The situation began to escalate out of my control two hours after I ended the livestream.

Firstly, a few marketing accounts covered the incident. Each headline that they released was more outrageous than the last.

"Livestreamer With a Million Followers Rejects a Mother's Call for Help to Find Her Child. Coldly Refuses to Comment on His Refusal."

"The Faux Saint Finally Shows His True Colors After Three Years."

"She's Been Searching for Her Son for Two Decades. He Refuses to Explain Why He Rejected Her."

The photo that was attached with the articles was an edited picture of me when I had emotionlessly ended the livestream last night and Felicity when she had cried in front of the camera.

The contrast between both photos was stark.

The comments section was filled with people expressing their opinions.

Someone dug up the cases I had solved in the past and said, "I wonder if the people he helped in the past were just setups."

"Someone like him depends on sob stories to gain views. He's getting cold feet now that he has to deal with an actual case."

"Can someone check if he actually solved those cases after accepting payment from his clients?"

However, the one thing that actually made my blood pressure soar was a video that was posted at 3:00 pm.

I knew the man who posted the video—George Ferguson. He was in his 40s, and I had helped him last year.

His daughter was being bullied by her teachers, but the school refused to take action while the Department of Education constantly shifted blame to other parties.

After reaching his wits' end, George decided to seek help in my livestream.

I helped him get into contact with the media and a lawyer. I spent two weeks on the case before finally solving it.

George had been sobbing when he thanked me profusely during the livestream, promising that he would remember my kindness for the rest of his life.

However, at that moment, he had released a two-minute video.

In the video, George wore a self-righteous expression as he said, "It's true that I received help from Connor in the past, but I feel that I have to step forward and speak out about what's been happening.

"A mother who's been searching for her child for the last two decades begged you for help, but not only did you reject her request, but you also refused to give her a reason for your rejection.

"I don't know if you've changed or if you've always been this way. If you've always been this type of man, did you only help me in the past for views? I really regret thanking you. You don't deserve my gratitude."

The video had thousands of comments. Everyone was praising George for speaking out against me.

"Good on you for putting righteousness above all else!"

"This is a real man with a good heart."

"He only helped you because he wanted to build his fake persona. Now, that persona is crumbling."

I stared at the video for a long time, my knuckles turning white from how hard I was gripping my phone.

I had made dozens of calls when I was helping George. I had also forked out my own money to pay the eight-thousand-dollar lawyer's fee.

George still hadn't paid me back yet, but he had used a two-minute video to undermine everything that I had done for him.

However, I suppressed my anger. Not because I had to, but because there was no need for me to rise to the bait.

The truth was like a ticking time bomb. I didn't want to set it off yet because the moment it exploded, more than one person would be caught in the blast.

…

I received a call from Mom at 7:00 pm.

"Someone egged our house, Connor," she said.

My heart skipped a beat. "What?"

"Someone threw eggs at our house. Someone even used a bag of rotten vegetables," she said, sounding a little anxious. "They also left a note on the door, talking about how someone who refused to help a person in need would meet a terrible end."

I tightened my grip on my phone and said, "Don't open the door, Mom. I'll—"

"Also," she interjected in a hushed voice, interrupting me, "Mrs. Bratford dropped by to visit us today. She told me that you're being criticized by everyone online—that they're calling you a conman. She asked me if you had done something bad. I told her that was impossible, but her gaze…"

Mom sounded choked up when she continued, "What's going on, Connor? I don't know what's happening online, but you should tell me if you're in trouble."

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

"I'm fine, Mom. I can take care of it. You and Dad should stay home for now. I'll come home tomorrow."

I sat in the darkness and didn't move an inch after I hung up.

My screen was lit up, showing Felicity's newest video. She was still crying on the thumbnail.

Her crying face looked so anguished and genuine, just like two decades ago.

I didn't watch the video.

The next morning, I was woken up by my ringing phone.

It was Dad.

He rarely called me of his own accord in his entire life. Every time I asked him a question, he would simply answer me with either "Yes", "Okay", or "Got it". He would never give me another answer if he could use his three standard responses.

However, I could tell that something was off that day just based on his tone.

"Your mother has been hospitalized."

I bolted up into a sitting position. "What happened?"

"When she went to the grocery store this morning, she got accosted by a group of hooligans in an alley."

Although Dad answered my question calmly, I could tell that he was suppressing the tremble in his voice.

"They shoved their phones in her face and recorded her," he continued. "They asked if she was the mother of the livestreamer who refused to help a woman find her missing child.

"Your mother ignored them. But when she tried to circle them, one of them shoved her. She fell to the ground and fractured her arm."

There was a loud, buzzing noise in my ears.

"Where is she hospitalized?"

"St. Heart Hospital."

Dad paused for a moment before adding, "Don't rush back here."

"How can I not—"

"You won't be able to do anything," Dad said, interrupting me. "You'll only cause a bigger commotion if you do come back. Your mother told me to tell you to leave her alone and focus on your own problems."

He hung up after that.

Dad had never been one to say more than he needed to, but every word that he had said during the phone call felt like a blade stabbing into my heart.

I gripped my phone and sat unmoving for ten minutes. I then went online to look at the news.

As expected, the hooligans had uploaded the video of them harassing Mom with the title, "Interrogating the Heartless Livestreamer's Mother for Her Reaction."

In the video, Mom kept her head low and tried to leave, but the hooligans blocked her path.

Someone shoved their phone into her face and asked, "Mrs. Mason, are you aware that your son is refusing to help a person in need? He won't help a woman who's been searching for her son for two decades. What on earth did you teach him as you raised him? Don't you feel ashamed?"

Mom continued to keep her head lowered and murmured, "Excuse me."

The scene flickered for a split second before it showed the moment when she fell down.

There were countless messages in the comments section.

"She got what she deserved for having such a wicked son."

"She doesn't look like a good person either. It's no wonder she raised such a monster."

"I feel sorry for her, but it's her fault for giving birth to such an ungrateful man."

Someone commented, "You crossed the line. She didn't do anything wrong."

However, similar comments that expressed their disapproval over how Mom was treated were swiftly buried and failed to change the people's opinions.

I watched the entire video from start to finish thrice.

When I gently placed my phone on the desk, I realized that my hands were trembling. Not out of fear or sadness, but because of a fury that seemed to spark from the very core of my being.

I didn't say anything because Felicity's case was too complicated, and I didn't want to show my hand before I was fully prepared. I didn't explain because I knew that many people would find it difficult to accept the truth once it came to light.

However, they had gotten Mom involved.

She was an old woman in her 60s. She had never gotten angry at anyone in her life, and she would even run back to the grocery store to return the change if the cashier gave her more than they needed to.

Not only had they shoved her to the ground and caused her to fracture her arm, but they had uploaded the video online, allowing hundreds of thousands of people to watch it and ridicule her.

This tragedy befell her just because she was my mother.

I stood up and walked over to the computer, booting up the livestreaming service.

I took a deep breath before I started the livestream.

The number of viewers immediately shot up to one million. Countless comments flooded the livestream, criticizing me.

"Finally found the guts to start livestreaming again, huh?"

"Did you know that someone taught your mother a lesson today? She got what she deserved."

"That woman posted another video today. She said it'll be all your fault if she can't find her son in this lifetime."

"You cold-blooded mutt! Get out of the livestreaming scene!"

I sat in front of the camera and remained silent for 30 seconds.

The comments began to slow down.

Just as one million people assumed that I was going to turn off the livestream without saying a single word, I spoke.