That morning, before sunlight could pierce through the thick curtains, social media erupted like a time bomb detonating on cue.

An anonymous account under the name J00 appeared, posting a string of crudely doctored images accompanied by venomous accusations. The post struck straight at the hearts of four girls—Namtan, Film, Bonnie, and Emi.

The caption was ruthless: “A filthy charade. This isn’t love—it’s lust wrapped in deceit. The fans have been fooled for far too long.”

Photos that had once been innocent memories—a comforting arm over a shoulder, an embrace after a show, a glance exchanged during practice—were now twisted into weapons of mockery. Even a casual eye could see the edits were fake, yet in the hands of malice, lies gleamed like truth.

Within an hour, the post exploded past ten thousand shares. Comments piled up like falling ash—mockery, outrage, disappointment. The timeline became a battlefield, everyone eager to cast a stone.

---

In their apartment, Film curled up on the sofa. The glow of her phone painted her face ghost-pale. Her eyes trembled as she scrolled, lips pressed so tight a trace of blood appeared.

Her throat closed. Each breath scraped like glass. The phone felt heavier by the second, slipping from her shaking fingers.

From the kitchen, Namtan came out, still holding a mug of coffee. She opened her mouth to call for breakfast—but froze at the sight before her.
“Film?”

No response. Only tear-brimmed eyes, trembling as they stared at the screen.

Namtan strode forward, snatched the phone. It took just seconds to read, yet every word burned like acid. The veins in her hand stood taut; her jaw locked tight until her teeth clicked.

Film reached out, voice shattering.
“Why would they—why could anyone make up something like this? We didn’t do anything wrong…”

Tears streamed down her face, her body folding in on itself like a house in collapse.

Namtan set the coffee down and pulled Film into her arms. Her embrace trembled but held firm—an unyielding wall against the storm outside. Her voice came out rough, dark with fury.
“They want to destroy us. But I swear to you—I won’t let them. Whoever did this, I’ll drag them into the light.”

---

Across the city, Bonnie slumped over her desk. The script pages before her blurred under tears. Her shoulders trembled, soft sobs caught in her throat.

When Emi entered and saw her like that, she froze—then rushed forward, wrapping Bonnie from behind. Her own hands shook, caught between anger and heartbreak.

Bonnie’s voice broke, raw and ragged:
“They’re calling me trash… saying I’m shameless, that I used people to climb up… I just wanted to work, to perform—why did they turn everything filthy?”

Emi held tighter, pressing her forehead to the back of Bonnie’s neck. Her voice was steady, almost commanding:
“Listen to me. They want you to believe their filth—to make you destroy yourself. But you’re not dirty, Bonnie. You’ve done nothing wrong. The only ones filthy are the ones who created this.”

Her eyes burned red, sharp with rage. And in that fire, Bonnie found a fragile kind of safety, even as her tears kept falling.

---

In the six-member group chat, messages exploded one after another—
Film:
“I can’t take these pictures. How can they say such things?”

Bonnie:
“They said I stole my sister’s lover… and now they’re saying I’m involved with all three at once. I just… want to disappear.”

Emi:
“No. You don’t get to disappear. We didn’t do anything wrong. If you vanish, they win.”

Milk:
“I’m shaking with anger. This is worse than any tragedy I’ve ever read. We can’t sit still.”

Love:
“If I ever find whoever’s behind that account, I’ll crush their damn phone.”

Love hurled her phone onto the table, pacing back and forth. Her nails dug deep into her palms, drawing blood—but she barely noticed through the red haze. In her head, one name pulsed over and over:

“June.”

When the fury ebbed just enough for focus, Love began digging. She traced profiles, secondary accounts, even asked a cybersecurity friend for help. But nothing surfaced.

J00 was a ghost—no history, no links, no trace. A shadow made only to destroy, then disappear.

Love slammed her fist on the table.
“Damn it! Nothing! But I know it’s her. I know it’s June.”

---

A new wave of notifications—
Love:
“I’m sure it’s June. But I have no proof.”

Milk:
“Without proof, we can’t accuse her. But yes… this timing isn’t a coincidence.”

Namtan:
“Exactly. But don’t let suspicion tear us apart. We need to fight back, not fight each other.”

Emi:
“The post is spreading too fast. If we stay silent, they’ll think it’s true. We face it head-on.”

Film:
“I’m scared… but I don’t want to run anymore. Silence will only make me regret it.”

Bonnie:
“Me too. I’ll face it. I won’t let them drown me again.”

The air in the chat felt charged, like static before lightning.

Milk:
“Then it’s settled: we go public—together. Not one by one. The six of us, side by side. We’ll show them we can’t be divided.”

Love:
“Right. Let’s show them we’re not puppets to be cursed at.”

Namtan:
“Agreed. The truth will come from our mouths, not from their edits.”

Emi:
“None of us stands alone. It’s time to prove it.”

Each of them stared at the screen, hearts still trembling—but no longer with fear. Something else had taken root: resolve.

A new fire began to rise—not the fire of slander, but of defiance.

And this time,
they would not hide.