Chapter 1

At two in the morning, my phone vibrated like crazy, and SnapChat messages flooded in one after another.

I was going through math practice questions, and the noise irritated me so much that I picked up my phone and saw—the apartment complex homeowners’ group chat, with more than four hundred unread messages.

Someone had tagged me.

I scrolled up, and the first message was from Daisy’s mom, Carla, who lived downstairs in 602.

“Warning to all parents: there is an adult man in our complex using food to lure little girls, and he is suspected of having improper intentions.”

“How can someone like this live in our complex! All parents must keep a close eye on their children!”

Below it was a photo of me giving cake to Daisy, who was six years old, whose parents were divorced, and who lived with Carla.

The little girl did not like to talk and was often outside the door, squatting alone in the hallway and playing by herself.

Yesterday was my birthday, and because the wiring was being repaired, the whole building lost power, so I went downstairs and bought a small cake.

When I got back to my door, I ran into her squatting there.

She stared at the cake for several seconds, and her eyes lit up for a moment.

I cut a small piece and handed it to her.

She took it, turned around, and ran off.

The door had been open the whole time, and it lasted less than two minutes.

The messages in the group chat exploded.

“Isn’t that the guy in 302 studying for grad school? I always see him wandering around the hallway, acting all sneaky.”

“Young people these days are terrifying. They look decent on the outside, but who knows what they’re thinking. I suggest calling the police!”

“People like this don’t deserve to live in our complex. Is management going to do anything?”

Carla sent another message: “I’ve already called the police. All parents, watch your kids carefully. Trash like this deserves to be publicly ruined.”

I gritted my teeth and typed: “Yesterday was my birthday, and I bought a cake and came home, and Daisy was squatting by my door, so I shared a small piece with her.”

“The door was open the whole time, and it lasted less than two minutes. You can ask Daisy.”

Carla replied instantly: “My daughter has autism and doesn’t speak.”

“You’re taking advantage of the fact that she can’t tell anyone, aren’t you? A grown man in his twenties giving cake to a little girl he doesn’t know, and you think that’s normal?”

Someone immediately echoed her: “Exactly, what normal person would do that?”

“Studying for grad school fried his brain, pervert.”

My fingers trembled as I typed a long paragraph and sent it, explaining what had happened and emphasizing that the door had been open the entire time and that it lasted less than two minutes from start to finish.

After the message was sent, it sank into the chat history, and no one paid attention.

New messages kept refreshing: “Do a background check on him, what school is he from?”

“I heard he’s from some no-name college and has been trying for grad school for two years without getting in.”

“No wonder he’s mentally twisted.”

My phone kept vibrating.

I turned off the screen, took a deep breath, and opened it again.

I saved every message insulting me and every screenshot from the group chat one by one—these were all evidence.

At four in the morning, someone posted a long article on Ins titled “Grad School Exam Guy in Certain Apartment Complex Lures Little Girl, Parents Terrified.”

The article included my photo, listed the building and unit where I lived, and even dug up the school where I was preparing for the exam.

There were more than five thousand comments.

“Expose him and make his school expel him.”

“A pervert like this should be castrated.”

“Grad school? Even if he gets in, he’ll still be a danger.”

By daybreak, the article had over five hundred thousand views.

My landlord, Mr. Harris, called me.

“Ethan, it’s not that I’m unreasonable, but this has gotten way too big, the other residents are upset, and management has talked to me too.”

“You’d better move out as soon as possible, I’ll return your deposit, and I won’t charge you this month’s rent.”

I gripped my phone, and my throat tightened: “Mr. Harris, I’m being falsely accused.”

“I know, I know, but you have to understand my side too, I’m running a business here.”

“If you move out, everyone can have some peace.”

I said nothing.

Mr. Harris added, “Within three days, okay?”

I did not answer and hung up.

After sitting for a while, I felt there was no point staying in the room, so I went downstairs to pick up a package.

In the elevator, I ran into Mrs. Wilson from next door, and when she saw me, she took a step back and pulled her child behind her.

When we got out of the elevator, I heard her say to the person beside her, “That’s him, the one in the group chat.”

The woman at the package station tossed my package onto the table and did not reach out to hand it to me.

I bent down to pick it up myself, and she pulled her hand back.

I carried the package and walked back, and someone behind me took a photo.

The shutter sound was very soft, but I heard it.

When I returned to the rental apartment, I sat on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

My phone rang again.

My college roommate, Ryan, sent me a message: “Dude, is that you online? It’s already spread to the alumni group.”

I replied with one word: “Yes.”

“It’s really you? Why would you randomly give cake to a little girl?”

“It was my birthday.”

“She was squatting at my door, staring at the cake in my hand.”

“I cut a small piece for her.”

“The door was open, and the whole thing lasted less than two minutes.”

Ryan sent a sighing emoji.

“It doesn’t matter if I believe you, man, the internet has already exploded.”

“You need to find a way to clear things up fast.”

I opened my laptop and started organizing evidence.

Screenshots from the group chat, abusive text messages, posts on Ins and Twitter—I saved them all into one folder in chronological order.

I named it “Evidence.”

By the time I had organized everything until three in the afternoon, my fingers were numb from typing.

More than three hundred abusive messages, forty-seven post links, and six screen recordings.

One thing was still missing.

I went downstairs to management and asked to pull yesterday’s surveillance footage.

The property manager was Mr. Lewis, a middle-aged man in his forties, and although he spoke politely, his attitude was firm.

“Ethan, you know there was wiring maintenance yesterday, and the whole building lost power, so the cameras weren’t on either.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to help you, but there really is no footage.”

“Not even in the hallway?”

“No.”

“The entire system was down.”

I stood at the door of the management office, my mind racing.

Seeing that I was standing there and not leaving, Manager Lewis added, “Why don’t you ask the other residents and see if anyone recorded anything on their phone?”

I said nothing and turned to leave.

Without surveillance footage, there was no direct evidence.

All I had were a few cake photos on my phone and the receipt, proving that I had indeed bought cake yesterday.

That was not enough.

After returning to the rental apartment, I started contacting Daisy’s father.

After the divorce, Carla had brought Daisy here to live, and Daisy’s father occasionally came to pick her up.

I found his SnapChat in the homeowners’ group chat and added him as a friend.

He accepted quickly.

“Mark, I’m Ethan from 302.”

“Did you see what happened yesterday?”

“I saw it.”

“That crazy woman Carla only knows how to cause trouble.”

“I wanted to ask you, is it true that Daisy can’t speak?”

“She has mild autism and doesn’t like communicating with people, but it’s not that she can’t speak at all.”

“It’s just that Carla has never had the patience to teach her.”

I took a deep breath.

“Mark, can you help me confirm with Daisy that when I gave her the cake yesterday,”

“whether I did anything I shouldn’t have?”

The other side was silent for a long time.

“Man, I believe you.”

“But you know Daisy’s situation too, and even if I ask her, can her words be used as evidence?”

“The court won’t accept the words of a six-year-old autistic child.”

I knew he was telling the truth.

After hanging up, I stared at the folder on my computer screen called “Evidence,” which only contained more than three hundred records of insults and my own shopping receipt.

I opened the homeowners’ group chat again.

The messages had already reached more than nine hundred.

Someone had started a petition, demanding that management kick me out.

More than forty households had already signed the petition.

Carla sent another new message: “I’ve already contacted the media, and reporters will come for an interview tomorrow.”

“Trash like this should be known to everyone.”

The group chat was full of cheers.

I turned off my phone.

My phone vibrated a few more times.

I opened it and saw private message notifications from Ins.

Someone had sent me a message, and when I opened it, I saw: “You’re that pervert? Hope you fail your grad school exam and get hit by a car when you leave the house.”

I took a screenshot and saved it into the folder.

That day, I did not read a single page.