Framed for Cheating, Saved by the Army

[This isn’t even human! This is outrageous!]

@Cedarville Police: Is your crackdown on organized crime just for show? Why haven’t these thugs been arrested yet?

The livestream exploded in popularity, and the first call I received was from the school principal.

“Are you out of your mind? This incident has severely damaged the school’s reputation. Shut down that livestream immediately!”

“If you don’t, I’ll file a disciplinary report against you! Forget ever getting into a university!”

I ended the call.

At this point, was university really what I should be worried about?

The second call came from Ryan.

“Wesley, you think you can twist the truth by livestreaming?”

“My father’s already spoken to the Cyberspace Administration. Your video will be deleted any second now.”

As soon as he hung up, the stream went offline.

I realized someone had cut my signal.

I’d just reloaded my phone plan earlier this month, yet the system now showed it was disconnected.

I rushed downstairs and searched for open Wi-Fi networks, determined to keep posting online.

Though the viral momentum was being throttled, many had already begun speaking out on my behalf. But the very next day, a well-known blogger released a video.

In it, my teachers, classmates, so-called friends—even some relatives—appeared, condemning me.

[Wesley’s always been shady. Now he’s pretending to be a martyr’s son? Disgusting.]

[His dad died in a car crash—I saw it myself. A martyr? What a joke.]

[They clearly want to blackmail the wealthy Caldwell family. Getting beat up doesn’t mean you can exploit others.]

[The Caldwell family is one of Cedarville’s most generous. Their young master has built countless Hope Primary Schools.]

Gullible netizens jumped in:

[I can vouch—our town’s school was also built with donations. Much respect to the Caldwell family.]

[A widow and orphan doing so well, just selling pancakes? What kind of pancakes are they selling, exactly?]

[Wow. Thank goodness people are warning others. I nearly believed that kid. These scammers are disgusting.]

The Caldwell family unleashed tens of millions of resources, deploying an army of trolls.

The internet turned against me in an instant.

My livestream account was banned.

My videos were removed.

The platform accused me of spreading false information.

My hands and feet turned ice cold.

Was this how it ended?

Was I really powerless against them?

Suddenly, my phone rang. A video call. I answered—and froze in place.

It was Ryan. Inside my mother’s hospital room.

He gripped her oxygen mask and yanked it aside with cruel amusement.

“Surprise, Wesley.”

I clenched my phone so hard my knuckles turned white.

“What… what do you want?”

“Word is you’ve been making a fuss lately.”

He slowly ran a finger down her IV line.

“If you keep it up, who knows what might end up in this drip?”

Rage made my vision blur.

“There’s security in the room. Nurses outside. You won’t get away with this!”

He chuckled.

“The surveillance is broken.”

“Just like at school.”

He leaned closer to the camera, sneering.

“This is just a little surprise. But next time? You won’t be so lucky.”

The line cracked with static—then cut off.

“Ryan, you—!”

Before I could finish, the screen went black.

I ran.

I didn’t care about pain, exhaustion, or the risk.

I just ran.

“Mom… Mom…”

Panting and soaked in sweat, I burst into the ICU corridor.

The nurse on duty saw me and immediately stepped in to block my path.

"The patient is fine. We detected the problem in time and have moved her to a secure ward."

I collapsed to the floor, surrounded by shattered glass, feeling as if I had barely survived a disaster.

"The surveillance…?"

"All disabled."

The security chief, who had rushed over wiped sweat from his brow.

"Someone deliberately cut power."

I picked up a card from the ground. Scrawled on the back in red marker:

[This is a warning!]

Nearby nurses looked at me with pity.

"Wesley, don’t stir up more trouble. The Caldwell family is rich and powerful. You can’t beat them."

"Think of it this way: your mother suffered, but she got enough money to last her life."

"If you keep pushing like this, it’s going to affect our work, too."

As I listened, I could feel it—they’d throw my mother out of this hospital the moment they got the chance.

Is this really the end?

Tears of helpless rage ran down my face. Bitterness filled my mouth.

My father always taught me to be honest and kind.

So why, when I faced injustice, did no one stand up for me? I only want the truth—why is it so hard to get?

The media loves stories about soldiers bringing honor to their families.

Then why can’t I even get justice after my father died for this country?

Everyone sees us—an orphan and a widow—as easy targets, too weak to fight back.

But if I can’t find justice here, I’ll go to the military district and reclaim my father myself!

I went home and removed the plaque that read “First Class Meritorious Service.” Then I took a two-day, one-night train to the military compound where my father had served.

The next day, I stood outside the gates, holding the plaque high above my head, and knelt:

"Uncle, I don’t want the 20 bonus points on my college exam. I just want my father back!"