Chapter 1 — Evidence That Doesn't Lie

At the centennial anniversary of our university, I stood backstage waiting for my turn as the student representative. While I was reviewing my speech, strange lines of text suddenly flickered before my eyes.

[In ten minutes, your childhood friend Lu Cheng will ask for your USB drive, claiming he needs to standardize the device settings.]
[Your PowerPoint will be swapped with falsified evidence claiming you stole the speech from the class beauty.]
[During your keynote, the class beauty will publicly expose your alleged academic fraud, and Lu Cheng will step forward to confirm your guilt.]
[Your postgraduate recommendation will be revoked, the class beauty will take your spot, and both she and Lu Cheng will achieve their goals.]

The palm holding my USB began to dampen with sweat. I initially thought the lack of sleep from working on my speech had finally triggered hallucinations. Then, the next moment, Lu Cheng pushed open the door and entered.

"The university’s podium computers only accept the standard format provided by the student council. Give me your USB; don’t keep a copy yourself, just to avoid any version conflicts."

Lu Cheng was dressed in a custom-tailored student council blazer, his ID badge pinned to his chest. He still wore that same gentle, dependable expression I had known for years. Seeing me unresponsive, he smiled and pressed further.

"Hand it over. The control room is already rushing me."

I stared at him. We had been neighbors since elementary school. His mother used to say we were like siblings. I had always considered him the one person I could trust most throughout my college career. Yet, at this moment, I felt a wave of nausea. I didn't hand over the USB immediately. The lines of text continued to appear.

[Do not confront him directly. If you turn on him now, he will simply change his plan.]
[Preserve your evidence. First, send the official version to a location with a timestamp.]
[What he needs is your trust, so give him the bait.]

I took a deep breath and looked up, offering Lu Cheng a smile.

"Give me two minutes to check the attachments one last time."

Lu Cheng frowned. "At this stage, you’re still checking?"

"Didn't you say the format needed to be unified? I don’t want to cause any extra trouble for you."

Hearing this, his expression softened slightly. "Then hurry up."

He stood by the door, waiting. I turned and quickly opened my laptop. The first step was to compress my final PowerPoint, the speech text, and the original survey data into a single file and email it to the university’s dedicated event inbox. I carbon-copied my academic advisor, my faculty mentor, and the secretary of the anniversary organizing committee. The subject line was clear: "Final Submission for University Anniversary Speech – Lam Van, School of Journalism and Communication." The system automatically recorded the timestamp.

The second step was to log into the university’s official documentation portal and upload the same set of files. Every upload generated a version number and a submission time. I had always found this system cumbersome, but now it felt like my lifeline.

The third step was to print the official speech and run to the printing office next to the backstage area. The instructor on duty knew me, so I smiled and said, "Sir, could you please write the time of receipt on the cover? I’m worried about getting the versions mixed up later."

As he stamped it, he teased, "You high-achieving students are truly diligent."

I retrieved the hard copy, my palms slick with sweat. When I returned backstage, Lu Cheng looked impatient. "Done?"

"Done."

I pulled a different USB drive from my pocket. This was the "device test" version I had just quickly cobbled together. The PowerPoint inside looked identical to the official one, but in the chart on page seventeen, I had deliberately changed the sample size to "327" instead of the correct "372." I also used an obscure formatting style for the page numbers. In the notes section, I hid a single line: "This page is used only for device testing." The file properties also retained the temporary version name. These details wouldn't affect the presentation, but if anyone used this file to claim it was the "original draft," it would leave an indelible trail.

I handed the USB to Lu Cheng. "Don't you have a handover log? Register it for me, so we don’t lose track of it later."

Lu Cheng’s hand paused. "Van, don't you even trust me?"

I looked at him and smiled faintly. "It’s just the student council procedure. I’m just cooperating with your work."

He studied me for two seconds before turning to sign the logbook. His name, the time, and the item description were written in clear, deliberate strokes. I watched him put the USB into his pocket. At that moment, I knew the fish had taken the bait.

After Lu Cheng left, I didn't return to the backstage area immediately. With half an hour until my speech, I went to the entrance to get some fresh air. At the threshold, I saw an elderly woman with silver hair being blocked by a volunteer. She wore a dark gray coat and carried a worn leather bag. She claimed to be an alumna, but the digital invitation on her phone wouldn't load. The volunteer was sweating profusely.

"Ma'am, it's too crowded today. Without the QR code, I really can't let you in. Please wait on the side for a moment."

The woman held onto the railing, her face pale. "I don’t mean to be a bother; it’s just that standing for too long hurts my legs."

Many students walked by, but no one stopped. It was the university's centennial; everyone was busy taking photos, checking in, and finding their seats. I checked the time and walked over anyway.

"Ma'am, let me see if I can help."

The woman looked up. Her eyes were sharp, not cloudy like most elderly people, but filled with a quiet strength that made one feel at ease. I took her phone and realized it wasn't that the invitation was missing, but that the network was congested. I switched her to the campus Wi-Fi and called the anniversary office to confirm her status. Minutes later, her identity was verified. The volunteer rushed to let her in, and I escorted her inside.

She smiled at me. "Are you a student participating in the ceremony today?"

"Yes, I’m giving a speech later."

"Are you nervous?"

"A little bit."

"As long as you speak about things you have seen with your own eyes and done with your own hands, you will never feel guilty."

I was stunned. I don't know why, but her words struck a chord. My speech was about rural children's media literacy. These weren't flowery lies conjured from thin air. I had spent an entire summer in the mountains, ridden buses that leaked when it rained, and squatted at elementary school gates to hand out surveys. Every bit of data was collected by me.

The woman walked slowly, so I gave her my seat—the front-row spot reserved for my parents, who were stuck in traffic on the highway and wouldn't make it in time. Once seated, she patted my hand.

"Thank you. What is your name?"

"My name is Lam Van."

"Lam Van—a beautiful name."

She pulled a business card from her pocket and handed it to me. "My name is Tran Tri Vi. Give a good speech later; I will be sitting here listening."

I took the card, not yet able to look at it, when the backstage director called out to me from a distance. "Lam Van, get ready to go on stage!"

I tucked the card into my pocket and hurried back. Lu Cheng was waiting by the control room. Seeing me, he smiled. "Where did you go? I thought you got scared and ran away."

I didn't answer. He looked down at the schedule in his hands. "You're next. Relax, don't be nervous."

If not for those scrolling lines of text, I might have been touched by his comfort. Now, I only found it ironic. Hua Thanh Le stood not far away, wearing a white dress, her makeup delicate, her eyes slightly red as if she had been crying. Seeing me, she bowed her head.

Lu Cheng followed my gaze, his voice indifferent. "Thanh Le isn't feeling well today, don't overthink it."

I laughed to myself. I hadn't even said anything yet, and he was already rushing to explain on her behalf. How thoughtful.

The emcee announced my name. "Next, we invite Lam Van, an outstanding student representative from the School of Journalism and Communication, to present her themed speech!"

Applause erupted as I stepped onto the stage. The lights were so bright they stung my eyes. I gripped the microphone and looked down. In the front row, Tran Tri Vi nodded at me.

"Respected teachers, alumni, and fellow students. I am Lam Van from the School of Journalism and Communication..."

I had only been speaking for two minutes when the giant screen behind me went black. A second later, a line of red text appeared: "Presentation regarding student Lam Van’s suspected plagiarism and theft of student Hua Thanh Le's research results."

The entire auditorium erupted into chaos. It started with a deathly silence, then boiled over like a pot of water. I stood on stage, hearing a cacophony of voices.

"What's happening?"
"Plagiarism?"
"Isn't she supposed to be an outstanding student representative?"
"The livestream is still running!"

I turned to look at the screen. Evidence was being projected in sequence. The first image showed the file properties of "Hua Thanh Le's original draft," with a creation time earlier than when I handed the USB to the student council. The second image was a comparison between the two speeches, with many paragraphs highlighted in red, showing a "high degree of similarity." The third was a plagiarism check report, my name prominently displayed with an absurdly high percentage. The fourth was a screenshot of a chat log that looked like it came from my account, reading: "Thanh Le, send me your files so I can use them as a reference." The fifth was a signed statement from a professor claiming that Hua Thanh Le was the primary contributor to the rural education survey.

In the audience, Hua Thanh Le rose slowly. Her eyes were red-rimmed, she clutched a tissue tightly, and her voice trembled.

"Lam Van, I really didn't want to blow this out of proportion. I always thought we were classmates and friends. But I never expected you to take the project I worked on for a year and turn it into your own speech."

As she cried, sympathy rippled through the room. Someone whispered, "Poor Hua Thanh Le." "Look at that, a top student stealing from others." "Can someone like this really be recommended for postgraduate studies?"

The comments next to the livestream scrolled by at a dizzying pace.