When the university term began, I treated the entire dormitory to an extravagant seafood feast, with the cost averaging 2,000 dollars per person.

Sophia Andrews, one of my roommates, didn’t eat a single bite. Instead, she stared at me with a dark expression.

“You spend money like it’s nothing. Don’t you feel even a little guilty?” she asked coldly. “Do you have any idea how many children in remote mountain villages don’t even have enough to eat?”

I rolled my eyes and replied, “It’s my family’s money. What does that have to do with you?”

But that same night, she stole my bank card and tried to donate 99,000 dollars on my behalf.

She even had the nerve to say, “I’m helping you do good deeds and accumulate virtue. You should be thanking me!”

Right there in front of the dormitory, I called the police and turned on the speakerphone.

“Hello, officer. My roommate took my money to ‘help the poor.’ Is this considered theft or fraud?”

——

It was only the third day of university when I reserved a private room in an upscale seafood restaurant.

The table overflowed with Australian lobsters, giant king crabs, and premium deep-sea abalone.

My roommates were happily chatting about how to best enjoy the dishes.

I picked up a slice of abalone and smiled. Life was good.

But Sophia hadn’t touched her utensils.

She suddenly set them down and said loudly, “Lauren Wells, do you really feel no guilt at all, spending money like this?”

The room fell silent.

“Do you realize there are children in the mountains who can’t even afford a basic meal?” she continued. “What you spent tonight could feed a poor family for six months!”

Her eyes were red with emotion, and her voice trembled with anger. “Those kids walk more than ten kilometers in worn-out shoes just to get to school—while you sit here enjoying luxury.”

Nina Leads and Yvonne Williams exchanged nervous glances and quietly put down their chopsticks.

I tried to stay calm. “It’s my family’s money. It’s none of your business how I spend it.”

Sophia shook her head. “You’ve been blinded by wealth. I can’t just stand by and watch you fall deeper into this materialistic trap.”

She stood up with self-righteous air. “Children in poverty need help, and yet here you are, indulging in vanity.”

After dinner, I paid the bill with clenched teeth. The joy I’d felt earlier was now completely gone.

But it got worse.

When I returned to our dorm room, I found my desk had been reorganized.

My brand-new 30,000-dollar designer skirt had been pulled out of my closet and tossed aside.

In its place, she had placed a worn-out book titled Children of the Mountain.

My vanity was covered with sticky notes plastered across all my skincare products:

“Chemical poison.”

“Tools of vanity.”

“Capitalist decadence.”

I picked up the tattered book. Fury burned in my chest.

“Sophia! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

She walked in from the balcony and looked at me solemnly. “I’m trying to save you, Lauren.”

“Save me?” I said, incredulous.

“I can’t bear to watch you be completely consumed by materialism. You’ve become obsessed with brands and luxury. Your soul is drowning in wealth.”

She pointed at the book. “What you need is to read about those who are truly in need, not waste money on these shallow things.”

I trembled with rage. “What gives you the right to touch my stuff?”

“I’m your roommate,” she said calmly. “And as someone who lives with you, I have a moral duty to help you back onto the right path.”

“You should thank me for caring enough to try and rescue your conscience.”

Nina muttered softly, “Lauren, I think Sophia means well...”

Yvonnee nodded, adding, “She has a point. Maybe we really should pay more attention to the poor.”

I looked at them both. Just hours ago, they were excitedly digging into seafood.

Now, they looked like they were attending a sermon.

Sophia pressed on, voice rising, “Just because you were born rich doesn’t give you the right to live extravagantly. Do you know how many people are still suffering while you indulge in luxury?”

“Where’s your conscience? Your compassion?”

She stepped forward, eyes burning with conviction. “I want to help you find your heart again!”

I stared at her self-important expression and felt sick to my stomach.

“Stop pretending to be a saint,” I snapped.

“I’m not pretending,” she said softly. “I truly want to help you change.”

Sophia stepped in front of me and said firmly, “Lauren, I’ll keep watching over you until you truly understand the meaning of frugality and compassion.”

“This is my responsibility.”

My fists clenched at my sides, and fury surged through my chest.

This woman had the audacity to mask her invasion of my privacy as some kind of redemption, twisting her controlling behavior into a performance of kindness.

What made it worse—what made it terrifying—was that others actually believed her lies.

A week later, I sat in front of my laptop, frantically typing.

I hadn’t finished yesterday’s homework, and the deadline was today.

I’d been working on a massive report titled “Modern Business Ethics Analysis” for three long nights. Twenty thousand painstakingly written words—all saved on a USB flash drive.

When I plugged it into my laptop, an error message popped up:

“Unrecognized Device.”

My stomach dropped.

“What happened?” Sophia sat up in bed, looking concerned.

“My USB… it’s not reading,” I muttered, panic bubbling up.

She jumped out of bed. “Let me take a look. I’m in the computer department—I might be able to help.”

I watched her every move like a hawk.

She tried different ports, changed devices, and after several attempts, shook her head regretfully.

“It’s physically damaged,” she said. “I’m afraid all the data is gone.”

I slumped back in my chair, completely drained.

Just like that, my 20,000-word paper vanished into thin air.

The next morning, I dragged myself—with dark circles under my eyes—to my professor’s office.

“Lauren, do you think this is how you treat academics?” he asked, disappointed.

“Sir, I really wrote it… but the USB got corrupted—”

“Do you expect me to believe that excuse?”

In that moment, I truly understood what it meant to be speechless.

When I got back to the dorm, Sophia glanced at me and said softly, “I’m so sorry. It’s my fault I couldn’t recover it for you.”

“It’s not your fault,” I said weakly, brushing it off.

But things didn’t stop there.

Soon, I was summoned to the counselor’s office.

“Lauren, this isn’t how a student should behave.”

“…What do you mean?”

“Sophia told me she stayed up all night trying to fix your USB. Instead of being grateful, you ignored her and blamed her for your own failure.”

I froze. “What? I didn’t—”

“She came in crying,” the counselor said, tapping the desk. “You need to be more grateful. A kind heart goes a long way.”

I opened my mouth to defend myself, but no words came out.

What could I say? Who would believe a struggling student over the campus’s new ‘model of virtue’?

As I left the office, I saw Sophia standing in the hallway, wiping tears from her cheeks.

“Sophia?” I asked.

She turned and cried even harder. “Lauren… I just wanted to help.”

Students nearby were starting to gather, their eyes filled with judgment.

“I don’t blame you,” I said through gritted teeth, forcing the words out.

“I know you’re upset,” she choked, “But I don’t regret what I did. Even if you hate me, I’ll still try to help you.”

God, she really made it look like I despised her.

The students around us started whispering.

“She helped, and this is how she’s treated?”

“Kids these days have no sense of gratitude.”

And it didn’t stop there.

That night, a post exploded on the school forum.

“The Girl of Holy Light in Our Dormitory”

The post was anonymous, but the message was crystal clear.

Every sentence praised Sophia as if she was a living saint.

“She never buys makeup and donates every penny to poor children in the mountains.”

“She only eats one meal a day to save food for others.”

“She helps struggling classmates without ever asking for anything in return.”

“It’s heartbreaking that someone in her dormitory, blinded by materialism, would attack such a kind soul.”

The post shot straight to the top of the forum.

And the comments section? A flood of applause and admiration for Sophia.

Not a single person questioned it.

Not one.

“Girls like her are truly rare these days!”

“It’s hard to find someone with such a pure and selfless heart now.”

“That roommate of hers doesn’t know how lucky he is. He clearly doesn’t appreciate her.”

I stared at the stream of comments on the forum. No names were mentioned, but anyone familiar with our dorm would know exactly who they were talking about.

Without saying it outright, the entire post painted me as the villain—a heartless, money-obsessed girl corrupted by luxury.

Meanwhile, Sophia had somehow become the picture of purity, the glowing saint in everyone’s eyes.

That’s when doubts started creeping into my mind.

Could all this really be just a coincidence?

Why did my USB drive suddenly fail right at the most critical moment?

Why did Sophia report to the counselor immediately after I got scolded?

And how was the forum post published with such perfectly timed precision?

The questions swirled in my head, but there were no answers.

A few days later, I woke up feeling a strange, burning sensation on my face.

The second I saw myself in the mirror, I nearly screamed.

My skin was red and swollen, blotched with angry rashes—like I’d been attacked by a swarm of bees.

I was stunned. I always used LP, a luxury skincare brand that costs more than most people’s monthly salary. How could I possibly have an allergic reaction to something so high-end?

“Lauren, what happened to your face?” Sophia asked, her voice laced with surprise.

The other roommates gathered around, eyes wide in concern.

“Maybe… an allergic reaction,” I muttered, trying to hide my face with my hands.

“It’s definitely the chemicals in those fancy products you use,” Sophia announced immediately. “I’ve told you before—expensive things are often loaded with additives.”

She crouched by her bed and pulled out a small, nondescript jar.

“This is my grandmother’s secret herbal remedy. All-natural ingredients. Great for skin problems—it’s been in my family for generations.”

The roommates gasped in admiration.

“Sophia, you know how to make ointments, too?”

“That’s so impressive! You don’t see people preserving traditional remedies anymore.”

I looked at the unimpressive little jar with hesitation. Every instinct in me resisted. But my face burned and itched, and I was desperate for relief.

“…Thanks,” I finally said, taking it from her.

Sophia smiled gently. “Lauren, this is nature giving you a wake-up call. Maybe it’s time to let go of your obsession with appearances and wealth.”

Later that day, I went to the most reputable dermatology hospital in the city.

I managed to get an appointment with a top specialist.

After a thorough examination, the doctor reviewed my test results, flipped through my records, and finally said:

“Your condition appears to be stress-induced dermatitis.”

“Stress?” I asked, confused.

“Yes,” the doctor replied. “This often results from intense mental pressure. It’s very common among young people dealing with academic stress and fast-paced lifestyles.”

He scribbled on his prescription pad. “Try to relax, avoid overthinking, and reduce emotional tension.”

I stood frozen, holding the diagnosis slip in my hand.

Mental stress? That’s it?

When I returned to the dorm, Sophia snatched the paper from my hand. I noticed a flicker of something in her eyes—satisfaction, maybe—but it disappeared before I could name it.

“The doctor says you have a psychological illness,” she said softly, sitting down beside me.

“Lauren, you’ve been too caught up in luxury. You rely on money for everything, but it can’t buy true peace of mind.”

She looked at me with sympathy. “You surround yourself with expensive brands, but are you actually happy?”

“Your body is crying out. Your soul is begging for a break.”

The others nodded in agreement.

“Sophia’s right,” one said.

“Health is more important than wealth,” another chimed in.

My hands trembled as I held the diagnosis.

Even a doctor had said it was psychological.

Was I truly just overthinking everything?

Had I developed some kind of mental problem?

That night, I tossed and turned in bed, unable to sleep.

My face itched terribly, and the rash had spread. I kept fighting the urge to scratch.

Meanwhile, Sophia was sleeping peacefully, her breathing calm and steady.

And then I remembered something.

Last night, after I came back from my shower, she insisted on cleaning up the sink.

She said I had too many bottles and that she wanted to help me organize.

She had touched all my skincare products—each one. She even said she wanted to check the ingredient lists on the packaging.