It all began with a single post about canceling a food delivery order. Overnight, I became the internet's punching bag.

Thousands of vicious messages flooded my inbox, filled with photoshopped memorials urging me to die.

They doxxed my family, plastered my personal details across shady websites, and used AI to create obscene images of me, spreading them in vile chat groups.

They spread lies about my income, claiming it came from illicit sources, and accused me of carrying diseases.

I didn't call the police or block the messages. Instead, I read every hateful word before singling out the 100 worst offenders. Every day, I sent each one a luxurious meal: Boston lobster, Australian wagyu, the works.

Each delivery came with a simple note: [Thank you for your hard work.]

[What kind of trash bag are you, holding so much garbage?]

[Peacocks flaunt their tails to attract mates. What's your excuse for parading your ass online?]

[Patricia Harris, why don't you just die?]

[Slut, you're probably wild in private, right? That video's gone viral.]

[Heard you're diseased. Stay home! Don't infect us!]

I stared at my phone screen, the barrage of insults washing over me. Doctored memorial photos and grotesque AI-generated images assaulted my eyes.

My boyfriend, Riccardo Lemke, stormed into the room and yanked the phone from my hands.

"Patricia, stop looking!" he pleaded. "We're going to the police. I'll track down every one of these cowards and sue them. Please, stop torturing yourself."

"I'm fine," I said calmly, retrieving my phone. "I just want to thank them properly."

He froze, worry deepening the lines around his eyes. "You're scaring me."

I ignored him and opened the food delivery app. Many of my haters used their phone numbers for social media accounts, often linked to their delivery profiles. Tracking them down was easy.

The first guy on my list was KeyboardFury. His latest post mentioned craving seafood.

I pinpointed his city, selected the priciest seafood restaurant, and ordered a Boston lobster feast. In the delivery note, I typed: [Thank you for your hard work.]

Riccardo grabbed my shoulders, shaking me. "Have you lost it? What are you doing?"

I gently pushed his hands away and moved to the next ID. Then the next.

100 luxury deliveries in total. The delicacies span from wagyu steak, foie gras, and bluefin to tuna sashimi, each costing $500.

Every order carried the same note: [Thank you for your hard work.]

Riccardo's voice trembled. "She's gone mad."

That night, KeyboardFury posted a smug update: a photo of the lavish lobster next to my note.

[LOL, that food vlogger Patricia has lost her mind. She sent me a free feast! Keep it coming, boys. Maybe I'll get wagyu next!]

The comments erupted in mockery.

[Haha, what's this? Stockholm syndrome?]

[Keep it up, Patricia! I'm craving some truffle pizza!]

[Free lobster for roasting her? Guess some people deserve the hate!]

...

Days later, Riccardo stared at me with bloodshot eyes. "Patricia, please stop. Let me take you to a doctor. Money can be earned back, but I can't lose you."

"Money?" I gave a faint smile. "You asked where it came from, didn't you?"

He blinked, and I explained, "I spent our wedding fund."

That money was our future, every penny saved since graduation for the home we dreamed of building together.

Riccardo shot to his feet, avoiding my gaze, and bolted for the door. It slammed shut with a deafening bang, his words echoing, "Come find me when you're yourself again!"

I shrugged and went on to scroll through the haters' posts.

KeyboardFury's update had gone viral, sparking a fresh wave of ridicule. They called me a masochist, a reverse saint, and the internet's biggest fool.

My phone rang with a call from Emily Brown, my best friend.

"Patricia, are you out of your mind?" she shouted over the phone. "I gave you #200,000 to hire a lawyer and sue those creeps, not to buy them takeout!"

"It's my choice," I replied calmly. "You don't need to worry."

"Don't worry? You're letting those jerks walk all over you, and you're using my money to feed them! You're degrading yourself! The whole internet's laughing at you! You're breaking my heart!" she snarled, hanging up.

When I called back, a robotic voice answered, "The subscriber you're dialing is busy now."

I logged onto WhatsApp, but my message to her was met with a highlighted exclamation mark: Emily has enabled friend verification. You are not her friend.

She'd blocked me on PayPal, too. Every way to reach her was severed.

On my screen, the haters reveled in a new frenzy. A trending hashtag #MakeAWishToPatricia flooded social media. They listed their dream meals:

[M9-grade wagyu, charcoal-grilled!]

[Black truffle pizza—looks pricey as hell.]

[You guys are basic. I want nyotaimori, with Patricia serving herself!]

Their sneering faces seemed to leer through the screen, but my grin only widened.

...

The next day, as I prepared another round of deliveries, the doorbell rang. It was my cousin, Della Harris, whom I hadn't seen in ages.

"I saw what was happening online," she said, her voice dripping with false concern. "Don't let it get to you. Those people are scum!"

Her eyes darted around, noting Riccardo's absence. "Where is Riccardo? With all this going on, how is he leaving you alone?"

"He's busy," I said flatly.

A flicker of smugness crossed her face before she masked it with pity. She glanced at my phone, where I'd left open a list of the haters' wishes from the night before.

"Are you really buying them food?" she gasped, feigning shock. "You're too soft! If it were me, I'd wish they'd get hit by a car the second they stepped outside."

While speaking out against injustice, she slipped her hand into her pocket and fished out her phone. Peeking at my order screen, she quickly snapped a photo.

I pretended not to notice, continuing to tap away on the app. She added, "This can't go on. You're rewarding their cruelty. Are you trying to guilt them into remorse?"

I said nothing, meeting her gaze with a slow, knowing smile. She faltered, "What's that smile for?"

I leaned in, whispering, "You're right. I want them to eat well and drink well."

She stumbled back, startled. "I-I just remembered something. I've got to go."

Minutes later, a new post rocketed to the top of social media, boosted by bots.

[Explosive Scoop! Food Vlogger Patricia's Relative Spills the Truth Behind Her Takeout Scheme!]

The anonymous insider expressed heartache over my saintly behavior, then purposefully revealed my supposed motive: crafting a forgiving, magnanimous persona to win public sympathy and stage a comeback as a livestream influencer.

Attached was Della's secret screenshot of my order history.

[I knew it! No way she is that altruistic. It's all a stunt!]

[Disgusting! She'd do anything for clout.]

[Full marks for the act. Black or white, fame is fame!]

[Don't buy it! Keep roasting her. Let's see how long she plays saint!]

...

The Saint Persona narrative spread like a virus. This seemingly logical explanation emboldened the haters to accept my deliveries without guilt, now smug in the belief they'd seen through my ploy.

Late that night, Riccardo sent a long message, begging me to stop reading the comments and hurting myself. He'd lined up a top therapist.

I read the message and deleted it, ready to prepare another round of orders, when the doorbell rang frantically.

My parents stood there, having rushed from our hometown overnight. My mother's eyes welled up, and she pulled me into a crushing hug. "Sweetheart, you've lost so much weight. What's happened to you?"

My father slammed his fist down on the table. "Those beasts! I'm going to the police tomorrow to drag them all out!"

Their warmth enveloped me, a flicker of comfort I hadn't felt in weeks.

"Listen," my mother sobbed. "Cut the internet, come back home, and leave this behind, okay?"

"That's right," my father echoed. "That online world is poison. It's cursed you."

I tried to explain, but to them, my words were the ravings of a broken mind. Losing control, I shouted, "You don't understand!"

"Understand?" my mother cried. "All we know is our daughter has been driven mad."

Just then, the TV, playing local news, cut to a street interview. A familiar username appeared: NetJudge.

He grinned at the camera. "Some idiot keeps sending me gourmet meals. Guess she's fallen for the guy who roasts her hardest!"

His friends cackled beside him. "Classic mental breakdown from getting flamed! Can't handle it? Stay offline. She's desperate for fame, playing the saint. Pathetic!"

My father pointed a trembling finger at me. "How could we raise something so shameful? They spit in your face, and you send them gifts? Keep this up, and you're no daughter of ours. We won't bear this disgrace!"

Riccardo appeared, his voice soft but firm. "Come home with us, Patricia. Stop this."

I closed my eyes, exhaling heavily. "Guys, do you believe they'll stop laughing soon?"

I unlocked my phone and opened an app they'd never seen. "Now, do you still think I'm crazy?"