Eleven o’clock at night, an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city.
Lin Wanwan stood before the rust-stained warehouse door, pulling out her phone to check—still no new messages.
Darkness enveloped her surroundings, with only a dim yellow light from a streetlamp a hundred meters away casting a long shadow on the ground.
Wind whistled through the broken windows, producing a mournful sound, like someone weeping.
She waited another three minutes or so when suddenly, footsteps sounded behind her. The steps were light, deliberately muffled.
Lin Wanwan turned and saw a woman emerge from the shadows.
The woman wore a black hoodie, the hood pulled low, her face completely covered by a mask, revealing only her eyes. But those eyes were bright, glistening with moisture in the night.
Lin Wanwan instinctively activated the [Eye of Truth].
Emotions: [Nervousness 94%], [Determination 97%], [Fear 82%]. Inner thoughts: “Once I take this step, there’s no turning back. But Old Zhang, I don’t regret it.”
The woman stopped three steps away from her and raised her head.
The two stared at each other for a few seconds.
“You came,” the woman said, her voice slightly hoarse.
Lin Wanwan nodded. “I came.”
The woman took a deep breath, as if making a final mental preparation, then lifted her hand and removed her mask.
Lin Wanwan froze—she had seen this face before.
During the trial, when Zhang Wei testified against Xingyao Media, this woman had been sitting in the last row of the gallery, her head bowed the entire time, not uttering a word. As the crowd dispersed, Lin Wanwan had caught a glimpse of her wiping away tears.
“My name is Wang Fang,” the woman said, her voice steadier now. “Zhang Wei is my husband.”
Lin Wanwan looked at her, saying nothing, waiting for her to continue.
Wang Fang tucked her hands into the pockets of her hoodie, then pulled them out, repeating the motion two or three times before finally speaking. “I was the one who told Old Zhang to testify in court that day.”
“Those account books—I also told him to bring them out from the company.”
She paused, her throat moving slightly. “But there were some things he didn’t dare bring.”
She pulled a small USB drive from her chest, its silver casing gleaming faintly in her palm. She looked at it, her expression as complex as if she were staring at a ticking time bomb.
“This contains three years’ worth of complete accounts,” she said, handing the USB drive to Lin Wanwan. “Not the company’s official books—these are the hidden accounts. Old Zhang secretly backed them up, stored them for nearly two years, hidden under the bed board at our old home. He never told anyone.”
Lin Wanwan took the USB drive, looking down at it. It was small and light, almost weightless in her hand.
Wang Fang’s voice began to tremble. “Old Zhang worked in finance at Xingyao for eight years.”
“Eight years,” she repeated the number, then continued. “In those eight years, he saw too much.”
“The blood and sweat money of artists, kickbacks from drinking parties, hush-money transfers, dual contracts… it’s all here.”
She looked at Lin Wanwan, her eyes reddening. “These things weighed on him for eight years.”
“He couldn’t sleep at night, would suddenly wake up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat. I asked him what was wrong, but he wouldn’t say. Sometimes, when I pressed him too hard, he’d get angry and tell me to leave it alone.”
“Until that day, when he saw you on TV.”
Wang Fang’s tears finally fell as she spoke to this point. She raised her hand and wiped them away roughly, then continued, “When he saw you say in court, ‘Let me sleep on the company floor’…”
“He cried right then.”
“A man in his forties, holding his phone and crying like a child.”
“He said, ‘This person, I have to help.'”
Lin Wanwan’s fingers tightened around the USB drive, her knuckles turning white.
Wang Fang took several deep breaths, calming her emotions a bit, her voice regaining some composure. “The most crucial thing in this USB drive is a set of accounts.”
“Xingyao Media’s activities over the past three years—through artist drinking sessions, fake contracts… and Li Jianguo’s personal accounts.”
She stared into Lin Wanwan’s eyes, enunciating each word clearly. “How his money was transferred from the company into his personal pockets. What he did with that money—it’s all in there.”
Lin Wanwan looked at the USB drive in her hand, remained silent for a few seconds, then lifted her head and asked, “Why only bring it out now?”
Wang Fang gave a bitter smile, her expression filled with helplessness and sorrow. “Because I was afraid.”
“You know what kind of person Li Jianguo is.”
“He has plenty of money, plenty of connections, plenty of methods.”
“If Lao Zhang had come forward earlier, our whole family might have…”
She didn’t finish, but the meaning was clear enough.
Lin Wanwan remembered Zhang Wei’s tense expression during the trial, remembered him hurrying away after giving his testimony, and understood everything in her heart.
The silence lasted a few more seconds.
Lin Wanwan asked, “Then aren’t you afraid now?”
Wang Fang looked at her, tears welling up again, but she didn’t wipe them this time, letting them stream down her face. “I am afraid.”
“But what I fear more is that someday my son will ask me, ‘Mom, why didn’t Dad stand up back then?'”
“I wouldn’t be able to answer.”
Lin Wanwan looked at her for a long time, then reached out and took Wang Fang’s hand.
Wang Fang’s hand was cold, trembling slightly.
Lin Wanwan said, “Thank you.”
“Thank you for believing in me.”
Wang Fang laughed through her tears, an ugly laugh, tears and smile mingling together. “It’s not that I believe in you.”
She looked at the USB drive in Lin Wanwan’s hand. “It’s that I believe this thing can bring justice that his money can’t buy.”
At 12:08 a.m., the taxi wound through the late-night city, streetlights passing one after another outside the window, casting flickering light on Lin Wanwan’s face.
She sat in the back seat, head bowed, staring at the USB drive in her hand.
The USB drive was small and light, but holding it felt as heavy as carrying a stone.
Her phone vibrated—a private message from someone calling themselves “Capital Bane”: “Did you get it?”
Lin Wanwan stared at this ID.
This person had been sending her private messages since the first day of her lawsuit, providing various leads, suggestions, even helping her contact witnesses. She had asked who they were, but they never answered.
She replied, “I got it.”
“Who are you, really?”
The other person was silent for a few seconds, then replied, “Someone they’ve hurt too.”
Lin Wanwan stared at these words, trying again to use the Eye of Truth, but the other person’s profile picture was blank, their personal information empty—she couldn’t see anything.
She continued asking, “What’s your relationship with Wang Fang? Did you send her to me?”
The other person replied, “You don’t need to know.”
“You just need to know that what’s in that USB drive is real.”
Lin Wanwan fell silent.
The other person sent another message: “What are you planning to do?”
Lin Wanwan watched the streetlights whizzing past outside the window and typed: “Hand it over to the lawyer.”
The other party replied instantly: “Okay.”
“Remember, don’t try to find out who I am.”
“If you do, you’ll be in trouble.”
Then, the other party’s profile picture turned gray.
Lin Wanwan stared at the gray profile picture, wanting to send something more, but the other party had already closed the private message channel.
She put her phone away, leaned back in her seat, and closed her eyes, but the USB drive clenched in her palm dug painfully into her hand.
At one in the morning, Lin Wanwan sat by the bed, staring blankly at the USB drive on the table.
Her roommate Wanbi pushed the door open, holding a steaming bowl of instant noodles.
She placed the noodles in front of Lin Wanwan and handed her a pair of chopsticks: “You haven’t had dinner yet, right? Eat something first.”
Lin Wanwan shook her head and didn’t touch the chopsticks.
Wanbi sat down beside her, following her gaze to the USB drive: “Is this what that mysterious person gave you?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s inside?”
“Evidence. Xingyao Media’s hidden accounts, Li Jianguo’s personal transaction records.”
Wanbi gasped, her eyes instantly changing as she looked at the USB drive, as if it were a grenade ready to explode at any moment.
After a moment of silence, she asked: “What are you going to do?”
Lin Wanwan stared at the USB drive for a long time without speaking, then picked up her phone and dialed a number.
“Su Man, come to the studio tomorrow morning. There’s something I need to give you.”
Eight in the morning, Lin Wanwan’s studio.
Su Man stared at the data on the computer screen, her expression growing increasingly grave.
She scrolled down, line by line, for a long time, then took off her glasses, rubbed the bridge of her nose, and looked at Lin Wanwan: “Do you know what this is?”
Lin Wanwan nodded.
“Do you know what it means to hand this over?”
Lin Wanwan nodded again.
Su Man took a deep breath, stood up, and walked to the window. With her back to Lin Wanwan, she gazed out at the street outside: “This means Li Jianguo could be sentenced…”
“But it also means you and everyone who steps forward might face even more…”
Lin Wanwan looked at her back and smiled: “Su Man, do you think we still have a way out?”
Su Man turned around and looked at her.
Lin Wanwan sat there, sunlight streaming through the window and falling on her face. Her eyes were calm, without fear or hesitation, only a steady, resolute light.
Su Man was stunned for a few seconds, then she smiled too.
“No.”
“From the day you first confronted the director, there hasn’t been one.”
She walked back to the computer, pulled out the USB drive, and carefully placed it in her bag: “I’ll go find a lawyer right now. I’ll personally oversee this case.”
At the law firm, Su Man met Zhou Mingyuan.
He was a man in his fifties, with graying hair and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, looking like a university professor. But he was notoriously “tough” in the industry, specializing in economic crime cases. In over twenty years of practice, he had almost never lost a case.
He reviewed the contents of the USB drive from start to finish, remained silent for a long time, then looked up at Su Man: “Who gave this?”
Su Man said: “I can’t say.”
Zhou Mingyuan nodded without pressing further: “Alright, I won’t ask.”
He pointed at the data on the screen: “If this is real…”
He paused, took off his glasses to wipe them, and put them back on: “Li Jianguo will get at least ten years.”
Su Man took a deep breath. “When do we file the lawsuit?”
Zhou Mingyuan thought for a moment. “Tomorrow.”
“The sooner we submit the evidence, the safer it is.”
At eight in the evening, Lin Wanwan started her livestream.
This time, she wasn’t lying in bed but sitting in her studio, a glass of water in front of her and a white wall behind her.
Over five million people flooded into the livestream instantly, the comments scrolling so fast they were impossible to read.
“Sis, why aren’t you lying down today?”
“Do you have good news to announce?”
“Who is that mysterious person anyway?”
Lin Wanwan looked into the camera and remained silent for a few seconds. The comments gradually slowed as everyone waited.
She began, “Today, I won’t waste any words.”
“I’ll only tell you one thing.”
She paused. “We have new evidence, and it comes from someone who wishes to remain anonymous.”
“This person said they were also harmed by them.”
She stared into the camera, enunciating each word clearly. “I want to say to this person…”
“Whether you can hear me or not…”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you for daring to step forward.”
The comments exploded instantly:
“Someone provided evidence?!”
“Who?! Who is it?!”
“Why not reveal their name?”
“Go, Lin Wanwan! Don’t let them down!”
“I’m crying, someone really stepped up.”
The livestream lasted less than ten minutes before Lin Wanwan ended it.
She leaned back in her chair, looked up at the ceiling, and let out a long sigh.
Her phone vibrated.
At nine in the evening, “Capital Bane” sent another private message: “I saw it. No need to thank me. Just do one thing for me.”
Lin Wanwan’s heart skipped a beat, and she quickly replied, “What is it?”
There was no response.
She waited for a minute, five minutes, ten minutes, then clicked on the ID again, only to see the words “Account Deactivated.”
Lin Wanwan froze, staring at the gray default profile picture for a long time.
Wanbi leaned over and asked, “What’s wrong?”
Lin Wanwan handed her the phone.
Wanbi read the message, fell silent, and then said, “This person…”
“May never appear again.”
Lin Wanwan nodded, gazing out the window at the pitch-black night sky, and whispered, “Who is he, really?”
The trending topics updated in real time:
#Mysterious Person Provides Evidence# (Rank 3)
#Lin Wanwan Thank You# (Rank 7)
Under the topics, countless people asked:
“Who is that mysterious person?”
“What is he afraid of?”
“What evidence did he provide?”
No one had the answers, except for one comment that rose to the top:
“He could be anyone they’ve harmed.”
“Or maybe, he’s everyone.”
At that moment, Li Jianguo sat on the sofa, watching the news on TV.
The financial channel was reporting, “According to informed sources, new evidence related to Xingyao Media has been submitted…”
His face turned ashen, and the cigar in his hand was crushed out of shape.
His phone suddenly rang.
He answered, and the voice on the other end was the company lawyer’s, hushed but unable to hide the panic in his words. “Mr. Li, something’s happened.”
“Someone submitted new evidence.”
Li Jianguo’s hand tightened abruptly. “What evidence?”
The lawyer hesitated before saying, “Hidden accounts.”
“And… the transaction records of your personal account.”
Li Jianguo’s face instantly turned deathly pale.
He stood up abruptly and hurled his phone at the TV.
The TV screen shattered instantly, sparks flying everywhere.
Outside the window, the city lights were bright, but before his eyes, there was only darkness.
At one in the morning, Lin Wanwan lay in bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep.
She thought about the “Capital Bane”; about every private message he had sent, those precise clues, those timely reminders; about his final words: “Just help me with one thing.”
What thing? He didn’t say.
She took out her phone and clicked into the deactivated ID. The gray default profile picture lay there quietly.
She stared at it for a long time, then typed a line: “No matter who you are, no matter where you are, thank you.”
She didn’t send it, because the other party had already deactivated the account—it wouldn’t go through.
But she still finished typing the line, then put down her phone and looked at the ceiling.
Outside the window, moonlight seeped through the gap in the curtains, spilling onto the spot on the table where the USB drive had once been.
Lin Wanwan closed her eyes, thinking to herself: “Tomorrow will be a new day.”