Chapter 72 Public Opinion Storm
Four Seasons Hotel Bangkok at Chao Phraya River, Riverfront Penthouse.
Victor Berg stood in front of the French window, his gray-blue eyes reflecting the night view of the Chao Phraya River. His fingertips tapped lightly on the files on the desk, a cold smile playing at the corners of his lips.
"Psychological Assessment Report on Victims of Human Trafficking in Southeast Asia", this file has been carefully edited, erasing all direct accusations but leaving hints everywhere.
"Send this file to the Maenam Morning News." He pressed the communicator, his voice low and elegant. "Tomorrow's headline, I want to see the special feature on 'Post-Traumatic Darkening'."
The confidant hesitated and said, "Sir, isn't it too risky to target Mrs. Mo directly? Mo Xiaohan's revenge—"
Victor chuckled. "Who said we should target her directly?"
"We're just... telling a psychological case of 'how a victim becomes a perpetrator.'" He closed the file and spoke softly, "As for how readers make connections, that's their business."
The next morning, the front page of the Maenam Morning Post published a seemingly objective and in-depth report: "From Victim to Perpetrator: A Dark Case of Post-Traumatic Psychological Transformation."
The article does not mention any names, but the clues hidden between the lines each point precisely to a specific person.
- "A top student from a Chinese medical school was once deeply involved in a human trafficking ring..."
- "Now, she stands by the person who hurt her..."
- "Psychology experts explain that this phenomenon of 'reverse identification' is common among patients with extreme Stockholm syndrome..."
On social media, anonymous accounts began to forward the posts crazily, attaching the so-called "auction survivor list" processed by AI, and Ruan Xingchen's name was always placed in the most prominent position.
#The Birth of the Devil# quickly became a hot topic.
Victor stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, looking at the tag that was spreading wildly on the tablet computer, gently shaking the whiskey glass.
Amid the crashing ice, he recalled the image of Ruan Xingchen tugging on Mo Xiaohan's tie and kissing him on the high seas cruise ship—so beautiful, so fragile, and so dangerous. It was like the insect-eaten yet still beautiful flowers in his mother's beloved rose garden.
"Mo Xiaohan, let's see—" He raised his glass to the morning light of Bangkok, "When the whole world points at your rose and calls it a carnivorous plant, will you choose to uproot it?" A cruel interest flashed in his gray-blue eyes, "or cut off everyone's tongue?"
At the same time, at the Mo Family Manor.
The early morning sunlight shines into the bedroom through the gauze curtains, but it cannot warm up the coldness in the bedroom.
Ruan Xingchen sat on the edge of the bed, his fingertips tightly gripping the tablet. The screen was flooded with reports, insults and speculations growing like poison ivy.
"You were once a toy with a slap on the wrist, and now you're the one in power? Have you forgotten all about your cowardly plea for mercy?"
"After being sold and hanging out with the big guys, I'm afraid he has long forgotten how to feel pain!"
"I think she asked for it! She really should be thrown back into that kind of place to wake her up."
"Maybe he volunteered, otherwise how could he climb so fast?"
…
The public outcry was like a poisonous needle, piercing Ruan Xingchen's sensitive nerves with pinpoint accuracy. Those once-tamed traumatic memories, in that moment of intense stimulation, broke free and surged back with even sharper pain.
Her breathing quickened slightly, her pupils contracted, and fragments flashed uncontrollably in her mind: the auction table burned by the spotlight, the smell of rust in her memory, the hideous laugh, the feeling of numbness... She knew it was all in the past, but it still made her eyes sore.
Ruan Xingchen squeezed her eyes shut tightly, trying to push the fragments back, but she subconsciously curled up her knees and buried her face. This posture, which had been repeated in countless nightmares and flashbacks, now nailed her like a conditioned reflex.
When Mo Xiaohan pushed the door open, she suddenly raised her head, and a hint of instinctive fear flashed in her eyes - not towards him, but towards the memory that was forcibly torn apart again.
"Xiaohan..." Her voice was so soft that it was almost inaudible.
Mo Xiaohan strode forward, snatched the tablet away, and pinched her chin to force her to look at him: "Xingxing, look at me." His voice was low and cold, but with a strong sense of control. "This garbage can't hurt you."
Ruan Xingchen instinctively grabbed his wrist, and the silver ring dug into her palm. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
Mo Xiaohan directly pressed her into his arms, holding her neck with his palm: "Breathe, follow me."
His voice brushed against her hair, a rare tension in it. "It's all in the past. If you keep dwelling on this, I'll rip out the tongues of those who wrote these reports and feed them to the dogs."
Ruan Xingchen buried her face in his chest, a familiar scent lingering around her nose. The crisp absinthe was mixed with a hint of blood, which was her unique sense of security.
The trembling breath hit his shirt, and was gradually ironed into even ups and downs by the steady vibration of his chest. Finally, his eyelids closed heavily, and he fell into a brief peace.
Mo Xiaohan remained motionless until the woman in his arms took a deep breath. Then he carefully laid her flat, pulled a thin blanket over her shoulders, and dimmed the light that filtered through the gaps in the curtains. As he turned and closed the door, the tenderness in his eyes had completely faded into an icy coldness.
In the study, Mo Xiaohan stood in front of the holographic projection, and the Dark River Group's report flickered in the air.
"The source of public opinion is focused on Berg Pharmaceuticals, but all the evidence has been passed around through layers of hands and cannot be directly pointed to Victor Berg."
"The editor-in-chief account of the Maenam Morning News received an 'anonymous donation' of US$2 million this morning."
"The IP addresses of the promoter accounts on social media have all jumped to overseas servers."
"In addition, Victor Berg has already returned to Europe and has arrived in Switzerland."
"Since the source is Berg Pharmaceuticals, no matter who is behind this, the blame will be on him." Mo Xiaohan's eyes were filled with undisguised hostility. "In half a day, uncover all the dirty tricks Berg Pharmaceuticals has hidden in Southeast Asia."
"I can't touch his European lair for now." He tugged at his tie, his tone casual yet bloody, "But the rules of Indochina are set by me. If you dare to stir up trouble in my territory, you must recognize who is the master here."
"Playing a propaganda war? I'll break his bones in Southeast Asia first."
——Since the poisonous snake has shown its fangs, you should be prepared to have your seven inches cut off.
It was late at night, and Ruan Xingchen curled up on the sofa in the bedroom, holding a cup of long-cold floral tea in his hand.
When Mo Xiaohan pushed the door open, the smell of blood was still on his body. He had just executed two paparazzi who tried to sneak into the manor.
Ruan Xingchen raised her head and looked at him, then suddenly asked softly, "Have I really become what they said I would be?"
Mo Xiaohan knelt on one knee in front of her, his fingers caressing her face. "You've never been a victim." His voice was low and firm. "You are Mrs. Mo, someone who can stand shoulder to shoulder with me. No one can define who you are."
Ruan Xingchen was stunned for a moment, then suddenly smiled, a long-lost sharpness flashing in her eyes: "Yeah... I should have understood it long ago." She reached out and grabbed his tie, pulling him close, and pressed her red lips against his earlobe, "Then let Victor Berg see--"
"What is the true meaning of 'blackening'?"
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