Chapter 1: Comments Expose the Villain

On my way to cook for my girlfriend’s seriously ill father, I was hit with a wall of floating comments—bam, right in my face.

The afternoon sun was beating down, the kind of sticky, muggy heat that glued my shirt to my back. I was halfway down Maple Street, grocery bag balanced on my hip, when—boom—these weird, ghostly comments started scrolling right in front of me. They floated in the air like some kind of messed-up, personal social media feed, except only I could see it. My heart stuttered. I blinked, hard, thinking maybe I was hallucinating from lack of sleep. But no—they hung there, bright and obnoxious as neon graffiti.

[Heroine finally got the cash and is about to dip with the main dude 🏃‍♀️💸]

[Lol, the shady second lead’s about to bust them. Can the heroine yeet out in time?]

[Karma time for this guy. If he doesn’t snitch, how’s the main dude gonna end up in jail? Gotta get that drama!]

I froze. Out of nowhere, a memory hit me: my girlfriend sneaking back home in the middle of the night.

That memory hit me like the sudden thud of a dropped box. Her shadow slipped through the front door. The hush of her footsteps on the creaky floorboards. I’d told myself it was nothing—just nerves—but now my gut twisted with a sick sort of clarity.

I stopped in my tracks, wiped the sweat from my brow, and turned back toward the office.

The plastic grocery bag rustled against my jeans as I spun around, ignoring the side-eye from a couple of dog-walking neighbors. My mind was spinning—had I missed something huge? Was I just a background character in some messed-up drama? Seriously? Was this real life?

[What’s happening? Isn’t the villain supposed to be cooking for the heroine’s dad? Bruh, what if the dad starves?]

[Evil side character, get your butt home! Heroine’s about to hop a flight—if you don’t snitch, she’s really outta here.]

[Canada’s cool, okay? Only there can the heroine realize the main dude’s true love. Relationship test, duh.]

Back at the office, I watched the flood of comments, trying to make sense of them.

I dropped into my cluttered desk chair, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, staring at those floating words like maybe, just maybe, they’d rearrange themselves into something sane. It felt like the Truman Show, except I was the guy nobody cared about—just the extra in the background.

That’s when it hit me: I was the villain in some relationship drama, the one propping up my girlfriend’s whole family. And my girlfriend, Autumn Zhao, was the heroine.

The realization crawled up my spine—every sacrifice, every late-night pharmacy run, every time I’d bitten my tongue at Carol’s digs. None of it mattered. I was just the plot device, the obstacle, the guy everyone wanted out of the way.

Her father had lung cancer and needed a ton of money fast.

That diagnosis had been a gut punch for everyone. The whole house turned into a hospital overnight—pill bottles everywhere, an oxygen tank humming in the corner, and that heavy, silent fear hanging over every meal.

After she kept asking, I sold the house my parents left me and drained all my savings.

Didn’t even hesitate. When Autumn asked, I handed over the deed and emptied my account. My folks’ old place in Cedar Falls—gone in a heartbeat, just so Gary Zhao could have a shot.

I even helped her mother, Carol Zhao, start a livestream to ask for donations.

I remember setting up the ring light, teaching Carol how to angle the camera, walking her through the GoFundMe. She sobbed on camera, clutching Gary’s hand. Donations trickled in—twenty bucks from a stranger in Ohio, fifty from a cousin in Jersey.

We finally scraped together a hundred thousand dollars for medical expenses, just waiting for the surgery. But then the debit card vanished without a trace.

That morning, the card was right there on the kitchen counter. By noon, poof. Gone. I tore the place apart—checked every drawer, even the trash. It was like the thing evaporated. Carol’s panicked shout when she realized it was missing still echoes in my head.

Since I was the one cooking for Autumn’s dad, Gary Zhao, Carol ordered me to call the police.

She stormed into the kitchen, apron all askew, waving a wooden spoon like a weapon. “Nick, call the cops right now! We’re not letting some thief get away with this.” Her voice was sharp, desperate.

But after thinking it over, I realized there was no way an outsider could have gotten into the house.

I tried to reason with her—“Carol, the doors were locked all night. No sign of forced entry.” She wasn’t buying it. Her eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering like she was already writing me off.

Carol’s face went dark and she slapped me—more than once.

First slap—stunned me, stung like a wasp. The next two hit even harder, her hand shaking with fury. I just stood there, dazed, metallic blood on my tongue and a hot burn of humiliation.

“It’s just me and her dad at home. Are you saying I took the money, or that her dad hid it himself?”

“You’re useless and rotten to the core. You see the worst in everyone. And you still want to marry my daughter?”

Her words cut deeper than the slaps. That hurt more than anything.

I swallowed it and went to the station to file a report.

The ride over was dead silent, my hands locked on the steering wheel. I couldn’t look at her. I just drove. The cop at the desk barely glanced up as I explained, pen scratching out my statement. I felt like a criminal, not a victim.

Meanwhile, she started a livestream, denouncing the thief: “You’d even steal a man’s treatment money? I hope you never sleep at night!”

The chat exploded with sympathy and outrage—people spamming angry faces, sending hugs, swearing they’d find the thief. Carol’s voice cracked as she pleaded, tears streaming. I watched from the hallway, invisible as ever.

“Elderly man’s treatment fund stolen” shot to the top of trending, boosted by sympathy.

Local news picked it up. There was even a reporter outside the house by dinnertime, shoving a mic in my face, asking how it felt to see Gary suffer. I mumbled something about hope and justice, wishing I could disappear. Seriously?

Under immense public pressure, the police worked through the night to crack the case.

Patrol cars cruised the block, detectives grilled the neighbors. Carol kept livestreaming, her voice hoarse but relentless. I barely slept, jumping at every ring from my phone.