Eating melons (1/2)
“You said you took his phone away! How did he get it?” Su Mingyu exclaimed. “Browsing the internet is one thing, but livestreaming?!!”
Gu Yilan furrowed his brows, his dark eyes deep in thought.
Lately, Su Zesui’s behavior had been unusual—on the surface, more positive and cheerful than before; but in reality, abnormal.
His emotions were changing too fast, his relaxation too extreme.
Facing unpredictable online abuse, such behavior suggested the boy had already made a firm, secret decision. He was just waiting for the right moment.
With that, his emotions would naturally remain steady.
“Where’s the platform manager? Log into the admin account and shut down Su Zesui’s livestream,” Su Mingyu said, regaining composure. “Gu Yilan, go home and check on Suisui—don’t let him do anything foolish.”
Though Su Mingyu organized everything methodically, the man beside him remained still.
A few seconds later, Gu Yilan said, “No need.”
Su Mingyu immediately erupted. “No need?! The doctor said he’s at a crucial stage of recovery! Tomorrow morning, he has the CPhO preliminary. And you’re just going to let him face online abuse alone?!”
It was understandable he was emotional—the CPhO is a once-a-year exam, like an exam you can’t retake. Fail the preliminary, and his physics competition path is ruined, leaving only the college entrance route.
And this was a critical psychological stage for Su Zesui. One wrong move could shadow his entire life in cyberbullying trauma.
Gu Yilan lowered his gaze to the screen full of vicious comments. His fingers clenched unconsciously, knuckles whitening, yet his voice remained calm and low. “It’s a half-hour drive. By the time we get back, it’ll be too late.”
Su Mingyu couldn’t believe it. “Too late? And you’re just giving up?!”
Gu Yilan exhaled softly. “I think it’s fine. I trust him.”
Su Zesui had suffered too much before, which is why Gu Yilan always wanted to protect and compensate him, to ensure nothing could ever hurt him again.
But he had never forgotten—the seemingly soft and obedient boy had once miraculously saved himself in a hospital at the brink of despair, possessing extraordinary willpower. He should never be underestimated.
Gu Yilan’s resolute expression didn’t look the least bit fake, leaving Su Mingyu stunned for a moment before blurting out in confusion, “…What are you talking about?”
Gu Yilan repeated without hesitation, “I said I trust him—he can handle this on his own.”
Su Mingyu frowned. “Even if you want to show your trust, isn’t this the worst possible time?”
“He’s already made his decision. All we can do is support him.” Gu Yilan gestured with his chin toward the livestream on his phone screen and then told the private investigator, “Set up an account and get ready to release the video evidence.”
The investigator nodded and immediately began working on his phone.
They had long since prepared surveillance evidence of Zhou Qizhao bullying multiple classmates, but because of laws protecting minors’ images, they hadn’t been able to make it public. However, just last night, Zhou Qizhao himself had lost control and posted the uncensored video of Su Zesui hitting him—effectively breaking the taboo first.
Once the most urgent PR steps were in place, Gu Yilan’s cold gaze shifted to the three members of the Zhou family sitting at the table. His voice was as icy as if dipped in frost: “We don’t need your help. You can leave.”
Hearing this, Zhou’s parents panicked and tried to plead with him, but when that failed, they attempted to force Zhou Qizhao—their only so-called lifeline—to stay, hoping to somehow turn things around.
But Zhou Qizhao, the prodigal son, showed no awareness of the situation. Even now, he had no remorse at all, spewing vulgar curses in defiance.
Enraged, Father Zhou slapped him hard in front of everyone, then whispered a few furious words to him before he and Mother Zhou left the scene with forced smiles.
Clutching his swollen cheek, Zhou Qizhao thought of his father’s harsh threats. Breathing heavily with resentment, he still didn’t dare leave, glaring instead with frustration at the powerful group seated at the table.
But none of the “villains” so much as spared him a glance—because Su Zesui had begun reading the livestream comments.
Perhaps because he was too naive to filter what to read, or perhaps simply because most of the comments floating by were negative, every line Su Zesui read out loud was cruel and vicious.
The boy’s eyes drooped with sadness, yet he still read them carefully: “Why do you bully others just because you have backing… do you think you’re that great?”
He usually struggled even with normal conversations, let alone answering such spiteful questions. After holding it in for a long while, his eyes shimmering with tears, he whispered, “…N-No, that’s not true.”
Gu Yilan shut his eyes, temples throbbing. His thin lips parted as he instructed the platform manager, “Arrange moderators. Delete any comments with provocative wording.”
The manager quickly agreed, then asked, “Should we also delete the skeptical comments that could harm public opinion?”
Ever since Zhou Qizhao had posted that surveillance footage last night, Su Zesui’s livestream had been flooded with insults and doubts.
Gu Yilan pressed his lips together, his voice hoarse. “Leave the doubts.”
Watching his younger brother suffer such humiliation, Su Mingyu covered his face, speechless. He could no longer bring himself to oppose Gu Yilan’s decision.
But in truth, Su Zesui wasn’t as crushed as they all imagined.
In the master bedroom, he was seated properly at his desk for once, instead of lounging on the soft bed as he usually did.
The morning sunlight streamed through the window lattice, spreading a warm glow across the floor and over the boy’s figure, lending him strength.
Gu Yilan had indeed hidden the boy’s phone in a very secret spot in the master bedroom—so well hidden that even the servants, after a thorough cleaning, might not have found it.
But he had forgotten one thing: he had once shown Su Zesui where he kept his folding knives tucked away in hidden corners of the bedroom, unintentionally revealing his favorite hiding spots.
And since he never guarded against the obedient boy, Su Zesui had searched each of those places one by one, quickly finding his powered-off phone.
He had decided to do this back on the day at the flower shop, when he first saw the online comments.
Mr. Gu had told him that the internet has no memory—that with time, no one would remember the cruel words once thrown at him. And he himself had always claimed not to care about rumors.
But Su Zesui remembered. And he cared deeply.
He remembered the slander and false accusations against Mr. Gu.
He remembered how Mr. Gu’s company was dragged into the mess, leaving him endlessly overworked.
He remembered Mr. Gu’s bloodshot eyes, surviving each attack only by clinging to him, again and again, with desperate kisses.
Mr. Gu had held up an umbrella for him through the storm; his big brother, in the prime of his career, still rushed around and flew from place to place for his sake; Feng Chengwen, Tong Jing, and Yuan Mingcheng all went against the tide of online opinion to release videos supporting him.
So many people were protecting him selflessly, hoping he could pass through this brutal wave of cyberbullying without having to face the wind and rain.
But he didn’t want to always hide behind everyone else, a cowardly turtle shrinking into its shell while others bore the pain that should have been his to face.
He, too, had people he cared about.
He, too, wanted to stand up and protect the ones he loved.
With a firm resolve and a heart full of love, he was no longer afraid of the malice outside, but brave enough to face it all.
He didn’t know how long it would take before Mr. Gu and his big brother discovered that he had gotten hold of his phone and cut off the livestream. So he clung to every second, reading the comments scrolling across the screen, trying to respond and clarify as much as he could.
The comments were cruel, vulgar, filled with the harshest curses people could spit out. But if he could answer, he would still try.
Gradually, as the minutes ticked by, Su Zesui realized the tone of the livestream had shifted.
The vicious comments had nearly disappeared. Instead, many people were discussing the newly released “surveillance footage compilation.”
So he turned on his phone’s hotspot, connected the tablet to the internet, and tried to watch the videos everyone was talking about live with the viewers.
His phone was on Do Not Disturb, but the moment the Wi-Fi connected, a five-minute-old unread WeChat message popped up—
[11th Dimension: Suisui, you can do it.]
He hadn’t cried when reading the curses. He hadn’t cried when people using IDs that once supported him now turned against him. But when he saw these four simple characters and two punctuation marks, his eyes stung red.
He sniffled, and only after the message faded away on its own did he open the social media app, follow the trending searches, and click into the newest piece of surveillance evidence. Then he flipped his phone camera, setting the tablet within view so he and the livestream audience could watch together.
The video had been carefully edited, compiling nearly every incident over the past year where Zhou Qizhao had verbally or physically bullied classmates—faces all thoughtfully blurred out.
Who had prepared it so long in advance was obvious.
The clips showed Zhou Qizhao standing on a chair, mocking a classmate. Him cornering another student at the bathroom entrance with his gang. Even shots of him laying hands on someone.
It left no doubt about Zhou Qizhao’s long history of campus bullying.
“Were you ever bullied by Zhou Qizhao too…?” Su Zesui read a scrolling comment aloud, hesitating. “I…”
After a long pause, he turned the camera back toward himself. With lowered eyes, he slowly rolled up his short sleeve, revealing a cruel scar.
He had always thought it ugly and never shown it to anyone. On his very first blind date with Mr. Gu, he had even worn slightly longer sleeves to cover it.
But now, in front of hundreds of thousands watching live, he exposed it himself, speaking of the trauma he once carried like PTSD:
“Back then, someone tricked me into the gym where there were no cameras. They pinned me down… and poured boiling water onto my arm. In that moment, the whole world felt black. But somehow, I held on. I kept going. And that’s how I was able to meet so many people who love me…”
“…Resist campus bullying.”
He read the flood of comments filling the screen, then said thoughtfully, “If you’re being bullied, you have to stay strong and seek outside help. And if you’re a bystander, even an anonymous report or telling a teacher is an act of kindness.”
“Does anyone actually believe him? He’s obviously making this up for sympathy.”
In the camera, Su Zesui rubbed the scar hard until the skin turned red. Looking straight at the lens, he said firmly, “It’s real. Not makeup.”
To open your heart in front of someone who slanders you takes immense courage—because one misstep might send you plunging into an even darker abyss. But by some miracle, the innately kind and pure Su Zesui was born with that kind of courage.