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.

As the details slowly pieced themselves together, a chilling suspicion began to take shape in my mind.

No… no, it couldn’t be.

I shook my head, trying to banish the thought. I told myself not to overthink it, that I was just being paranoid.

The next day, I decided to play along.

In front of the entire dorm, I neatly packed up all my luxury skincare products and sealed them away.

“Sophia,” I said calmly, “I’ll start using your herbal ointment seriously from now on.”

Her eyes lit up. “Really? Lauren, you’ve finally come to your senses!”

I smiled softly. “I’m taking the doctor’s advice seriously. Time to reduce stress and simplify things.”

I played the part perfectly—calm, cooperative, and humble.

But behind the scenes, I was taking a different path.

In secret, I collected samples of everything I had been using: skincare items, shampoo, shower gel—even Sophia’s mysterious herbal ointment.

I divided and labeled them carefully, then sent them to three separate testing institutions:

BGI Biological Testing Center, New York Physical and Chemical Analysis Lab, and the National Institute of Chemical Sciences.

I wasn’t going to rest until I had answers.

If I was wrong—if I had just been paranoid—I would own up to it.

But if not... then I would reclaim every ounce of my dignity, and make sure Sophia never pulled something like this again.

Three days have passed.

When the test results arrived, the truth was undeniable. She had tampered with the products.

But I said nothing.

I wanted to see how far she’d go—what act she would put on next.

And soon enough, Sophia couldn’t help herself.

When she saw that my rashes were fading and my face was healing, she approached with a bright smile.

“Lauren, come take a look at this,” she said, holding her phone in front of me.

On the screen was a charity website. The main image showed a thin little girl in tattered clothes.

“This is Lily,” Sophia said emotionally. “Her parents are both bedridden with illness. She picks up garbage after school just to feed her family.”

Her voice quivered, and tears streamed down her face. She looked like a picture of compassion.

“She’s only eight. She should be laughing in a classroom, not burdened with adult responsibilities.”

I almost believed her sincerity—almost.

“Lauren,” she said solemnly, gripping my hand tightly, “you’ve healed your body—now it’s time to heal your soul.”

“Donate the money,” she pleaded. “Lily needs your help more than you need those luxuries.”

Ill-gotten gains—that’s what she called it.

The money my family worked hard to earn through sweat and sacrifice—ill-gotten in her eyes.

“I… I need time to think about it,” I said, feigning hesitation.

“What’s there to think about?” she snapped, her voice rising.

“A child’s life shouldn’t have to wait for your indecision!”

“Lauren, this is your final chance. If you truly want to change, now’s the time to prove it.”

That night, I lay awake, my heart pounding.

The test reports were safely hidden, but I couldn’t afford to let my guard down.

At around two in the morning, a faint rustling noise stirred me from a light sleep.

Through the small slit in my bed curtains, I saw a figure moving stealthily near my desk.

She stood on tiptoe, her silhouette fainted in the moonlight.

It was Sophia.

I watched as she silently opened my drawer.

She rifled through my belongings until she found the stack of cash I had tucked away.

I held my breath as she counted the bills and removed exactly 100,000 dollars.

What was she planning to do with it?

I forced my eyes shut, pretending I had seen nothing.

I wanted to catch her in the act—but more than that, I wanted to see how far she would take her performance.

The next morning, before I had even gotten out of bed, Sophia approached me with a beaming smile.

“Lauren, I did something amazing for you last night,” she said proudly.

She slapped a crumpled ATM transfer receipt on my desk.

Amount: 99,999 dollars.

My blood ran cold.

“What… what did you do?”

“I helped you break free,” she declared, eyes shining with self-righteousness. “I helped you shed your last material attachment. I donated the money—you should be thanking me!”

Freedom?

Thank you?

I looked down at the receipt.

The recipient’s name stood out in bold print: Samuel Andrews.

Another Andrews.

The pieces fell into place.

I smiled.

Under Sophia’s confused and increasingly uneasy gaze, I calmly reached for my phone.

“Lauren, what’s so funny?” she asked, her voice shaky.

Without responding, I opened the dialer, turned on the speaker, and made a call—right in front of everyone in the dormitory.

“Hello, officer. I’d like to report a case.”

“My roommate stole 100,000 dollars from me.”

“She claims she donated it to charity on my behalf.”

“Would this be considered theft, or fraud?”