The glow of smartphone screens illuminated the faces of the crowd gathered around Owen. Some held their phones at arm's length, recording every second. Others were livestreaming, their eyes flicking between the scene unfolding before them and the flood of comments pouring in.
On one screen, the Vtube livestream chat was exploding.
"I knew it. The moment I saw his sociopathic smile, I knew this guy wasn't good."**
"Tell me about it. 💀"
"Guys, what did you expect? He was part of Caleb's unit investigating the Azaqor murders. Probably learned some disrespectful mannerisms from that guy."
"What a letdown. 😒"
"Seriously, this is our new lieutenant detective? Embarrassing."
"He looks like he's about to cry lol 😂"
The emojis kept coming—skull faces, crying-laughing faces, thumbs-down symbols—scrolling past in a relentless stream.
Owen stood there, his jaw tight, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His face was flushed, a mixture of anger and humiliation twisting his features.
The elderly granny stood before him, her purse still clutched in one hand, her eyes sharp and unyielding. She tilted her head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips—provocative, almost mocking.
Beside her, the middle-aged lady placed her hands on her hips, her chin lifted in defiance. "What?" she said, her voice dripping with theatrical indignation. "What are you going to do? Hit two defenseless, weak women just because you're some *hot shot* now?"
She leaned forward slightly, bringing her face dangerously close to Owen's, her eyes narrowing. "Go ahead," she said, her voice low and taunting. "Try it."
Owen's eye twitched.
The crowd murmured. Cameras zoomed in.
---
Back on the livestream, the comments escalated.
> **"What's he gonna do? 👀"**
> **"Guys, I'm betting 50 dollars he loses his cool and hits them."**
"I bet 80 dollars he chickens out and does nothing."**
"Taking bets! Who's in? 💵"**
"I'm in for 30. He's gonna snap."
"Nah, he's too scared. Betting 50 he backs down."**
The livestreamer—a young guy in his twenties with a backwards cap and a wide grin—watched the donations roll in. His eyes lit up as the numbers climbed. Animated coins and dollar signs floated across his screen as viewers placed their bets, knowing he'd get a 20% cut of the winnings.
"Oh man, this is *gold*!" he muttered under his breath, adjusting his phone angle to capture Owen's face more clearly. His grin widened. "Keep it coming, guys. Let's see what happens!"
---
Owen exhaled slowly through his nose, his chest rising and falling as he fought to keep his composure. His eyes flickered briefly away from the two women—toward the footbridge in the distance.
There, standing at the top of the arched structure, was the hooded figure.
They were leaning casually against the railing, arms crossed, head tilted slightly as they watched the scene unfold below. Even from this distance, Owen could see the glint of amusement in their posture.
The figure raised one hand—and waved the photograph lazily in the air, as if to say, *Still here. Still waiting.*
Owen's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground together.
You've got to be kidding me.
He took a slow breath in through his nose, held it for a moment, then released it through his mouth. His shoulders sagged slightly, the tension bleeding out of him in reluctant surrender.
He forced his expression to soften—his brows relaxing, his lips pressing into a thin, apologetic line. It was the look of someone swallowing their pride, piece by painful piece.
"I'm… sorry," he said quietly, his voice tight.
The granny didn't look impressed. She raised an eyebrow, her arms still folded across her chest.
The middle-aged lady smirked. "Oh, an apology? How generous." She leaned in slightly, her voice dripping with condescension. "But that's not enough, is it, Grandma?"
The granny shook her head slowly, her eyes never leaving Owen's face. "No, it's not."
The lady turned back to Owen, her smile widening. "You need to bow. We're your seniors, after all. Show some respect."
Owen's face twitched.
Are you serious right now?
His gaze flickered toward the crowd—toward the phones still trained on him, the cameras still recording, the livestreams still broadcasting his humiliation to thousands of people.
This is going to be everywhere.
His internal voice screamed at him. This will be humiliating. But if I don't do it, my reputation—my position—will be in jeopardy.
He forced a smile—strained, unnatural, barely holding together. Then, slowly, he lowered his head.
He bent at the waist, his body folding into a deep, formal bow.
The crowd murmured. Cameras clicked. The livestream chat exploded.
"LMAOOO HE ACTUALLY DID IT 😂😂😂"
"What a letdown."
"He's one of those 'yes men' who'll do anything to keep his position."**
"Maybe that's how he got promoted in the first place. By being a bootlicker."**
"#OwenKesslerIsABootlicker"
"#OwenKesslerIsABootlicker"
"#OwenKesslerIsABootlicker"
"#OwenKesslerIsABootlicker"
The hashtag spread like wildfire, repeated again and again, filling the comment section in a relentless wave.
---
The granny stepped forward, her expression smug. She reached out and patted Owen on the head—slow, deliberate pats, as though he were a child being scolded.
"There now, lad," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "That wasn't so hard, was it? Don't do that again. Are we clear?"
Owen remained bent over, his teeth grinding together so hard his jaw ached. His fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms.
"Yes," he forced out through gritted teeth. "I'm clear."
The granny patted his head one more time, then turned and walked away, the middle-aged lady following close behind, both of them striding off with satisfied smirks on their faces.
The crowd began to disperse, though a few stragglers kept their phones trained on Owen, still filming, still hoping for more.
Owen straightened slowly, his face flushed, his expression stormy. He glanced around at the remaining onlookers, his gaze sharp and hostile.
The message was clear: *Get lost.*
One by one, they lowered their phones and walked away, murmuring amongst themselves.
Owen exhaled shakily, his shoulders sagging.
He turned, watching as the granny and the lady disappeared around the corner.
But just before they vanished from sight, the granny glanced back.
Her eyes met Owen's.
And for just a split second, her expression changed.
Her lips curved into a mischievous grin—sharp, knowing, almost playful. Her eyes glinted with something unreadable.
Then she turned away, her figure disappearing into the night.
Owen blinked.
He rubbed his eyes, his brows furrowing.
Did I just—?*
He wasn't sure. Maybe it was a trick of the light. Maybe his exhausted mind was playing tricks on him.
He shook his head, exhaling slowly.
Then, he turned his gaze back toward the footbridge.
The hooded figure was still there, waiting.
Owen's jaw tightened.
He started walking.
---
His footsteps echoed softly against the pavement as he crossed the street, his breath steady, his focus narrowing. The footbridge loomed ahead, its arched structure illuminated faintly by a single streetlamp.
He reached the base of the bridge and began climbing the steps—one slow, deliberate step at a time. His hand trailed along the cold metal railing, his eyes fixed on the figure standing at the top.
The hooded figure didn't move. They just stood there, relaxed, arms crossed, the photograph still held loosely in one hand.
Owen climbed higher.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Finally, he reached the top.
He stood a mere arm's length away from the figure, close enough to see the faint outline of their face beneath the hood, close enough to hear the quiet rhythm of their breathing.
The photograph dangled between them, still clutched in the figure's hand.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
The night air was cool and still, the distant hum of the city fading into the background.
Owen's eyes narrowed.
"Who the hell are you?" he said quietly, his voice low and dangerous.
The hooded figure tilted their head slightly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of their lips.
And then—they spoke.