The studio exploded into digital warfare the moment Vivian's heel crossed the threshold.
*[VIVIAN NING SHOULD DIE]*
*[CRAZY B*TCH GET OUT]*
*[SECURITY WHERE ARE YOU]*
The livestream chat moved so fast it blurred into a wall of hatred, but Vivian's smile only widened. *Let them watch. Let them all watch.*
On the main stage, Lin Shallow—America's sweetheart with her perfectly crafted tears—was mid-sob about her "traumatic harassment experience." The moment she spotted Vivian stalking through the chaos like a predator who'd tasted blood, her porcelain mask cracked.
Her fake lashes trembled. Her breath hitched.
She scrambled behind Xavier Gu like a child hiding from monsters.
"CUT THE FEED!" Director Morrison's voice cracked across the studio. "KILL THE CAMERAS! GO TO COMMERCIAL NOW!"
His fingers flew across the control panel.
Nothing.
Every camera remained locked on Vivian as she moved through the pandemonium with lethal grace. Security guards rushed toward her, but she was already past them, her destination clear.
"What the hell—" Morrison slammed his fist on the console. Every switch was dead. Every control unresponsive. Behind him, his lead technician stared at his monitor like he'd seen a ghost.
"Sir... we've been hacked. Complete system override. I've never seen anything like this."
**[You're welcome, Host. Though fair warning—this level of digital manipulation is burning through your life force like rocket fuel.]**
*How long do I have?*
**[At current consumption: six minutes, forty-three seconds.]**
Six minutes to destroy a career and save her own life. She'd worked with less.
Xavier found his voice, panic bleeding through his golden-boy facade. "Vivian! You've completely lost it! Are you really going to broadcast your own sex tapes just for attention?"
The studio held its breath. Phone cameras lifted like weapons, hungry for scandal.
Vivian reached the main control station where Morrison was still frantically mashing buttons. She pulled out her phone, yanked the audio cable from the console, and plugged in her device.
"Sorry, boys," she purred, "but I need to hijack your show."
The massive LED screen went black.
Silence fell like a guillotine blade.
Then the screen erupted in blood-red letters:
**FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION**
**FINANCIAL CRIMES DIVISION**
**CASE FILE: FC-2024-0847**
**SUBJECT: XAVIER GU (AKA STELLAN VOSS)**
**CHARGES: TAX EVASION, MONEY LAUNDERING**
**AMOUNT: $500,000,000 USD**
The studio didn't just go quiet—it went dead. Even the livestream chat froze, as if ten million viewers had collectively stopped breathing.
But Vivian was just getting started.
The screen shifted to a forensic accountant's wet dream: spreadsheets so detailed they could make a CPA weep. Offshore accounts in the Caymans. Shell companies in Delaware. Falsified contracts with production studios.
Every dirty dollar cross-referenced with Xavier's endorsement deals.
Every hidden transaction timestamped and verified.
Every lie exposed in high-definition glory.
Across the city, Marcus Chen—a forensic accountant for the FBI—was hate-watching the livestream during his lunch break when he nearly choked on his sandwich.
"Jesus Christ," he whispered, leaning closer to his phone screen. "That data architecture... whoever built this knows federal financial investigation protocols better than most agents."
Back in the studio, Lin Shallow looked like she was about to vomit. Her perfect makeup couldn't hide the terror in her eyes as she realized the implications. If Xavier went down, he'd drag half of Hollywood's golden circle with him.
Including her.
Xavier lunged toward Vivian, but two security guards caught his arms. "You can't do this! That information is confidential! This is illegal!"
Vivian turned to face him, and for a moment, the entire studio saw her as she truly was—not a broken victim, but a queen who'd been playing chess while everyone else played checkers.
"Sleeping with your fans is morally disgusting, Xavier," she said, her voice carrying crystal-clear through the sound system. "But hiding five hundred million from the IRS?"
She gestured toward the screen where a final document appeared—a real-time confirmation from the FBI's tip line.
"That's a federal felony. Don't worry though—I've already filed the paperwork. Consider it community service."
The wail of sirens cut through the air like a battle cry.
Xavier's face went from red to ash gray. "You're insane. You've destroyed everything."
"No," Vivian replied, her smile sharp enough to cut diamonds. "I've just reminded everyone that actions have consequences."
The studio doors exploded inward as federal agents flooded the space, badges gleaming under the harsh lights. The lead agent—a steel-eyed woman who looked like she ate white-collar criminals for breakfast—made a beeline for Xavier.
"Xavier Gu, you're under arrest for tax evasion, money laundering, and conspiracy to defraud the United States government."
The metallic *click* of handcuffs echoed like a death knell.
The livestream chat erupted:
*[HOLY SHIT SHE ACTUALLY DID IT]*
*[VIVIAN NING IS A FUCKING QUEEN]*
*[I TAKE BACK EVERYTHING I SAID]*
*[SOMEONE GIVE THIS WOMAN A NOBEL PRIZE]*
*[BEST PLOT TWIST OF 2024]*
As Xavier was perp-walked past the cameras—his perfect mask finally shattered—Vivian felt a surge of pure, undiluted satisfaction.
Justice served ice-cold, with a side of public humiliation.
But victory came with a price.
**[CRITICAL WARNING! SYSTEM OVERLOAD IMMINENT!]**
**[LIFE FORCE REMAINING: 3 MINUTES 47 SECONDS]**
**[CARDIAC ARREST PROBABILITY: 97%]**
The system's alarm shrieked in her skull like a fire siren. Her chest felt like it was being crushed in a hydraulic press. Her vision blurred at the edges, and her heartbeat became erratic, skipping beats like a broken record.
*Shit. Shit. SHIT.*
The adrenaline that had carried her through the confrontation evaporated, leaving behind the brutal reality: she was dying.
The studio was still chaos—agents securing evidence, reporters screaming questions, Xavier's team scrambling for damage control. No one noticed as Vivian slipped away from the main stage, her steps becoming increasingly unsteady.
The backstage corridors were dimly lit and blessedly empty. She stumbled toward what looked like a maintenance area, one hand pressed against the wall for support, the other clutched to her chest.
**[2 MINUTES 18 SECONDS]**
Her legs gave out. She collapsed against a concrete pillar, gasping for air that felt like broken glass in her lungs.
*I didn't survive this long just to die in a hallway,* she thought desperately. *There has to be something—*
**[DETECTING POTENTIAL ENERGY SOURCE]**
**[PROXIMITY ALERT: HIGH-VALUE TARGET APPROACHING]**
**[RECOMMENDATION: INITIATE CONTACT PROTOCOL]**
Through her fading vision, Vivian saw a figure emerge from the shadows at the end of the corridor. Tall, broad-shouldered, moving with the fluid confidence of someone who owned whatever space he occupied.
Even half-conscious, she could feel the power radiating from him like heat from a forge.
*Who the hell—*
**[1 MINUTE 43 SECONDS]**
Her heart stuttered, and darkness began creeping in from the edges of her vision.
But just before she lost consciousness completely, she heard a voice—deep, commanding, with just a hint of an accent she couldn't place.
"Well, well. What do we have here?"