Sanguine Institute must have burned through a billion on their marketing blitz. I tally the media coverage—glossy spreads, viral videos, paid influencers, airport, train station, subway—I'm staggered by the sheer audacity of it. And they struck gold.

  By my most conservative estimate, they hauled in over 200 billion RMB. Minimum.

  Overnight millionaires sprouted like weeds. A twenty-something in Guizhou borrowed 2 million, threw it at Hightower Coins in the second round—now he's sitting on 300 million. Classic Evangeline propaganda.

  As I'm shaking my head at Eva's ruthless brilliance, Lingfei slips into my office, her expression tight.

  "There's an old woman here to see you. From Shangrao." Her tone carries a note of apology.

  An old woman. So unimportant, that Lingfei doesn't even mention her name.

  I glance up, eyebrows lifting in silent question.

  "Her name is Lianying Li. She says Jinghan sent her." Lingfei shifts her weight, uncomfortable.

  Jinghan—my colleague at Taixin Media. My closest friend from those early, brutal years when we were both green reporters hustling for bylines. I stayed in business journalism; she pivoted to social news, chasing the stories that break hearts.

  I exhale slowly. "Send her in."

  The door slides open. She shuffles in—small, hunched under an invisible weight. Her cotton clothes are simple, travel-worn, still damp from the humidity outside, a jarring contrast to the sleek chrome and polished concrete of my office. She clutches a canvas bag like it's the only thing tethering her to the world. The moment she sees me, her eyes—bloodshot, hollowed by sleepless nights, but burning with something I recognize instantly—lock onto mine. Not desperation. Purpose.

  "Ms. Zhao." Her voice is thin, reedy, barely above a whisper, but it carries the weight of collapsed mountains.

  I gesture toward the chair across from me, softening my tone. "Please, sit. Can I get you some water?"

  She doesn't sit. Instead, she crosses to my desk with slow, deliberate steps and slides a small, creased photograph toward me. A school photo. A boy with an awkward smile, eyes bright with the tentative hope of someone on the cusp of adulthood. Fifteen, maybe. Buoyant. Innocent. Beloved.

  "My son. Xinyu Hu." Her voice hardens, steadies. "Missing since Friday. No one will look for him. Not the school. Not the police. They say he ran away. They say he was depressed."

  She yanks open the canvas bag, and its contents tumble across my spotless desk in a chaotic avalanche: photocopied official forms with ink smudged by her own tears, a crumpled page from the campus access log stamped with official seals but suspiciously incomplete, a notebook crammed with frantic, shaky handwriting—hers, not his. A mother's desperate attempt to do the job no one else will.

  "He called me the day before, Ms. Zhao." Her voice cracks, just slightly, before she wrestles it back under control. "He was worried about his grades. He said he missed home. He asked me to bring his favorite dish." She pauses, her gaze unwavering. "A boy who misses home doesn't just vanish from a private campus."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  My journalist's instinct flares to life. I scan the official reports—boilerplate language, convenient conclusions, the phrase "voluntary departure" stamped like a seal of dismissal. I look back at her. She has traveled hundreds of miles, endured the punishing summer heat, navigated a city that doesn't want people like her, walked into a building designed to keep her out—all to bypass a system that has already decided her son doesn't matter. She isn't begging for money. She's asking for leverage.

  "What can I do?" I ask, leaning forward.

  "Cameras. The campus has nearly a hundred security cameras." Her hands tremble as she gestures. "But they tell me all the footage from Friday morning is gone. Every single frame. Just—erased." Her voice sharpens with barely suppressed rage. "How is that possible? The cameras are HiVision. Top-of-the-line. Jinghan told me you know the boss. She said the footage might still exist in their cloud."

  I sit back, my mind already racing through the variables. I'm not sure I can help. It depends on how high this cover-up goes, whose hands are dirty.

  But then I look down again—at the scattered papers, the photo of the boy, the mother's unflinching gaze. The sheer, punishing audacity of her hope. It's all the persuasion I need.

  "I'll try," I say quietly, and I mean it. "But I'm just a reporter. I interviewed the HiVision CEO recently, that's all. One thing working in your favor—he shares the same surname as your son."

  I press the buzzer. Lingfei appears. I gesture toward the woman. "Book her a hotel. Take her there. Make sure she's comfortable."

  As the door closes, I consider my options. Security footage is private. Without the school's permission, HiVision won't show it to me. If there's a cover-up, asking directly would only alert them—and prompt an even more thorough deletion.

  I pick up my phone and dial Shuyuan, HiVision's marketing director.

  "Erjuan!" Her voice is bright, surprised. "I didn't expect to hear from you so soon."

  "I need a favor." I keep my tone light, easy.

  "Of course. What is it?"

  "When I interviewed Mr. Hu last week, he mentioned your cloud services. I didn't quite grasp all the technical details." I pause, letting the bait dangle. "I'd like to write an in-depth feature. Could you connect me with someone who really knows HiVision Cloud inside and out?"

  "Absolutely." She doesn't hesitate. "When do you need this?"

  "Today, if possible. Can I visit your data center?"

  "Our data center's in Kunshan. When can you go?"

  "This afternoon."

  A beat of silence. Then: "Done. Give me ten minutes. I'll set everything up."

  As expected. An in-depth feature from me? She couldn't refuse if she tried.

  … …

  Then I call Lyra. My finger hovers over her name for a moment—this is the first time I've reached out to her since she add me on Telegram. A small part of me wonders if she'll even answer. She must have dozens of people like me, supplicants with problems they can't solve alone. How could she possibly have time for all of us?

  But she does. The line connects on the second ring.

  "Erjuan." Her voice washes over me—warm, gentle, almost maternal. Like she's been waiting. "What can I do for you?"

  I tell her everything. The boy. The mother. The vanished footage. The institutional wall of silence.

  There's a pause. Then her tone shifts—still gentle, but edged with something harder. Finality.

  "You're chasing a dead end." Each word lands with quiet precision. "I know exactly what happened to the boy. The cover-up goes all the way to the top."

  My throat tightens. "Is he dead?"

  "Most definitely." No hesitation. No comfort. "A brutal, torturous death."

  The air in my office suddenly feels too thin. I grip the edge of my desk, steadying myself. "His mother deserves the truth." The words come out sharper than I intend, almost defiant. I don't know why I'm pushing this. Maybe because I've seen that woman's eyes—the ones that refuse to stop burning.

  Silence. I can almost hear her thinking, weighing something I can't see.

  "Wait." A single word. Then the line goes dead.

  I stare at my phone, my pulse hammering in my ears. Ten minutes crawl by like hours.

  When she calls back, her voice has changed again—decisive, ernest.

  "There is someone who can help you." It's like a fissure opening in a concrete wall, light bleeding through. "Meiying Xu. She's in Shanghai right now. I'll send you her Telegram."

  I exhale, and only then do I realize I've been holding my breath. "Thank you."

  "Erjuan." Her voice softens one last time. "Be prepared. This one cuts deep."

  The line goes dead. I lower the phone slowly, staring at the photograph of the boy still lying on my desk—his awkward smile, his hopeful eyes. I think of his mother on the way to a hotel, clutching her canvas bag, waiting for someone to finally see her son.

  He might be dead. But I will not let him disappear.