I'm a professional paid poster. My keyboard is my weapon, and I charge twenty cents a post.
If the money's right, I'll whitewash a cheating bastard and drive an innocent bystander to suicide.
Then I took a three-thousand-yuan "big job" to cyberbully a boy who had jumped off a building.
I skillfully made up dirt, steered the online narrative, and called him a school bully who deserved to die.
Only when the client sent me a photo of him covered in blood did I realize he was my younger brother, missing for three years.
And I was the one who had driven him to his death by leading the online attack.
The platform's head of risk control came to see me and tossed down a list of executives involved in the online black market. "Want to save your brother? Work with me."
My mom slapped me and called me an animal.
I spat out the blood in my mouth and smashed my keyboard with the other hand.
"If you like cyberbullying people so much, then I'll let you taste what it's like to be hit back by an army of a hundred thousand paid posters!"
