Outside the black iron gate of Nina's house, it wasn't just Nicky—the coworker who'd lent her his phone was there too, still holding a couple of undelivered packages.
The moment Nina opened the door, Nicky flashed a bright, customer-service smile, her white teeth gleaming. "Dear resident, as you previously… requested… 22 packages have been delivered downstairs. The remaining 18 are meant for next door, but we don't have the key."
She paused, her tone shifting to something oddly promotional: "By the way, I also do lock-picking on the side. If it's more convenient, just $200 per job—clean, no damage to the lock or door. Quality service guaranteed. Interested?"
The chat in both livestreams exploded:
[??? What kind of plot twist is this?? Came to confront her cousin, ended up delivering packages and pitching lock-picking services?]
[Saving that sales pitch for the next time I need a locksmith 😂]
[Wait—isn't lock-picking illegal without a license in the US? Is she for real or just trolling?]
Everyone was confused—including Nina, thrown completely off-script. She shook her head nervously. "N-No, I don't need that."
Nicky's smile dropped instantly, replaced by a look of "disappointment." She pointed toward the neighboring unit, her dusty palm clearly visible in the sunlight. "Then I'll need the key to deliver these."
"It's a keypad lock…" Nina avoided eye contact, trying to stay composed on camera. "I'll come down and open it."
Stepping outside, she looked Nicky up and down—still in her grimy work vest—and put on that "concerned" act again. "Nicky, why are you delivering packages? If you're struggling, you could've just asked me. There's no need to humiliate yourself like this—"
Nicky cut her off, her voice sharp and sarcastic. "Nina, the whole internet knows how 'struggling' I am. Do you really need to remind me? Sounds like you're saying it's my fault for not asking you for help."
"And cut the passive-aggressive crap—what's wrong with delivering packages? I'm not stealing. Not scamming. Every cent I make is clean. What's there to be ashamed of?"
She stepped aside, gesturing toward the deliveryman behind her, her voice softening. "This man here put his son through Stanford by delivering packages. He's prouder of that than anything. There's no shame in an honest day's work."
The deliveryman, suddenly put on the spot, grinned shyly, rough hands wiping against his pants. "My boy… Stanford. Really made it."
The chat shifted instantly:
[This hit hard... My dad was a delivery driver too. He had that same pride when I went to college.]
[Say what you want about her past, but Nicky's not wrong! Working honestly > fake sympathy and clout-chasing.]
[Anyone still buying Nina's "innocent" act? Look at her face—total green tea behavior. 💀]
Nina's face flushed with humiliation. She had no comeback. Lips pressed tight, she turned and hurried downstairs, Nicky and the deliveryman following close behind—livestream cameras capturing it all.
Downstairs stood two units. One had already received packages; the other was down the hall. Nina stopped in front of a sleek black door, typed a code into the keypad, and—click—the door unlocked.
"It's open. I'm going back up," she said, eager to escape.
"Whoa—this place is huge!" Nicky exclaimed, her voice full of theatrical "surprise." "Since when did Uncle—your dad—make enough to afford a Beverly rental like this?"
Nina froze. Her heart hammered. But when she turned back, her face was all hurt innocence. "Nicky, what are you implying? I'm just trying to help you, and you keep accusing me of having some hidden agenda. Now you're bringing my father into this? I didn't want to argue because I know you're under pressure, but this is too much."
Nicky couldn't help but laugh. She actually started clapping—the sound sharp through the mic. "Bravo. Absolutely brilliant. With acting like that, it's a shame you're not in Hollywood."
She took a step closer, eyes locked on Nina's. "When Uncle was an exec at Condé Nast, he made $200K a year. How exactly can he suddenly afford a Beverly villa that rents for $50K a month? Unless… he 'relocated' some assets before the bankruptcy?"
The comment detonated like a bomb in the livestream:
[!!! WAIT NINA'S DAD WORKED AT CONDÉ NAST??]
[$50K A MONTH?? There's no way that's a legit salary. Something's fishy.]
[Is Nicky about to expose the whole operation? I'm staying for this.]
Nina went pale. She stumbled back a step, voice trembling. "S-Stop making things up! My father used his savings—"
"Savings?" Nicky raised a brow, pulling up a screenshot of bank records on her phone—courtesy of a "temporary investigation perk" she'd exchanged with the system. "Right before the bankruptcy, a mysterious $1 million landed in your dad's account. Care to explain where those 'savings' came from?"
The livestream went wild. Hashtags like #NinaFatherAssets and #CondéNastMoney immediately started trending.
Nina stood frozen, watching the accusations fly across the screen, unable to form a word.
Nicky didn't press further. She took the last box from the deliveryman and walked into the unit. "Packages delivered. Time to get back to work." She glanced back. "If you've got an explanation, Nina, make it a good one. The audience isn't stupid."
She closed the door, leaving Nina alone under the judgment of thousands of viewers. Through her phone, Nicky could see the supportive comments rolling in. Her heat value was soaring.
System, how much lifespan can I get with this heat?
*Beep—Current heat: 50,000. Exchangeable for: 3 days lifespan + $1,000 USD.*
A slow smile spread across Nicky's face. This round… she'd won.
Now, it was time to dig deeper—uncover the truth behind Condé Nast's collapse, and take back everything that was hers.