How does one end up in a situation like this?
Han Yichen could feel every gaze on him—the weight of dozens of eyes, the relentless hum of cameras that refused to die.
He saw the production crew scramble—panic, confusion, disbelief ghosting across their faces as they fought in vain to kill the feed.
His heart sank, stomach turning. Maybe—just maybe—there was a flicker of remorse when he saw Zhang Yazhi's eyes begin to redden.
But that tinge of remorse did not last.
It vanished as swiftly as it came—replaced by anger, pride, and the bitter instinct to survive.
"You remember Starry Morning, don't you?" she began softly. "The song that won you your first award."
Her gaze lifted—steady, unnervingly so.
"And Paper Boats. The one you said you wrote for your mother."
[😭😭😭 that's the song that made him famous!!]
[Wait—is she saying SHE wrote it??? 😱🔥]
[Isn't this more interesting than romance????]
"How about Forgetting You Slowly?" Her lips curved—not in warmth, but in a quiet, self-mocking smile. "Fitting title, isn't it?"
Han Yichen exhaled sharply, the mask of composure slipping back to place.
"What exactly are you implying?" he said at last, voice steady but eyes hard. "These songs were written by me."
The denial came out smooth—too smooth, the kind polished by years of interviews and rehearsed sincerity.
"Don't you think we should do something?" the PA whispered the director, his voice barely audible.
"I think," the director said slowly, eyes never leaving the monitor, "since the cameras are still running, we should give Han Yichen a chance to defend himself…right?"
His voice was cautious—a touch too casual, like someone pretending not to care while doing mental math about his job security.
Because really, at this point, it could go either way: career-ending scandal or record-breaking ratings.
"You actually think he's innocent?" The PA asked, half-whisper, half-gossip.
"Doesn't matter what I think," the director said, still watching the monitor. "What matters is how Han Yichen's people spin it."
"Right," the PA said slowly. "His songwriter-to-singer debut album's dropping soon, isn't it?"
"Hasn't the industry always been a survival of the fittest?" The director said. Still, for once, he hoped the underdog would win.
His denial was so effortless, so practiced, that she almost admired it.
Almost.
For it made the last ten years of her life feel like the punchline to someone else's joke.
He had the audacity to look offended, as if her truth were the lie that disrupted his peace.
But this time, luck was on her side.
Perhaps a twist of fate—or something quieter, watching over—had finally tilted the scale.
She had managed to find her voice—
and more importantly, the proof he thought he had destroyed.
Zhang Yazhi reached into the paper bag she had brought along and drew out a neat stack of printed pages.
Each one marked, annotated, dated—the handwritten lyrics of songs the nation had long believed to be his.
"You said you wrote them," she said, her tone level.
Then, without warning, she threw the manuscript straight at him.
Papers scattered midair like white petals—
fluttering, falling, then settling on the floor.
"Go on," she said as she looked at him in the eyes. "Keep denying it."
[OH SHE THREW THE WHOLE CAREER AT HIM 😭🔥]
[Not the lyric sheets flying like snow 💀💀💀]
[This woman's my new religion 😭👏]
Han Yichen flinched as the papers hit his chest, his expression twisting from disbelief to fury.
His hand rose instinctively—to steady himself, or to defend his pride—it wasn't clear.
"You don't deserve the love of your fans," Zhang Yazhi said, each word clear, deliberate—sharpened by something colder than anger.
She took a step closer, "What do you have, Han Yichen—when everything you built came from someone else?"
Her next words landed like a verdict—soft, but impossible to overturn.
"You're just a thief."
Silence.
Not the stunned kind, but the charged kind—like the world itself had stopped to process the fallout.
Even An Ning didn't move. Her gaze lingered on Zhang Yazhi—the trembling fingers, the red-rimmed eyes, the dignity held together by sheer will.
She had borrowed fifty Luck Value from this moment—a gamble that, if it went wrong, would've left her facing every ounce of backlash that came with negative luck.
But as Zhang Yazhi stood there—heartbroken, yet victorious—An Ning thought—perhaps this was worth it.
At least she was still alive.
[Does anyone remember the look beyond surface comment from An NIng???]
[Now that you said it, why do i have a feeling she knew something is up? 🍉📈]
[Everyone looked shocked while she was just calmly there, eating her dinner]
[This is her side dish to go with her dinner 😭🔥]
Then—as if the world itself exhaled—
[Ding! Justice Served!]
[+ 50 Luck Value]
[Current Luck Value: 5]
The little melon appeared beside her, eyes shinning with relief.
"Host," he whispered, voice trembling between awe and exhaustion. "You're finally back above zero."
An Ning's lips curved faintly. "Five, actually. Enough to test my reflexes without breaking anything important."
"Do you think Han Yichen's company is able to turn this around this time?" The little melon asked.
An Ning lifted her gaze toward the glowing monitor, where the chaos was still unfolding.
"Why do you think I let this air live?" she said calmly. "Why do you think I used my Luck Value to help Zhang Yazhi find those manuscripts?"
The little melon blinked, realisation dawning. "Because you knew the audience would do the rest?"
"Exactly," she replied. "In this world, public opinion is the sharpest blade. You just have to hand it to them."
The little melon hovered beside her, "But Host…didn't Zhang Yazhi try to expose him to the public in the original timeline too?"
An Ning's gaze softened—almost wishful, almost cruel.
"Because last time, she stood alone," she said quietly. "There was no evidence. It was her words against his words—and he'd already earned himself a spotless reputation from the dating show."
The little melon blinked. "And now?"
"Now," An Ning took a sip of her water. "I just gave her enough luck to make sure the world listen."
Cut back to the courtyard—
"Anything else you like to add?" Zhang Yazhi asked.
Han Yichen didn't answer.
What was there left to say?
The manuscript that he'd thought destroyed lay scattered across the floor—every page a ghost of the past he'd tried to erase.
The cameras were still blinking live.
And in that moment, he knew—everything he had built was gone.
Zhang Yazhi stepped past him.
She picked up the cake, its frosting trembling at the edge of collapse—and smashed it straight into Han Yichen's face.
[😭😭😭 SHE REALLY DID IT 💅🔥]
[Not the poetic justice turning literal 😭🍰]
[This woman just served revenge and dessert 💀]
"I'll see you in court," Zhang Yazhi dusted her hands, turned to leave—then paused mid-step.
She looked over her shoulder.
"Oh," she said lightly, "happy tenth anniversary."
And with that, she walked away—leaving frosting, shock, and a nation's worth of open mouths behind her.
Cut—finally.
"The cameras are down," the PA breathed, sagging in relief.
Across the courtyard, Han Yichen stood frozen.
The frosting slid slowly down his cheek, dripping onto his collar, the white smudge stark against his shirt.
For a long time, he didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Didn't even blink.
Only when someone from the production team took a cautious step forward did his shoulders finally twitch—
as though the weight of humiliation had just caught up to his body.
He reached up, wiping the mess from his face with a trembling hand. The gesture was almost absurdly careful, as if tidiness could restore dignity.
Then he laughed.
Once. Quietly.
A sound brittle enough to splinter.
"Ten years," he said under his breath. "All that…for this."
The production team exchanged uneasy glances, unsure whether to pity him or step back.
Somewhere behind them, a phone notification pinged—and the first headline went live.
[#SongwriterExposed] Trending #1 — 'Starry Morning' plagiarism scandal]
"There isn't anything you guys could do?" Han Yichen's voice came out tight, low—controlled only by habit.
He gripped his phone hard enough to crack it. On the other end of the line, his manager's voice crackled, full of forced calm.
"We're…trying, Yichen. But the clip's already everywhere."
Han Yichen closed his eyes.
The laughter, the headlines, the cake—it all replayed in brutal high definition.
His fingers tightened again, as though he could squeeze the situation into submission.
"It doesn't help that the manuscripts have her name on every page—handwritten, timestamped, and with your edits all over them."
Silence stretched across the line. Even the static felt heavy.
"Look," the manager sighed, lowering his voice, "damage control's near impossible right now. Every outlet's picked it up. Hashtags are climbing by the second."
Han Yichen's breath hitched. "Then release a statement."
"And say what? That you 'collaborated'? That it's all a misunderstanding?"
A short, bitter laugh followed. "Yichen, even the apology drafts sound guilty at this point."
He didn't respond.
"You need to lay low for now. Don't go online. Don't say anything. Just…let it cool down."
"If I stay silent, they'll crucify me."
"If you speak now," his manager said, "they'll bury you."
The call ended with a soft click that sounded almost merciful.
For a long moment, Han Yichen just sat there—phone still pressed to his ear, silence ringing louder than any crowd.
Deep down, he knew.
His company would issue a statement soon—cold, polished, and heavy with "we condemn plagiarism of any kind."
They would protect the brand, not him.
And in an industry built on applause, abandonment was always quietest when it was most complete.
His regrets came too late—
not for what he'd done,
but for getting caught doing it.