Qin Yiran had always thought of herself as untouchable.

She’d learned long ago that you didn’t need power if you had influence, and you didn’t need truth if you had the right smile.

She used to be able to fix anything.

One tear. One compliment. One soft word in the right ear.

People liked believing in gentle girls. They liked pretty things that didn’t raise their voice.

But Zhiwei’s silence was becoming a problem.

Because it wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t combative.

It was just... still.

And the stillness made people start to look again.

And when they looked—really looked—they started to wonder.

It began with whispers in the locker room.

“I offered her my notes, and she said no. Just stared at me. I don’t think she’s mean, though. Just… closed off.”

“I asked Yiran how Zhiwei was doing, and she said she was trying her best. That she didn’t want to be blamed if things go wrong.”

“What does that even mean? Blamed for what?”

Yiran overheard every word.

And every word felt like a scratch across her perfect reflection.

She had to act fast.

She needed something bigger.

Something bolder.

Something louder.

That night, she borrowed a friend’s login and used the school’s anonymous bulletin board to post something simple. Just enough to make people doubt.

[REAL DAUGHTER OR FAKE FRIEND?]
"Heard she talked back to a teacher and blamed Yiran. Said something about not being raised like a house pet. Anyone else seen her act like she owns the place?"

Within ten minutes, it had forty views.

Within thirty, students were whispering again.

Zhiwei heard about it the next morning when a girl from Class 3A bumped into her by the lockers and didn’t say sorry.

She didn’t respond.

Didn’t need to.

Let them believe what they want. It won’t matter soon.

That afternoon, the post was flagged by the administration.

Zhiwei was called into the principal’s office, along with her parents.

Principal Xu, usually composed, was awkward, his hands folded a little too tightly.

“We’ve traced the post,” he said carefully. “It was made from an account tied to a friend of… Miss Qin Yiran.”

Father Lin’s eyes sharpened.

Mother Lin looked like she was trying not to cry.

Zhiwei just sat there, spine straight, eyes calm.

“I don’t have any complaints,” she said when asked. “It’s not the first time.”

Principal Xu blinked. “It’s… not?”

“No.”

Last time, it was worse. But you didn’t hear me then. Now you do, and you still want me to explain.

“I see,” he murmured.

Father Lin’s voice was cold. “We expect consequences.”

Mother Lin nodded. “And a formal apology. In writing.”

Zhiwei watched them, expression unreadable.

You’re angry now because it happened in public. Because people saw.

Where were you when it happened in silence?

At home that night, she passed Qin Yiran in the hall.

The girl stood by the second-floor landing, arms crossed, trying to look casual.

Zhiwei stopped.

They stared at each other.

Yiran’s eyes were glassy, red at the corners. But her voice was flat.

“You could’ve told them I didn’t do it.”

Zhiwei tilted her head slightly.

“I could’ve.”

But I didn’t. And that scares you, doesn’t it?

Yiran took a step forward. “Do you want me to look bad? Is that it?”

Zhiwei smiled faintly.

“No,” she said.

“I want to leave. That’s all.”

But if you keep trying to drag me down, I’ll let you drown yourself.

She turned away.

Didn’t look back.

In her room, she opened her laptop and checked her email.

A notification blinked.

Congratulations. Your freelance application has been accepted. Please submit your first draft by Friday. Payment: 450 yuan.

Zhiwei closed the tab slowly.

One step closer.

She leaned back in her chair, letting the silence settle around her like a familiar coat.

Down the hall, Qin Yiran slammed her door.

And somewhere in the house, Mother Lin was crying.

But Zhiwei didn’t move.

She was already leaving.

In every way that mattered, she was already gone.