Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 249: Delete One, Upload Another

"Eleven accounts, seven deleted." Tang Guo turned her phone sideways. "Still reposting: also seven."

Shen Zhixia dragged a chair to the desk and sat down. The room above the noodle shop faced south, and the wind rattled the A4 page on the wall—He Xiufen had drawn three horizontal lines with a ruler, one word per line: Delete, Explain, Compensate.

"One by one," she said.

Tang Guo tapped the main account first. "Jiangzhou Sukan." Clicking in revealed a single line: This video has been removed by the author.

"6:58." Tang Guo said. "I refreshed at six thirty and it was still up. By 7:02 it was gone. I took screenshots in between, with timestamps."

"Who deleted it?"

"It deleted itself. Platform takedowns show a yellow banner that says 'violation.' This one doesn't have that."

Shen Zhixia leaned over to look at the URL line at the bottom of the page and raised a hand. "Get the URL too. The domain segment as well."

"Got it."

Eleven old mirror accounts. Tang Guo had counted them on the night of August 26th. The main account, "Jiangzhou Sukan," led the list, and the other ten had all followed from it. This morning she counted again: the main account had deleted itself; three pages were blank—author self-deletes; three had the platform's yellow banner; four were still reposting. Seven had acted, four hadn't, and together they still added up to eleven.

"Separate the self-deletes from the platform takedowns," Shen Zhixia said. "Two folders: 'Self-Deleted' and 'Taken Down.'"

Tang Guo didn't ask why; her fingers were already clicking.

"When enforcement day comes, they'll definitely claim those three were platform deletions and had nothing to do with them." Shen Zhixia said. "Today we do the sorting for them. What they did themselves, we record it. What someone else did, we record that too."

"The three with yellow banners—I made sure the banner was in the screenshot."

"Good."

The three new accounts were Tang Guo's discovery.

She flipped her phone around. The first was "Jiangzhou Sukan On-Site," posted at 7:03, 23,000 views. The second: "Jiangzhou Rekan," 7:11, 6,800. The third: "Jiangcheng Kuaikan," 8:02, 900.

"Twenty-one seconds, not a single frame changed." Tang Guo said. "Same thumbnail frame. Look at the upper right corner."

Shen Zhixia zoomed in. In the upper right of all three frames, the small "Jiangzhou Sukan" watermark was still there, unmoved.

"Same source file," she said.

"Even the half-beat audio offset is there." Tang Guo opened the audio track. "The version sealed at the notary office in July—the audio ran half a beat ahead of the video. This one does too."

"Taken down at 7:03." Shen Zhixia opened her notebook. "The main account deleted at 6:58. Five minutes in between."

Five minutes. Delete, switch accounts, upload again.

"They deleted it for me to see," Tang Guo said.

"They deleted it for the court to see," Shen Zhixia said. "The judgment says 'all reposted mirrors.' Deleting seven is enough to file a statement. Uploading three is enough to keep the video alive."

The System produced two lines.

[Thud. Delete one, upload another. This isn't called not deleting—it's called not planning to finish the job.]

[Thud. The watermark wasn't cropped. Their hand is showing.]

He Xiufen came up the stairs carrying a bowl of noodles, broth sloshing slightly onto the tray. She set the bowl down and looked first at the page on the wall, then at the screenshots spread across the desk.

"The three-day deadline was today," Tang Guo said. "The judgment says delete within three days. Today is day three. I watched it all day."

"What about those five words?" He Xiufen asked.

Tang Guo paused. "'From the date of effectiveness.'"

"Then the count hasn't started."

Tang Guo pressed her phone screen off and rapped a knuckle against the table.

"These seven today don't count for anything."

"They count. Record them in two entries." Shen Zhixia pushed the notebook over. "What they deleted themselves is what they did today. What they uploaded is what they don't intend to do today. Both entries will be useful later."

He Xiufen tapped the page with the butt of a chopstick. "Eat first. Counting days on an empty stomach only makes it messier."

While Shen Zhixia ate her noodles, Tang Guo secured evidence from across the table.

One phone ran a visible timer; the other recorded. Three new accounts, three segments each: the account page—name, handle, the URL line below; the video page—post time, view count, likes; the same frame—the watermark in that upper-right spot. After each segment she turned the phone to show Shen Zhixia, then shot the next.

"Don't just store it on the phone," Shen Zhixia said. "One copy on the hard drive, one to the firm's work email. Sending it to email leaves yourself a timestamp you can't alter—the time on the email isn't something you can change on your phone."

"I know. In July I didn't send that one, and Director He got on me about it twice."

"Three times," He Xiufen said from the window.

"Three times," Tang Guo conceded.

She asked about the apology draft in passing. Tang Guo said it had been submitted to the court the day before yesterday; the intake window gave a receipt slip and said they'd have feedback within three working days.

"Until the feedback comes back, not a single word of that draft goes out," He Xiufen said.

The call came in at 12:47.

Shen Zhixia saw the number and remembered the contact name she'd saved: "Self-Proclaimed President Qin." August 25th, 7:07 p.m., local number, one minute forty-two seconds. That day she'd written a page titled Call Record, and He Xiufen had corrected one line with a red pen.

She got up and went into the stairwell, pulled the door shut, pressed record, then answered.

"Lawyer Shen."

"Go ahead."

"On your brother's way home these past two days, someone's been walking with him." The voice on the other end was unhurried. "Did you know that?"

She didn't answer.

"I'm not here to talk money. You don't want money—I've noted that." He said. "Let's trade for something else. A settlement paper."

"Which words."

"You don't apply for enforcement, you don't release that clarification video, and you withdraw the police report." He counted them off one by one. "Those three things. Sign the paper, we delete the videos completely—not one account left. Your brother gets some peace and quiet."

The stairwell's sound-activated light went dark. She stomped once, and it came back on.

"Put it in writing," she said. "Stamped, mailed to the firm."

A short laugh. "You say the same thing every time."

"Then it'll be the same thing every time."

"The amount on that first-instance judgment—I make that in a day." He said. "What do you have to fight me with?"

She didn't answer that.

"Twelve days left in the appeal period." He said. "What can you do to me in twelve days?"

"I'm taking notes." She looked at the stairwell light. "Fifteen days to September 10th. Today's the 29th. Your twelve days check out. In those twelve days, every time it makes a move, I add another page."

Two seconds of silence.

"You count better than I do."

The call ended at one minute fifty-two seconds.

Back in the room, she exported the recording first, named it "0829-1247," and filed it in the electronic folder labeled "Police Report." Then she laid out a fresh sheet of paper and wrote Call Record, page two: four sentences transcribed verbatim. At the bottom, one line—No answer given. No promise made. No meeting arranged. No conditions accepted.

Tang Guo watched her write half a page and didn't ask who had called. She only asked, "Did the recording cut out?"

"It didn't."

"Save it in two places."

"Done."

Just past five in the evening, the smell of scallion oil drifted upstairs again. Lu Jibai came in from outside, jacket draped over his arm, and stood for a few seconds in front of the page on the wall.

"That hundred-thousand fine," he said, "is due within ten days of the decision letter being served—by September 5th. If they're going to hold out, we'll see it by then."

"Can we ask about it today?"

"Not today. On the fifth, we can ask about two things—whether they filed for reconsideration, and whether the money hit the account." He rolled his sleeves down. "Both of those are blank right now. Write 'pending September 5th.'"

He Xiufen picked up a red pen, crossed out "Qin Lang called" on page two of the Call Record, and changed it to "Party claiming to be President Qin called. No name given, no organization stated." Below, she added a line: The call mentioned Shen Zhi'an (a minor) being followed on his way home from school. Recorded separately; not entered into the civil case file.

"This page goes in the police report binder," she said. "Not the civil file."

"Understood."

Shen Zhixia printed out the two photos of Zhi'an and clipped them behind the first page of the police report binder. Zhou Yu's reply at noon had been brief: report the student matter to the school first, keep the photos, don't let the child walk home alone in the dark. She'd texted the boy eight words: Wait for me at the guardhouse after school.

Lu Jibai went through the screenshots of the three new accounts one by one, ending on the watermark.

"Either they don't know the watermark is there, or they don't care," he said. "Either way, this page tells us who has the source file. When we need to ask where the source file comes from, we start from this watermark and work inward."

"What can we do right now?"

"All we can do is keep records." He kept his tone even. "The judgment isn't effective, so we can't push. If you send a letter, they'll reply 'not yet effective, no obligation to perform,' and you won't even have a response to that."

"Sending a letter has another downside," He Xiufen said. "The moment it goes out, they'll swap in a new batch of accounts. They'll know exactly which ones you're watching."

"Then we record three times a day," Shen Zhixia said.

"Morning, noon, night," Lu Jibai said. "Record and save. Don't go into the comments, don't repost, don't argue with people in private messages. You say one insult, they screenshot it, and it becomes evidence for a whole new case."

"Do we log the view counts?" Tang Guo asked.

"Yes. And how those numbers grow." Lu Jibai said. "A new account with no verification and a few dozen followers pulling twenty-three thousand in a day—views don't grow on their own. Paid promotion costs money. Where that money comes from is what the next letter asks about—and by then the question isn't 'is there infringement,' it's order numbers and payment accounts."

He Xiufen picked up the ruler and measured out a fourth line beneath the three horizontal ones, then drew it.

"What goes on this line?" Tang Guo asked.

"'Mirrors.'" He Xiufen said. "No conclusions, just facts: the date, how many accounts, when they went up, when they came down, whose hand did it."

Shen Zhixia wrote accordingly. First line: August 29, 6:58, main account self-deleted; three others self-deleted; three taken down by platform; four still reposting. Second line: 7:03, 7:11, 8:02, three new accounts uploaded, watermark not cropped. Third line: From delete to upload, a five-minute gap. When she finished, she added a line below the third: Seven now reposting—four old, three new.

"That line has no date on it," He Xiufen said. "That line is what they've confessed to all by themselves."

The noodles had just been served when Tang Guo came up the stairs, phone held at chest level, screen glowing.

"7:40 p.m. The fourth one."

No one at the table touched their chopsticks.

"It's called 'Jiangzhou Sukan (Backup).'" Tang Guo set the phone on the table. "This time they cropped out the top strip."

Shen Zhixia leaned in. The upper right corner of the frame was clean now—just a patch of wall.

"Cropping it exposes them worse," Tang Guo said. "Cutting that top strip means cutting two frames. Cut two frames, and the audio jumps ahead half a beat. They thought clipping a watermark would clean it up, but the place where they edited is more visible than the watermark."

"Shoot it," Shen Zhixia said. "Three segments, same as before."

"Done. View count's at three hundred."

Shen Zhixia opened the paper and wrote on a fifth line: 7:40 p.m., fourth account, watermark cropped, two frames cut, audio half a beat ahead. Then she went back up, crossed out the "seven," and wrote an "eight" beside it.

When the pen pressed against the paper, her nail bed went a little white.

[Thud. Deleted seven, added one. Both of today's entries are on the record.]

He Xiufen turned the page around and tapped the "eight" with the end of her pen.

"Delete one, upload another." She said. "Then we count them one by one. When that judgment takes effect, all of it gets settled together."