The message landed like a depth charge, plunging the chat into stunned silence.

After a brief pause, a flood of question marks erupted.

“???”

“Holy shit! What’s going on? Sophie has an ex?”

“For real? Where did this guy come from?”

Patrick was the first to speak, his style as blunt as ever. “Who the hell are you? Got any proof?”

Johnny, ever the gentleman, was more polished—but his words cut just as deep. “Friend, it’s rather impolite to barge into someone’s chat and impersonate their ex, don’t you think?”

A cold smirk touched my lips as my fingers flew across the keyboard.

“Proof? There’s a tiny mole on her right collarbone. Sometimes visible if her shirt neckline is wide enough. Does that count?”

The chat fell silent again.

Because it was true.

The location was too intimate. No one but me could possibly know.

**[High alert! Host, that move gets a perfect score from me!]**

**[Hahaha, the real deal selling herself out! This plot twist is everything!]**

**[Quick, look at those two idiot male leads’ reactions.]**

Live comments scrolled in a barrage before my eyes, offering a strange, twisted sort of comfort.

Patrick was clearly thrown. It took him a moment to reply. “…You’re something else.”

Johnny, however, sent only a simple smiley face. Then a private message popped up.

“Name your price. I want everything you have on Sophie.”

The fish was biting.

I didn’t reply to him right away. Instead, I leisurely typed another message into the group.

“I know what game you’re playing. I’m not interested in your little hunt. But I need money. Everything about Sophie—her likes, habits, schedule, even the things you really want to know… it’s all for sale. Highest bidder wins.”

I had just put myself on the auction block: a clearly priced commodity in their hunting ground.

The atmosphere in the chat shifted completely.

From spectators, they became bidders.

“Damn, you can play it like this?”

“This is wild! A live-streamed guide, and it’s pay-to-win?”

“An ex selling out his ex… this guy’s scum. But I’m here for it!”

Jennifer chimed in softly, “This… isn’t very nice, is it? Sophie would be so hurt if she knew.”

Someone immediately backed her up. “Jennifer, you’re just too kind! A man who’d sell anything for money doesn’t deserve Sophie. And we deserve to know these secrets!”

Looking at their hypocritical faces, I just felt sick.

Right then, Patrick’s private message popped up, even more direct than Johnny’s.

“What did she have for dinner today? Where? A thousand.”

I curved my lips into a smile and typed back. “A thousand? Patrick, are you trying to pay off a beggar? What I’m selling is exclusive, top-secret intel.”

Almost at the same time, I replied to Johnny. “What would the Student Council President like to know? Information comes in tiers, prices vary. Basic info package, five thousand a day. Exclusive, in-depth details, priced separately.”

I knew these rich kids’ psychology all too well.

The more elusive and expensive something was, the more they wanted it.

Sure enough, Johnny replied instantly. “Fine. I need her full schedule for the next week, and the thing she hates most. Ten thousand. I’ll transfer it now.”

And Patrick, right after my message, sent a transfer notification. Fifteen thousand.

“Happy now? Talk.”

Without hesitation, I clicked accept. Watching my account balance jump by fifteen thousand—money I couldn’t earn in two months at the convenience store—the last shred of shame in my heart was crushed under the weight of reality.

Calmly, I replied to Patrick. “That noodle place across from school. Mild spice, extra enoki mushrooms.”

Then I sent Johnny a detailed spreadsheet: my work schedule, my class locations for the coming week, and… my fabricated “most hated things.”

**[Things I Hate Most: Cilantro, cheap perfume, fake concern.]**

Putting down my phone, I stepped out of the stuffy storage room. The evening breeze brushed my face, cool and faint.

In the glass door of the convenience store, the reflection showed a slender girl, her back ramrod straight.

Her eyes were terrifyingly calm.

I knew it. From the moment I hit ‘send,’ I was no longer that naive, timid Sophie.

I was the hunter, holding the knife. And my prey? Those two arrogant, self-proclaimed apex predators.

The game began in earnest the next day.

I hadn’t even made it to my desk before the scent hit me—pungent and unmistakable—cilantro.

There on the teacher’s desk sat a steaming bowl of beef noodle soup, absolutely swimming in the green herb. Beside it, a sticky note was slapped down, two flamboyant characters scrawled across it: “Eat it.”

Signed, Patrick.

Every eye in the classroom swiveled my way, followed by a chorus of muffled glee and whispers.

“Oh my god, did Patrick actually get Sophie breakfast?”

“Cilantro noodles? But he hates cilantro.”

“You don’t get it. This is a power move!”

Face blank, I walked over. Without even glancing at the bowl, I picked it up, note and all, and dumped it straight into the trash at the back of the room.

Clean. Efficient. No hesitation.

The classroom fell dead silent.

[Host is a legend! Perfect arc!]

[Hahaha, Patrick paid five grand for that intel and it was fake. He must be fuming.]

[Bet a pack of spicy strips he storms in any second.]

The comments were right.

The moment morning self-study ended, Patrick stormed up to our classroom door, his usual entourage in tow.

Tall—over six feet—dressed head-to-toe in edgy black streetwear, his sharp features were etched with a natural, untamable arrogance.

Right now, those eyes were locked on me, burning.

“Sophie,” he snarled, his foot connecting with the doorframe with a loud bang. “What the hell was that?”

I didn’t even look up, keeping my focus on the practice problems in front of me. “Nothing. I don’t like cilantro.”

“Don’t like it?” He let out a cold laugh, pulling out his phone. A tap on the screen, and an audio file blared into the hallway at full volume—my chat history with “Ethan.”

My voice, processed through a modulator, came out raspy and low: “…She doesn’t actually hate cilantro. It’s just… when she was little, her family was poor. Her brother loved it, so she’d always say she didn’t like it, let him have it all… Truth is, she loves that flavor more than anyone.”

That piece of audio—a complete fabrication of my own tragic backstory—echoed with painful clarity down the quiet corridor.

The surrounding students were stunned.

I almost believed it myself.

Patrick clearly hadn’t expected such calm. He snatched my workbook and slammed it on the desk. “What’s with the act? If you don’t like it, why throw it away? Seems to me you just can’t appreciate a good thing when it’s handed to you!”

Finally, I lifted my gaze to meet his. My eyes held no anger, no fear—just a flat, dead calm.

“Patrick,” I said, each word deliberate. “If your idea of ‘liking’ someone is forcing on them something you yourself despise, and then demanding they pretend to enjoy it… then I want no part of that kind of ‘like’.”

My voice wasn’t loud, but it landed like a sledgehammer.

His expression froze. The fire in his eyes flickered and died, replaced by a flash of shock… and something like panic.

[Whoa, Host! Reverse psychology masterclass!]

[Patrick.exe has stopped responding.]

[Yes! Wreck him! Love seeing these arrogant rich kids get taken down a peg!]

Ignoring him, I retrieved my workbook from his grip. “You’re blocking the light,” I said flatly.

Patrick stood there as if turned to stone, utterly motionless.

His lackeys exchanged uneasy glances behind him, unsure what to do.

In the end, he practically fled.

Watching his retreating back, I felt no satisfaction. Only a cold, hollow emptiness.

This was just the beginning.

That evening, another huge transfer hit the “Ethan” account. From Patrick.

A full fifty thousand.

The attached message was a single line: “Tell me what she really likes. Don’t lie this time.”

I stared at the string of digits, my grandmother’s kind, weathered face floating into my mind.

I typed back: “She likes money. Specifically, money she’s earned cleanly, through her own effort. Because that’s what lets her and her grandmother live with a little dignity.”

This time, I wasn’t lying.

If Patrick’s approach was a violent storm, Johnny’s was a gentle drizzle—quiet, persistent, seeping into every crack.

He was smarter than Patrick. And far more dangerous.

That next afternoon, during P.E., I nearly passed out after the 800-meter run. Dizziness washed over me; the world dimmed at the edges.

A hand steadied me just in time.

His arm was warm and firm, carrying the faint, clean scent of pine after snow.

I looked up into Johnny’s eyes—soft enough to melt.

“Sophie, are you alright?” he asked gently, brows slightly knit.

A wave of hushed gasps rippled through the nearby girls.

Johnny, the school’s heartthrob, was half-holding me in a disturbingly intimate pose.

**[Here it comes! The gentle second male lead routine!]**

**[Careful, Host! This one’s way more dangerous than that idiot Patrick. A smiling tiger.]**

**[In the original plot, Johnny uses this exact gentle approach to make Sophie fall, step by step.]**

I knew.

Pulling away, I took a deliberate step back. “Thanks. I’m fine.”

“You’re pale,” he pressed, undeterred. From his pocket, he produced a beautifully wrapped chocolate. “For low blood sugar. Something sweet helps.”

It was my favorite brand. The most expensive kind.

I stared but didn’t take it.

‘Ethan’ had sold him that detail, too.

Seeing my hesitation, he peeled the wrapper himself and held it toward my lips, his voice softening further. “Here. You’ll feel better.”

The gesture was natural, intimate—leaving no room for refusal.

I could practically feel the jealous stares from the other girls burning holes in my back.

If I were still that insecure, timid Sophie, I might have crumbled under such suffocating gentleness.

Now, all I felt was disgust.

Turning my head away, I said, “No, thank you, Mr. President. I don’t like chocolate.”

Johnny’s hand froze mid-air. A hairline crack appeared in his gentle facade.

“Is that so?” He chuckled softly, as if unsurprised. “But your ex said it was your favorite.”

He was testing me.

Testing my connection to ‘Ethan.’ Probing my limits.

Lifting my gaze, I met his eyes directly. “That was then. People change—especially after they’ve been hurt.” I let the word *hurt* hang heavy between us. “Sometimes what you once loved becomes what you most despise.”

**[Nice! Host turning defense into offense—throwing the blame right back at ‘Ethan’ and shading all these bullies in the process!]**

**[Johnny’s probably thinking: Who hurt her? Was I not fast enough?]**

**[Haha, he’s definitely more curious now. That conquest instinct is kicking in.]**

The bullet comments hit the nail on the head.

With someone like Johnny—arrogant, used to being the golden boy—you couldn’t fight head-on. You had to let him think he was only seeing the tip of the iceberg. Stoke his curiosity. Feed his desire to conquer.

Sure enough, he pocketed the chocolate, his smile perfectly restored. “My mistake. Then… as an apology, let me walk you back to the classroom to rest?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

I turned and walked away without another glance.

I knew my rejection would only make this ‘prey’ seem more challenging.

That night, Johnny transferred 100,000 to ‘Ethan’s’ account.

His question was simple: “Why did she break up with you? Tell me everything.”

I took the money and spun him a 5,000-word tragedy.

In it, I was a girl burdened by family, sensitive and starved for love. ‘Ethan’ was a man who loved her deeply but was forced to leave—pressured by the world, tangled in misunderstandings.

I ended the story with: “She looks strong, but inside she’s more fragile than anyone. She doesn’t need cheap pity or handouts. She needs someone who can see through all her defenses and stand firmly by her side.”

I wanted them to believe they had a chance to be that ‘special person.’

To let them sink, slowly and surely, into their self-righteous savior fantasies.