a total of 327 million euros to sixteen marketing accounts and paparazzi over the past five years. The comments section clearly showed keywords such as "smear campaign" and "buying trending topics," with the latest transfer occurring the night before the rumors broke in Paris.

“Make these into a nine-square grid,” Sang Shuwan straightened her crown, the sharp spikes just brushing her brow bone. “When posting it on Instagram, caption it ‘Turns out the money spent on trending topics is enough to buy ten years’ worth of medication for Alzheimer’s patients’—oh right,” she turned to Alice, her smile like an ice-cold ruby, “remember to tag @Sang Jiyue and ask her if she wants to come to Milan to chat about the financial wisdom of ‘sisterly affection’.”

The moment the photographer yelled "Ready!", Sang Shuwan looked at the camera, the crown's spikes casting spiderweb-like shadows under the lights. She knew that at that moment, the trending topics in China were going crazy, Sang Jiyue's PR team was holding a meeting all night, and their war had long since turned from a passive counterattack into a precise strangulation.

As the first beam of light shone on the emerald earrings, Sang Shuwan suddenly recalled that stormy night seven years ago. Back then, she thought that surviving in the entertainment industry required learning to be patient and tolerant, but she later realized that true stardom is always about illuminating one's own path inch by inch, stepping on fragments of lies.

This time, she and Alice are determined to expose all the conspiracies under the spotlight of evidence.

At 10 a.m. Milan time, Sang Jiyue's impromptu press conference was held in a salon on Via Montenapoleone. Under the carved crystal chandelier, she wore a white chiffon gown—the same Elie Saab haute couture dress that Sang Shuwan had worn in Cannes three years ago, with even the pearl embellishments on the hem perfectly replicated. As the camera panned across her reddened eyes, Sang Shuwan was in the monitoring room of Prada headquarters, munching on a croissant, her fingertip circling the earring on her earlobe on a tablet—a replica of the Bulgari Serpenti collection she had worn at the Oscars party last year.

"Dear friends from the media, I'm here today to clarify the false accusations about 'bribing caregivers'." Sang Jiyue's voice trembled with a perfectly timed sob, and the butterfly temporary tattoo on the back of her hand unfurled with the movement. "Sister Shuwan was my mentor when I entered the industry, how could I possibly..."

"Stop." Alice suddenly pressed the remote control, and the monitoring screen froze at the 0.1 second before Sang Jiyue blinked—the fake tears clinging to the base of her eyelashes hadn't even had time to roll off. "Have the technical department do an AI comparison of her speech with the press release from three years ago about 'being suppressed by Sang Shuwan.' The keyword overlap is over 60%."

Sang Shuwan looked at the other person's crossed fingers on the screen, the close-fitting tattoo at the base of the ring finger clearly visible—the same rose she had gotten in Paris, only two shades lighter. She suddenly remembered that last week in the Marais district, Alice had pointed to the window of a tattoo shop and said, "Imitators always think that changing a color is innovation, but they don't know that the original design has thorns hidden in it."

At the press conference, an Italian entertainment reporter suddenly raised his phone: "Ms. Sang, how do you explain the caregiver's recording mentioning 'Sister Jiyue said to act convincingly'?" Before he finished speaking, the big screen suddenly flickered with static, followed by a surveillance video—in November 2023, Sang Jiyue handed an envelope to a caregiver in a hospital corridor, and the lipstick imprinted on the envelope perfectly matched her makeup that day.

Sang Shuwan heard Alice's soft laughter through her earpiece: "Thanks to the Milan police for their 'technical support,' they just confirmed that the envelope contained 5 euros in cash." She finished the last bite of her croissant and looked at Sang Jiyue's shoulders, which suddenly stiffened in front of the camera. She remembered seven years ago in the company's break room, when the other woman had also handed her a drugged milk tea with a smile, causing her to miss an important audition.

"Now, here's a breaking news report." Alice's voice echoed through the salon through simultaneous interpretation. Sang Shuwan's Instagram account was suddenly updated with a nine-grid image from left to right: a comparison of Sang Jiyue's imitations of her style over the years, transfer records to marketing accounts, bank statements from her caregiver, and the last image was a draft email she had just received that morning from Sang Jiyue's private inbox, with the subject line "How to make Sang Shuwan retire."

A flurry of camera shutters clicked at the press conference. Sang Jiyue's PR team rushed onto the stage to try and turn off the screen, but Alice's pre-programmed hacking program locked them in the background. Sang Shuwan, watching the other woman's finally exposed, ashen face, suddenly recalled last year in London when Sang Jiyue "accidentally" knocked over her hot cocoa, the scalding liquid splashing on her leg. Instead of panic, a fleeting sense of pleasure flashed in the other woman's eyes.

“The most interesting part is this.” Alice pulled up an audio clip, the background sound being surveillance footage from a nursing home in Paris. Sang Jiyue’s Chinese had a deliberately gentle tone: “Just say you saw her getting injections to prevent miscarriage, and remember to cry and say, ‘Sister is so pitiful’—oh right,” she paused, “if anyone asks, say I had a miscarriage three months ago, that script is even more touching.” Sang Shuwan watched Sang Jiyue suddenly cover her mouth, knowing she had finally remembered how the recording had been leaked—last week in the Tuileries Garden, Alice had used a miniature recorder to record her conversation with the caregiver while pretending to ask for directions. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass of the salon, casting fragmented light spots on Sang Jiyue’s white dress, much like her soon-to-collapse persona.

"Next, we will file a lawsuit against Sang Jiyue's studio." Alice's voice was transmitted to every live broadcast room around the world via satellite signal. Behind her, her assistant held up a display board full of evidence, with Sang Shuwan's medical reports over the years prominently displayed, "including but not limited to defamation, slander, and multiple acts of malicious injury suspected of violating the 'Law of the People's Republic of China on Penalties for Administration of Public Security'."

Sang Shuwan stood up and adjusted her crown in front of the surveillance camera—the Prada haute couture adorned with spikes now cast a spiderweb-like shadow under the lights. She remembered her stylist saying this morning, "This crown will expose all lies," and now it seemed that was indeed true.

Before the press conference ended, Sang Jiyue suddenly rushed towards the camera, her fingertips almost piercing the live stream screen: "Sang Shuwan, do you think you can rest easy just because Alice is protecting you? Back in Hengdian—"

“We’ve already prepared evidence about what happened in Hengdian.” Sang Shuwan interrupted her, pulling up surveillance footage from Hengdian World Studios in 2020: Sang Jiyue “accidentally” pushed her down the steps, and in slow motion, you could see her toes deliberately tripping her. “By the way, let me remind you, the character ‘Shu’ embroidered on the cuff of the costume you wore that year was embroidered with my blood, wasn’t it?”

The live stream was instantly flooded with terms like "blood embroidery" and "intentional harm." Alice looked at the new rose temporary tattoo on Sang Shuwan's wrist and suddenly remembered the stormy night seven years ago when this girl clutched a torn contract and said, "I want to be my own protector." Now, she finally had armor to stand shoulder to shoulder with her.

The midday sun in Milan was blinding. Sang Shuwan stood on the rooftop of Prada's headquarters, watching Sang Jiyue's van being surrounded by reporters in the distance. Her phone vibrated; it was a message from her team in China: #SangShuwanEvidenceCrushes# was trending globally, and in the fan-made "Sang Jiyue Imitation History" entry, even the hair color she dyed last year was revealed to have been copied from Sang Shuwan's stylist.

“Let’s go to Sforza Castle tonight for a photoshoot.” Alice handed over a cup of hot cocoa, which had no label on it. “Wear the thorn-embroidered dress you tried on yesterday—and arrange the ‘accident’ evidence you’ve collected into a crown shape as props.”

Sang Shuwan took the cup, her fingertips tracing the water droplets on the rim. She knew this war was far from over, but at least for now, they had made the entire entertainment industry understand: when Sang Shuwan and Alice joined forces, all conspiracies would be dismantled into a chain of brilliant evidence, and those who tried to weave a cage of rumors would ultimately be crushed by their own lies.

The phone vibrated again; it was a voice message from Sister Zhang: "I saw the news. I didn't protect you back then, and now Alice is watching over you for me—but Wanwan," the old woman's laughter trembled, "next time someone throws a hair into your bowl, remember to turn the bowl and soup over on top of it."

Sang Shuwan gazed at the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II in the distance, its glass dome refracting iridescent light. She suddenly realized that she had never been a star in need of protection, but rather the one holding the flame—and now, the fire she and Alice had ignited together was burning with evidence as fuel and truth as wind, creating an unstoppable star trail in the night sky of the entertainment industry.

Those imitators and rumor-mongers hiding in the shadows will eventually reveal their true colors in this blazing light—just like Sang Jiyue's private account that has been exposed at this moment, every transfer can be clearly counted in the sunlight, and every lie will be shattered into dust in the face of evidence.

This is their true form of retaliation—not a tit-for-tat tearing apart, but a way to expose all darkness under the spotlight of truth.

The twilight of Milan flowed across the granite walls of Sforza Castle. Sang Shuwan, dressed in a gown embroidered with thorns, stood among the battlements, with fragments of Renaissance frescoes behind her. Alice directed her team to arrange the evidence boxes in the shape of a crown—from hard drives containing surveillance footage from Hengdian World Studios to glass display cases of blood-embroidered costumes, each piece reflecting a cold light under the spotlight.

“Remember to put the transfer record from 2018 where she bribed paparazzi to fake my alcoholism at the very top.” Sang Shuwan adjusted her thorn headdress in front of the camera, the sharp thorns drawing shimmering light and shadow in the twilight. “I want everyone to see clearly that over the years she has used my blood to embroider not only costumes, but also the entire network of unspoken rules in the entertainment industry.”

The domestic trending topics list is currently experiencing unprecedented turmoil. Sang Jiyue's private account transaction records have been exposed by an anonymous hacker, with every transfer to marketing accounts detailed to two decimal places, including the 50 yuan transfer she made last year to bribe a stylist to steal their techniques. Even more damaging, a well-known screenwriter suddenly posted a chat log from three years ago on Weibo: "Sister Jiyue said that as long as I smear Shu Wan, the lead role in my next drama will be mine."

“This is harsher than any coercive measure.” Alice looked at the real-time data, her fingertips tracing the fluctuating stock price curve on her tablet. “What capital fears most is never shackles, but losing its value.” She pointed to the third trending topic, #SangJiyueIndustryBlacklist#, where 27 film and television companies had publicly announced the termination of their cooperation, including the period drama “The Eldest Princess”, in which she was originally slated to star. The production company even released an AI-generated face-swapped makeup photo of the female lead overnight—using the same look that Sang Shuwan had been snatched away from three years ago.

Sang Shuwan lowered her head to wipe the silver threads on her dress; the patterns woven from real thorn fibers shimmered with a faint blue luster under the light. Suddenly, her phone vibrated. It was a video sent by Sister Zhang: the embroiderer who had done the blood embroidery for Sang Jiyue years ago was showing her hands, covered in needle marks, her cloudy eyes reflecting the millions of comments in the live stream: "She said that the thread contained Shuwan's anticoagulant, and that every time she saw blood, she had to say 'I'm sorry, Wanwan'..." The old woman suddenly held up a yellowed ledger, "Look, from 2017 to 2020, she made me change the embroidery pattern seventeen times, all based on Shuwan's costume!"

Suddenly, a flurry of camera shutters clicked outside the castle. Sang Shuwan pushed open the heavy oak window and saw a black van completely surrounded by a 300-meter-long array of cameras. The moment the window rolled down, Sang Jiyue's meticulously crafted "rich and beautiful" makeup shattered in the cold white light. Her hands, adorned with crystal nails, frantically pounded on the bulletproof glass: "You have no right—" Her words were cut off by a tablet held up by an entertainment reporter, which played on a loop the surveillance footage of her being refused entry to a bank that morning when she tried to transfer assets.

“Based on this.” Sang Shuwan brought up the live stream feed. A miniature camera was embedded in her custom Prada phone case, pointed directly at Sang Jiyue’s increasingly swollen eye—a cut she’d made ten minutes earlier when she slapped her manager, who had scratched her with his earring. “And this.” She raised her other hand, revealing half a yellowed medical report beneath a black lace glove. The record of Sang Jiyue’s 2019 medical visit for psychiatric drug dependence was frozen in front of the camera. “When you threw stray hairs into my bowl, did you ever think they would become thorns piercing your throat?”

The Weibo hot search list was in an uproar. Under the hashtag #SangShuwanEvidenceAesthetics#, netizens used AI to reconstruct "original vs. original" comparisons of all of Sang Jiyue's red carpet looks over the past five years, from plagiarized gowns at Paris Haute Couture shows to counterfeit Cannes brooches, each "stolen item" was marked with a patent number from Sang Shuwan's studio. Some even dug up a sapphire necklace she wore at a charity gala three years ago—the first piece in Sang Shuwan's "Crown of Thorns" series, which she had lied about as a "gift from a friend" at the time; now, the designer's signature on the certificate was clearly visible.

“Prepare to close the net.” Alice turned the tablet toward Sang Shuwan, where the stock price of Sang Jiyue’s agency was plummeting at a rate of 15% per minute. “Her sugar daddy just issued a statement in the family group saying that he has never ‘appreciated such a sinister artist.’ Now she can’t even afford bodyguards.”

Sang Shuwan gazed at the Milan Cathedral in the distance, its spire resembling a true crown of thorns under the moonlight. She recalled that stormy night seven years ago, when she clutched a torn contract and swore in the mud, "I will trap all those who hurt me in the web I wove." Now, this giant web, woven from transfer records, chat screenshots, and patent certificates, is slowly closing in, revealing the true form of that once arrogant figure.

The phone suddenly rang, and it was Sang Jiyue's trembling voice: "You... how could you leave no way out..." Before she could finish speaking, her words were drowned out by the cacophony of arguing, and fragments of "the legal department says it's hopeless" and "creditors are blocking the company's entrance" could be vaguely heard. Sang Shuwan pressed the record button, saving this confession to the cloud—this was the perfect final piece of the puzzle in her evidence library, not to be handed over to any institution, but so that one day, when someone dared to cross her bottom line again, it would become a Damocles' sword hanging over their head.

“It’s time to go back.” Alice handed her a trench coat, the embroidered character “Shu” on the cuff flickering in the wind. Sang Shuwan chuckled softly, her fingertips tracing the rose temporary tattoo on her wrist, where her trump card, never before used, lay hidden: remnants of skin tissue from the cufflink she had torn off when Sang Jiyue pushed her down the steps years ago. But now she knew that some punishments were far more deadly than legal judgments—when a “queen” built on lies sheds her glamorous facade under the watchful eyes of the entire internet, revealing a body riddled with festering sores woven from plagiarism and betrayal, this process of rotting under the spotlight is the most precise form of revenge.

Outside the castle, the nanny van's engine finally stalled amidst a chorus of cries for apology. Sang Shuwan didn't look at the black metal box that was gradually becoming a laughingstock. She lifted her skirt and walked into the depths of the light. The thorn embroidery cast fragmented shadows on the ground, much like countless hands raising their phones to record the truth. And in the distance, the era belonging to Sang Jiyue was forever frozen in this spring night of 2025, filled with evidence, as the trending search terms were updated.

As the sirens faded outside the castle, Sang Shuwan's phone received an encrypted message from her lawyer: "Sang Jiyue suddenly convulsed in the police car. The preliminary diagnosis is stress-induced psychosis. She has been sent to a designated medical institution for monitoring and observation." She stared at the cursor on the screen, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard for a long time, before finally replying only, "Cooperate with the investigation according to procedure." Outside the car window, the morning mist was slowly creeping up the Apennine Mountains, blurring the outline of the distant San Siro stadium—just like the carefully constructed false life Sang Jiyue had built over the years, now melting away inch by inch in the morning light of the truth.

Seventy-two hours later, in the afternoon, Alice rushed into the study holding a tablet: "Sister, the prosecutor's office has issued a decision not to prosecute!" Sunlight filtered through the rhinestones in her hair, casting dappled light on the walnut desk. "The reason is 'the circumstances are significantly minor and a settlement has been reached,' but three additional conditions have been added: a lifetime ban from the entertainment industry, a fine of 280 million, and a public apology video to be broadcast for thirty days." Sang Shuwan put down the design draft in her hand. The thorn totem that had just been sketched on the drawing was stretching its branches under the floor lamp, the tip of which stopped precisely at the intersection of the strokes of the two characters "霁月" (Jiyue).

She took the tablet and saw Sang Jiyue's crooked signature drawn with mascara in the transcript—it was a scanned copy of the settlement agreement sent by the lawyer last night. When she read the part about "voluntarily returning all proceeds from plagiarism over the years and donating them to an anti-plagiarism foundation," her fingertip suddenly touched the raised Braille markings on the screen, the key paragraphs Alice had specially highlighted for her. The housekeeper's voice came from downstairs announcing a visitor. Sang Shuwan closed the tablet, stood up, and adjusted the thorny cufflinks on her sleeve—it was finally here.

The ornate door to the reception room was pushed open, and a middle-aged woman in a Chanel suit stumbled in, her well-maintained nails leaving red marks on Sang Shuwan's wrist. "You hate your sister that much? She has to take three kinds of anti-anxiety medication every day now, and she doesn't even dare to look in the mirror!" It was Sang Jiyue's biological mother, the woman who pretended to offer condolences after Sang's car accident but actually secretly filmed the hospital room's surveillance footage and sold it to gossip magazines. Sang Shuwan quietly looked at the pearl necklace swaying on the other woman's chest—the one she bought with the money she got from selling her design drafts years ago—and suddenly chuckled softly. "Auntie, you should go look at her diary by her bedside."

The woman froze for a moment, then Sang Shuwan pulled a brown paper bag from the drawer and poured out a stack of photos: a selfie of Sang Jiyue at a ski resort in Switzerland, with the moment in the background clearly visible as her shoving her assistant, causing the assistant to tumble down the slope; and a CCTV screenshot of her flushing an entire bottle of antidepressants down the toilet in her Dubai hotel room. "I didn't hand any of these over to the police." Sang Shuwan's fingertips traced the smiling face of the girl in the photos, the beauty mark at the corner of her eye, mimicking her tattoo, particularly striking in the sunlight. "Just like three years ago when she bribed a nurse to add diuretics to my pain pump, I didn't have the forensic doctor archive that urine test report."

The woman's hand suddenly loosened, the pearl necklace taut at her neck in a dangerous arc. Sang Shuwan rose and walked to the French windows, watching workers in the garden dismantle the gilded signboard of "Jiyue Studio." Amid the clanging of metal, she suddenly whispered, "Tomorrow morning at ten o'clock, her apology video will be broadcast live simultaneously on thirty-seven platforms worldwide." The glass reflected the woman's staggering figure behind her. "Remember to remind her not to use AI-synthesized voice again—the audience now knows that her real voice, like the one she used to make to the paparazzi outside my operating room years ago, carries the cloying sweetness of California almond tea."

Three days later, late at night, Sang Shuwan was in her studio adjusting the new season's thorny silver jewelry. The blue light from the laser engraving machine cast a flowing shadow on her profile. Alice, curled up on the sofa with her laptop, suddenly pointed at the screen and exclaimed, "Sang Jiyue changed her social media profile picture to gray! Her bio is now 'Atonement in Progress,' and she even posted a photo of herself folding origami cranes at the community service center!" The camera panned across the lingering fluorescent powder marks on her wrist, like a permanently etched scar under the stark white light.

Sang Shuwan put down the silver bracelet in her hand. The abbreviation "LATE" had just been engraved on the inside of the bracelet, and the edges were deliberately left rough and barbed—like the glimmer of hope she had left for Sang Jiyue. Her phone vibrated on the worktable; it was a video link from an unknown number: in the surveillance footage, Sang Jiyue was practicing smiling in front of the one-way glass of the counseling room. Every time she moved the corner of her mouth, her eyebrows twitched unnaturally—a side effect of long-term Botox injections. At the end of the video, she suddenly whispered to the camera, "Sister, do you know? What I hate most is that you even take revenge so elegantly, leaving me no right to go crazy."

As the morning mist drifted through the French windows again, Sang Shuwan inserted the fountain pen engraved with Sang Jiyue's birthday into the design draft, the nib poking precisely between the two characters for "forgiveness." In the distance, the morning bells of a church rang out, three octaves softer than the evening bells of Milan Cathedral—just like the dashcam backup she had hidden, no one would ever know that, 0.3 seconds before the truck that struck her went out of control, Sang Jiyue had said "I'm sorry" on the phone in a code only the two sisters could understand.

A new email notification popped up in the lower right corner of her computer screen. It was an offer letter from the International Anti-Plagiarism Alliance, inviting her to serve as the chief design consultant. Sang Shuwan clicked to accept, and casually dragged Sang Jiyue's latest community service report into an encrypted folder—there lay the thirty-seven design drafts that she had bribed hackers to delete years ago, each with a neat annotation at the end: "Reference version for Little Moon, remember to sign it 'Authorized by Sang Shuwan Studio'."

She rose and drew back the curtains. In the morning light, newly planted wild roses on the castle walls were sprouting and budding, their thorny tendrils climbing up the cracks left by her car accident three years ago. Perhaps one day, these thorns, bearing painful memories, would bloom into the most vibrant flowers, just like the little drawing she made on the last page of the settlement agreement—two roses back to back, one's thorns protecting the other's unhealed wound.

A car radio faintly crackled in the distance, broadcasting entertainment news: "Former top star Sang is volunteering at a public library today. This is reportedly her 127th community service activity since being banned from the industry..." Sang Shuwan chuckled softly, slipping a newly made silver bracelet onto her wrist. The thorny tip pressed precisely against the scab that Sang Jiyue had torn off years ago. The true punishment, it turned out, was never the darkness behind bars, but rather forcing someone accustomed to the spotlight to live forever in a truth they themselves wove, colder than moonlight—a truth etched with lucid remorse, licking the wounds of thorns that would never heal in countless midnight dreams.

As Sang Shuwan opened the envelope, a dried rose petal slipped out—the very same one that had been stuck to her design drafts at the scene of the car accident three years ago. The email attachment was an encrypted video. In the video, Sang Jiyue was sorting through unsold pirated merchandise in an old warehouse in London. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the hole in the roof, casting lines of light and shadow on her newly dyed dark brown hair. When the camera panned across a mountain of "Jiyue-style" thorn necklaces, Sang Shuwan suddenly pressed pause—those crudely made metal spikes were identical to the first drafts she kept in her safe.

“Sister, the shipping dates on these counterfeit goods…” Alice appeared behind her unnoticed, her voice trembling, “completely overlap with the timeline of your studio being pirated.” Sang Jiyue on the screen suddenly turned around, holding up a sticky note in the blind spot of the surveillance camera. It read in lipstick: “For every ten pirated items sold, one child can go to school.” The blurred edges of the writing resembled her disheveled appearance when she stole Sang Shuwan’s lipstick to learn makeup at fifteen.