Party A's Fatal Liability

Chapter 1

In the dimly lit room, Qingqing was hunched over, diligently working on a drawing, revising lines over and over, deleting and redrawing repeatedly. Thank goodness for modern technology and software; otherwise, with this many revisions, how much paper would an artist waste in a lifetime?

A black bed sat in the room, a corner of its blanket flipped back. A pile of wrinkled clothes lay at the headboard, and scattered snack wrappers littered the floor. Opposite the bed was a large television. Above it hung a blue clock, its black hour hand pointing to two. A corner of the gray printed curtain was blown open, casting a few colorful beams of light onto the pitch-black desk—a beautiful sight. Unfortunately, Qingqing had no mind to appreciate it; his world now consisted only of lines, lines, and more lines...

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock...

Time flew by. On the blank computer screen, one line appeared, then two, then a flower, then a face—a handsome man with flowing long hair, dressed in exquisite ancient attire, holding a delicate bloom.

The lines continued to multiply: the details of the hair, the intricate patterns on the clothes, each stroke meticulously outlined. Just a little more, and this panel would be finished. But the outlining slowed, slower and slower, until it finally stopped at the very tips of the hair. This panel would forever remain frozen on the image of the ancient, footless man holding a beautiful flower.

The constant scratching sound ceased. Qingqing lay slumped over his beloved drawing tablet, his body already cold. In this quiet little room, no sound remained except for the ticking of the clock.

"Ding, you there?"

"Yeah, what's up!"

"What's been going on with Qingqing lately? The draft is super late, the client's about to blow a fuse."

"No idea. I've been calling for two days straight, no answer. This draft has been revised so many times, and there's no other artist who can take over her style. I'm worried Qingqing might have hit a breaking point. Luckily, I've been to her place before. I'll head over after work today to check on her."

"Okay, do your best to comfort her. Thanks for the hard work!"

Xiaoping took off her headphones, stopped typing, and stared at the last sentence in the chat window. She gave a wry smile and leaned back in her chair. Checking the time on her phone, she saw it was almost ten minutes past quitting time. Her colleagues had already gone home. Xiaoping got up, gathered her things, and prepared to head to Qingqing's place.

Qingqing's place wasn't in a particularly upscale area—just a five or six-story building surrounded by neighborhood noise. Relying on her memory, Xiaoping navigated the alleyways again and reached Qingqing's building. She remembered Qingqing lived on the third floor, in the unit on the left.

It was an old residential complex, the stairwell dim and shadowy. Ordinarily, Xiaoping would never dare to enter such a place alone. But now, thanks to the company's recent release of several horror comics, her mind automatically began conjuring up all sorts of terrifying scenarios that could unfold in this old, broken-down hallway.

It was only three floors, but Xiaoping felt like she had climbed for ages. The hallway was cluttered with cardboard boxes, with the largest pile stacked outside Qingqing's door. Amidst the shabby surroundings, that shiny digital code lock on Qingqing's door stood out conspicuously. She walked over and knocked for a long time, but no one answered.

Taking out her phone, Xiaoping glanced at the time. It was already past seven, soon to be eight. She'd probably get home late again today. 'Sigh, no time even to catch up on my shows,' she thought dejectedly. Letting out a frustrated sigh, she was about to leave when she suddenly remembered a chat she once had with Qingqing, who had told her the door code.

Xiaoping quickly scrolled through her chat history with Qingqing, searching frantically until she finally found it in a conversation from a while back. Luckily, it hadn't been deleted yet. Feeling a little nervous, she pulled open the cover of the digital lock and pressed the buttons, one by one.

With a soft click, the lock inside the door disengaged. Xiaoping pulled the handle, and with a drawn-out creak, she slowly pulled the door open.

The room inside was pitch dark, the curtains tightly drawn with only a slight breeze stirring their edges. A wave of various rotting smells hit her. Covering her nose, Xiaoping peered inside.

The bed was a mess, and the floor was littered with takeout bags. Qingqing lay quietly slumped over her desk, utterly still. Hesitating at the doorway, Xiaoping called her name softly. Qingqing seemed to shift slightly, and the computer screen suddenly lit up.

On the screen was an exquisitely handsome man, smiling as he stared directly at Xiaoping. He was just a drawing, yet he felt unnervingly alive, making her heart race. Touching her slightly warm cheek, Xiaoping lowered her head to rouse the sleeping Qingqing. But beneath the glowing screen, she saw the half of Qingqing's face that was visible was ashen gray, already beginning to decay. The buzzing flies weren't just around the takeout bags anymore; more were swarming around Qingqing's body, occasionally flitting across the bright screen.

A scream echoed through the entire stairwell. Not long after, residents nearby faintly heard police sirens. More and more people, for some reason, began gathering at the third floor of Building Five in the complex.

"Hey, have you guys heard? Qingqing died from overwork, from constantly revising her drafts."

"Oh my god, really?"

Hearing two colleagues discussing it, Xiaomi, who was making tea, joined them. "It's true. I heard it was our company's Xiaoping who found her. Somehow, the news got leaked to the artists' group chats. Now, a lot of artists' groups and forums are discussing how unreasonable client revisions led to an artist's exhaustion and death."

"That serious?" The two were drawn in by Xiaomi's words. Xiaomi gave a slight nod, then glanced around and lowered her voice. "There's more. I heard some of Qingqing's biggest fans, after learning about this, are threatening to get revenge on the client."

"How would her fans even get revenge? They can't just go throw eggs at the client's office, right?"

Another colleague shook her head, then suddenly remembered something, her voice turning excited. "Hey, I remember one of Qingqing's fans is a pretty famous hacker. They wouldn't hack the client's computers, would they?"

"Who knows? As long as the fans don't come after us, it's fine. Honestly, we did our best for Qingqing. Something like this happening... there was nothing we could do!" Xiaomi said regretfully, shaking her head. After speaking, she picked up her freshly made tea and left the break room.

Xiaoping had taken a few days off. When she finally calmed down enough to return to work, she found out Qingqing's situation had somehow blown up. Seeing those vengeful comments from Qingqing's fans, she couldn't help but think of the man from the drawing. His smile was dazzlingly bright, yet it carried a cruel, ruthless edge.

When the police carried Qingqing's body out of the room, her eyes were still open, filled with unwillingness and grievance. That image made Xiaoping afraid to close her eyes and remember. These past few days at home had been terrible. While she said she felt a bit better, it was really just because she was scared—scared of being alone.

She deeply regretted it now, regretted picking up that drawing pen Qingqing had dropped that day.

"Xiaoping, why are you still scrolling through all this? Don't dwell on it. Sigh, we'd better hurry up and find another suitable artist to replace Qingqing. The client isn't going to stop pushing for drafts and revisions just because of this!" A colleague patted Xiaoping's shoulder to comfort her. Xiaoping forced a weak smile and closed the chat logs discussing Qingqing.

She opened the new trial drafts submitted by artists over the past few days—they were the same storyboard panels Qingqing had been drawing that day, the ones that had been sent out for trials. After seeing Qingqing's detailed roughs, looking at what others produced, Xiaoping just couldn't feel the same essence. Even when they traced over or used Qingqing's previous draft heads, Xiaoping always sensed something was off.

But what right did she have to critique? After organizing all the submissions, she sent them to Xiaoze. She then buried herself in other projects. It wasn't until the afternoon that Xiaoze replied, having picked a few barely passable ones. He said to let them work on the drafts first; for faces that didn't match, they should just trace if they could.

Xiaoping relayed the trial feedback to the applicants and, based on the urgency of the drafts and Xiaoze's comments, distributed them to the new "Qingqings." By the time she collected the revised drafts again, nearly two days had passed. After several rounds of revisions from Xiaoze's side, looking at the art style now almost indistinguishable from Qingqing's, Xiaoping felt her eyes grow inexplicably warm.

When the drafts were sent to the client again, both Xiaoping and Xiaoze were filled with dread. The quality of the new artists was actually quite good, but Qingqing's work had her own unique flavor. They weren't sure if the client would insist on that point.

They waited several days before the client finally sent feedback, simultaneously rushing them while leaving them hanging. This drove Xiaoze to tears of frustration multiple times. Utterly helpless, Xiaoping busied herself forwarding the feedback Xiaoze compiled to the artists.

Because of what happened to Qingqing, Xiaoping hadn't mustered the courage to look directly at this project again. She only skimmed the feedback hastily before forwarding it. However, she received responses from the artists complaining that the feedback was unreasonable and the revisions were extremely difficult.

Facing this outcome, Xiaoping could only sigh inwardly. If it were easy, how could Qingqing have worked herself to exhaustion, leading to her untimely death? It was a pity the client never saw this. Despite their own lack of expertise, they insisted on giving notes. How could Xiaoping not be angry? But what could she do?

Back home, Xiaoping looked at Qingqing's drawing pen, which she had left on the table. She picked it up again, holding it for a long time with a sigh. Busy until midnight, after handling the revision matters, Xiaoping decided to put all artist issues aside. She washed up, didn't scroll on her phone, and went to bed early.

Early the next morning, Xiaoping had just gotten up and was about to head out to wash up when she noticed she seemed to have forgotten to turn off her computer the night before. Sighing in resignation, she chided herself quietly and reached for the mouse to shut it down.

Just before her hand touched the mouse, the screen suddenly lit up. It was the man holding a flower—Su Jue, the male lead of the comic "Blood Oriole." The lines that had originally stopped abruptly were now continuing, bit by bit. But it wasn't drawing Su Jue; instead, it was adding a girl beside him.

"Ah—!"

Startled, Xiaoping stumbled back until she hit the door, then crouched down, holding her head and weeping.

[End]

When Xiaoping woke up in the hospital, Xiaoze came to see her.

"Xiaoping, are you okay?"

Xiaoping sniffled and shook her head. "I'm alright. Did they ever catch that person later?"

Xiaoze put down a flower basket and heaved a long sigh. "Where would we even start looking? It's a vast sea of people. Besides, he's a hacker; they're not that easy to catch. And I heard that although this caused quite a stir, it actually ended up being pretty good promotion for that comic. I thought the 'Blood Oriole' project would be put on hold."

Remembering the lines that started drawing themselves that day, Xiaoping couldn't help but ask, "Xiaoze, what did the final drawing actually look like? I was so terrified I fainted before I could see it clearly."

Xiaoze glanced at Xiaoping, hesitated, and turned his head to make sure no one was around. Then, leaning close, he whispered in her ear, "I heard... in the end, it showed Su Jue holding Qingqing, smiling really happily."

A shiver ran down Xiaoping's spine. "N-no... wasn't it supposed to be the female lead?"

"I'm not sure either, that's just what I heard." Xiaoze shook his head, a hint of regret in his voice. "Too bad only the client saw it; we only heard bits and pieces here and there. I can't believe it showed up in your room too. Good thing I was smart and didn't tell them about it, or they'd definitely be here bugging you for the gossip."

Xiaoping shot Xiaoze a grateful look. Her mind felt scattered, and she didn't snap out of it until after he'd left. Sitting up for so long had made her drowsy. Just as she was about to lie back down and fall asleep, that comic panel flashed through her mind for some reason.

It was indeed Su Jue holding a girl who looked remarkably like Qingqing, a flower pinched between his fingers. But both their bodies in the drawing were angled slightly to the left, as if there was an empty space on the right. Xiaoping shook her head, about to close her eyes. As she turned over, she spotted the drawing pen lying by the hospital room door.

It suddenly hit her that she'd seen the storyboard for that panel before. It was indeed Su Jue holding the female lead with his right hand, but she also remembered the female second lead had been leaning on his left shoulder at the time.

The thought hit her like a bolt from the blue. Xiaoping shot up in bed, a suffocating sensation seizing her instantly...